[ebooktalk] A J Cross, gone in seconds

• From: "David Russelll" <david.russell8@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
• To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
• Date: Mon, 7 Oct 2013 15:54:34 +0100

Book attached.

Alen the rcmains of two long-missing

tcenagc girls arc found along a desolatc

strctch of motorway, forcnsic psychologist

katc I Ian so fcars that they arc looking for a

Rcpeater. A killer who is constantly cvolving.

A prcdator who won't stop until }lc's caught.

And as katc combs through clucs from the

cold cases, time is running out. The killer

strikcs ,ig,rain, and this time, it's much too

close to home.
www.orionbooks.co.uk


FICTION
UK £7.99
CAN $15.99
ORION
ISBN 978-1-4091-3746-7

0 0 7 9 9


Cover image: © John Harrison I Arcangel Images


A.J. Cross is a forensic psychologist and frequent
court-appointed expert witness. Her professional
experience has included work with the Probation
Service within its sexual offender unit in her home
city. She lives in the West Midlands with her
musician husband.

By A.J. Cross

Gone in Seconds

Art of Deception
GONE IN
SECONDS
A.J. CROSS

A Orion paperbackGone in Seconds is dedicated to the following very special 
people:
First published in Great Britain in 2012
Martyn, Kathy, Hope, Evan, and Brian, my husband and best friend.
by Orion
This paperback edition published in 2013
by Orion Books,
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd,
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane,
London WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK company

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © A.J. Cross 2012

The moral right of A.J. Cross to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the copyright owner.

All the characters in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living

or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-4091-3746-7

Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,

Lymington, Hants

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd,

Croydon, CRO 4YY

The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers

that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and
made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging

and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to

the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

www.orionbooks.co.uk



A hot summer's day during a time of innocence, years before, two
small girls walking along a familiar road; a man cycles past, waves,
then disappears between nearby park gates. The girls do not know
him. They're thinking of ice cream. Minutes later they follow his route
into the park, cones in their hands. Laughing. Licking.
The man is there, leaning on his bicycle, close to a densely wooded
copse, watching, waiting. He understands little girls; quickly identifies
and intuitively rejects the bossy one, in favour of her small friend. He
studies her, absorbing the tumbling hair, the short-sleeved T-shirt
revealing rounded tanned arms, the small striped skirt lifting on the
light breeze, exposing pink pants as she frolics with her friend.
It takes a single, soft call from the man to get her to come to him, as
his hand increases its rhythmic action. He looks into her eyes, sees her
face mesmerised by his movement. Then he seizes the rich hair as she
falls backwards, mouthing a silent '0'. His throat releases a guttural
sound, the curls slipping from his slick grasp.

Times change. But people don't. There's always a predator, ready to
create a victim. A young woman, her blonde hair tied with a red
bandanna, a heart-shaped purse and her father's letters in her hand,
walks away from her home and into a void.
Four years later another young woman strolls through a shopping
mall, laughing with friends. She too is lost and the world spins on.
The years slide by, the predator blends, but the girl in the bandanna
has left a tiny legacy, concealed in a crack in a cement floor, where it
waits for anyone who cares enough to look.

1
CHAPTER ONE
D
r Kate Hanson walked quietly through the rear door concealed by
a curtain to one side of the auditorium. The only person she'd
anticipated being there had already arrived: Julian Devenish, her very
able student helper, who was frowning into a textbook, wiry frame
sprawled on a canvas chair. He got to his feet as she entered.
'Hi, Kate, Dr Hanson. Everything's ready to go,' he said, itemising
what he was saying with a finger. 'Sound checks are done, I've
adjusted the lighting like you asked, and the PowerPoint is on standby.
I've put copies of the research notes on the table, ready for
students to take at the end. If anything goes wrong - which it won't
- I'll sort it. All you need to do when you go on is tap--'

Kate smiled up at the tall, long-haired student's earnest face and
nodded, voice low and reassuring. 'Thank you, Julian. I really appreciate
your help. Please - carry on with your reading. I'm sure
everything will work out perfectly.'

Propping herself on the edge of a nearby table, she glanced at her
watch - 1.55 p.m., Wednesday afternoon. She could hear the sound
of the auditorium filling and an accompanying buzz of talk. In
another five minutes she would begin her first lecture of this academic
year. Closing her eyes, she took a series of deep breaths, then opened
them.

Julian was holding out a note to her. Leaning forward, Kate took it
from him and glanced at it as she riffled through her bag to locate her
phone. Checking its screen, she frowned. No evidence of the call she
had been expecting. She transferred her full attention back to the
note. Phone DS Watts, Rose Road. ASAP. She scrolled through to his
listed number and waited. No reply. She cut the call, then switched off
her phone. No one seemed to want to talk to her today. Another
glance at her watch. One minute.
3

Standing, she smoothed the narrowly tailored black Armani skirt
over her hips and adjusted its matching jacket. Noting a glance and a
nod from Julian, she breathed deeply, flipped her thick dark-auburn
hair behind her shoulders, readjusted the jacket and walked out on to
the platform amid an expectant hush, one hundred and fifty pairs of
eyes tracking her movement.

Tapping a key on the waiting laptop, she turned to the ranks of
young faces. Some she recognised from university interviews. One or
two she knew well, including a surprise attendee sitting at the back
of the cool auditorium, fair-haired, pristine white shirt reflecting the
light. She sent a small smile in his direction, but he didn't pick it up. Too 
far away.

'Welcome to my introductory lecture for Criminology Year I,
Module 1, "Psychology, Crime and Criminal Justice". Anyone misplaced
or not interested might consider leaving now.' She waited.
Heads turned. No one moved. 'Good,' she said quietly. 'A captive
audience. Let's go!'

Another tap filled the huge screen with head-and-shoulders photographs.
All female, approximately two-thirds white, some with dated
hairstyles, young, smiling and guileless. Others with more 'used' faces.
Quiet murmurs drifted from the audience.
Kate glanced at the screen, then out into the auditorium, voice
quietly authoritative. 'An extensive picture gallery, isn't it?' She laser
pointed. 'These eight females are connected. These seven are another
skein . . . as are these fourteen.'

Her audience gazed at the images. She monitored them with
peripheral vision. 'I suspect that most of you won't recognise these
faces, but I'm hoping they're part of the reason you've chosen
criminology as your field of study and future career. In my view, they
need to be.'

Kate walked slowly to the front of the stage and faced her silent
audience, lowering her voice to make the first key point of her lecture.
'Twenty-nine females. Mostly young. British, Italian, German, American,
Canadian, Australian. No geographical boundaries. I could have
shown you many, many more.' A few seconds' pause. 'They and the
twenty-nine young women on the screen are waiting. For those
working in criminology to give them something.'

Knowing that her audience was listening intently, Kate returned to
the laptop. 'What happened to these young women that made them into victims is 
that their paths crossed with those of individuals --' a
decisive tap -- 'such as these.'
The screen changed to an array of male faces. Gasps and murmurs
of recognition drifted down to her.
'You may not recognise all of them, but I'm willing to bet there
isn't a single person in this lecture theatre who can't name at least
five.' She waited.

Silence.
'I win,' she said quietly. 'Odd, isn't it, that we're more familiar with
individuals who commit cruel acts than we are with those who suffer
at their hands?' She nodded, observing small, embarrassed smiles on a
number of faces.

Kate laser-pointed the head-and-shoulders photographs. 'All of
these men are, or were, predators. If still alive and given the opportunity,
they would commit further violent offences, similar to those that
led to their incarceration.'

She looked up at the pictures, then back to her audience.
'There's no reason to blame ourselves if it's the predator's face
rather than that of his victim that triggers recognition and stimulates
our interest. Much of the responsibility for that lies with the media. In
all its forms.'

Kate paused for a couple of seconds. 'Before you begin your studies
with me, I have some advice for you. It's this. Forget the fictionalised
crime that books, television or Hollywood have shown you. Forget
what passes for theory about repeat murder, whereby a killer's activity
is presented as rigidly focused on the same victim type, never deviating
from a pattern.'

Another pause.
'Sexual predators have their preferences, but they don't necessarily
display the exact same stereotypical behaviours towards all of their
victims. That they always do so has, unfortunately, been a cliche for
the last two decades, because it makes for appealing books, TV, films.
But that's all. We need to be wary of making lazy assumptions based
on unreliable science.'

Kate scanned her audience. 'Predators are not as rigid as we might be
led to believe.' She took a few steps towards them. 'Why not?' She
lowered her voice. 'Because these men's fantasies change. And, like you
and me, they adapt. They learn.' Adding even more softly, 'Which I'm
hoping is something that's going to happen here in the coming weeks.' 
The sound of the Chamberlain Tower bell drifted across the lush,
unseasonably hot late-September campus and into the auditorium. No one in the 
audience moved.
'I said that the young women whose photographs I showed you
earlier are waiting for something. From you and from me. What is it
they want?'

She heard the several one-word responses and nodded, gratified.
'Yes. If and when you become workers in criminology, there will be
other victims. You'll need to be clear-sighted and use reliable theory
to give them the justice they're waiting for.'
Kate scanned her audience again, before emphasising her next key
statement. 'These men never stop,' she said quietly. 'Because their
behaviour is driven by deep psychological need. It's not unknown for
them to rest. For a year. Or more.' A pause. Tut never doubt it.
Eventually they return.'
In the heavy silence of the auditorium, a single hand was tentatively
raised.
'Yes?' asked Kate.

'Why? Why do they. . . rest?'
She smiled at the puzzled-looking student. 'For a criminologist,
"why" is one of the most powerful words there is.'
She returned to the front of the platform. 'Why do they rest?
Research suggests that this may occur when repeaters experience
some positive change in their lives. Something new that provides
them with satisfaction, soothes the compulsive need. Maybe a change
of job, or a new relationship, which carries reward sufficient to distract
them from deviant patterns of thinking and behaviour.'

The students watched as Kate paced, then turned, emphasising her
words with an adamant hand. Tut inevitably a point is reached where
the new-found satisfaction is not sufficiently strong to suppress the
urgency of fantasy and the thrill of re-enactment. Once he's taken his
"sabbatical", he'll be back.'

With a small smile, Kate laser-pointed the photographs still displayed
on the screen, her eyes on the young people gazing at her. 'A
final plea, particularly to the females in the audience. Take a really
good look. Ordinary males? Some quite attractive?'
Grins appeared on many faces.
After a few seconds her own face became serious. 'For the young women I showed 
you, one of these faces may have been the last they
ever saw. One of those men may have been nightmare personified. Never 
underestimate such a man. He's not just an actor.' She paused.
'In the theatre of repeat murder, he's the director.'
The words hung on the still air of the auditorium.
Kate anticipated that maybe a handful of her audience would
recognise the real-life predator in the description she was about to
offer. 'So. Next time a nice-looking man with his arm in a sling drops
his books at your feet and asks you to help him load them into his little
Volkswagen Beetle, please tell him, "Sorry, I'd love to help, but I really 
don't know you."'

The auditorium lights came up as she finished, tension dissipating
as her audience burst into spontaneous applause. She smiled and gave
a small wave, then walked quickly towards the end of the platform and
disappeared from view.
7

CHAPTER TWO

Against the hubbub of tilting seats and raised voices, Kate collected
ii her bag and files, aware of her up-tempo pulse. Not an unusual
experience, she'd found, after the long summer vacation.
Julian loped past her in denim cut-offs to retrieve equipment from
the platform, 'Grateful' in red on the front of his black tee, 'Dead' on
the back. When he returned carrying the laptop and laser pointer,
Kate gave him a warm smile.
'Thank you for being here today, Julian. It frees me to focus on my
presentation without getting distracted by technology and whether
it'll screw up what I'm doing.'
'No problemo, Kate.'
Not the kind to stand on her dignity or demand deference, Kate
allowed informality outside of lectures, particularly as Julian was also
her junior colleague in the work she intermittently did with the West
Midlands Police.
Seeing that she was ready to leave, Julian waved a hand. 'See you at
the next tutorial.'

'That you will.'
Kate left the auditorium and went out into the afternoon heat. She
walked purposefully along the hot asphalt path edged with ragged
brown grass, past motionless campus trees burdened still with summer
leaves, although some were beginning to flame and fall.
Looking ahead, she caught sight of an athletic figure in white shirt
and jeans, a holdall on one shoulder. The unexpected member of her
audience. She hurried after him.

'Harry! Hey, Harry! Wait.'
No response. She tried again, louder this time. He stopped, pulled
out earpieces and turned, face closed and dour as students surged either side 
of him. Kate recalled Harry's liking for Mahler and
Wagner. Those two could darken anybody's outlook.
On seeing Kate, Harry's face cleared, then broke into a wide grin
as she quickly covered the distance between them. Reaching him,
perspiration oozing on to her forehead and chest, Kate pushed her
sunglasses further up her nose and passed her briefcase from one hand
to the other.

'Didn't expect to see you in my lecture this morning.'
Harry Creed managed the forensic scenes-of-crime team based at
West Midlands Police Headquarters, known to its familiars as Rose
Road. Kate's role there as consulting psychologist to the Unsolved
Crime Unit had brought her into occasional contact with Harry and
his colleagues during the last eighteen months. She felt indebted to
him for agreeing during the previous academic year to allow Julian to
shadow the scenes-of-crime team, thus allowing the student to add an
additional module to his studies. Aside from this, she found forty-ish
Harry likeable.

'Hi, Kate. Thought I'd come and see how the fortunate few among
us pass the time in academia.'
She smiled, knowing that Harry, a forensic graduate, coveted a
part-time lectureship in the university's psychology department.
'So. What do you think Did you like what you saw?'
He nodded enthusiasically. 'Definitely. I can see myself being a part
of it. The students are keen, and in lectures you're master of your own
universe -- or "mistress" in your case.'
Kate laughed as they walked side by side. 'Yes, well. . . sometimes.'
They'd gone a few steps in silence when she glanced at him. 'What
did Professor Bennett have to say when you went to see him?' Aiden
Bennett was Birmingham University's Professor in Criminological
Psychology, and Kate had agreed to mention to him Harry's interest
in an academic position. She'd been happy to do so, aware of Harry's
ability to connect with students, which she'd observed from his interactions
with Julian. Her understanding was that Harry had arranged
an appointment with Professor Bennett to discuss the possibility of
his providing, as a first step, the occasional unpaid talk based on his
forensic work.

'I haven't met him yet.'
'I thought you'd agreed a date?' said Kate, surprised.
Harry shook his head. 'No. But I will. Definitely. I want to prepare 
properly for when I do see him. Make him aware of my dedication to
the education of young minds and--'
'Why not just go along for an informal chat? See how the land lies?'
asked Kate.
'I want to present my strengths and commitment to him as clearly
as I can . . .' Kate glanced at Harry, seeing keenness in his face but
sensing from his voice that there was a problem. 'But there're a few
distractions at the minute. Donald's future's uncertain. He's on a
fixed contract, and with the cutbacks, he might have to contemplate
a move.' Silence fell between them. Kate was aware that Harry had a
partner. 'And my mom and dad's health isn't the best. I've been
staying at their place for a few days.'

Kate nodded her understanding. Shortly after she had started work
at Rose Road, Harry had come into UCU, where she was trying to
get acquainted with some of the police procedures that might be
relevant to her in her new role. They'd talked easily for a while. Kate
had spoken a little about herself, and Harry had told her about his
situation, particularly his parents' support of his relationship with
Donald. Kate had been heartened by what she'd heard.

She was about to offer a sympathetic comment but Harry's face had already 
brightened. 'It'll all sort itself out, and I will phone and
arrange that meeting with Professor Bennett. I'll let you know how I
get on. I'm really grateful to you for putting in a good word for me,
Kate.'
Kate smiled. 'All I did was mention you, but Aiden did seem
interested.'

They had reached the short path leading to the multi-storey car
park.
'Got your car, or do you need a lift?' asked Kate, eyeing the lower
floor of the car park, not her favourite parking choice.

Her gaze moved rapidly over the deeply shadowed car-filled area,
her caution a legacy of her theoretical knowledge as senior lecturer in
forensic psychology, plus the work she did for the criminal courts
evaluating offenders prior to sentencing or release. The questions
asked of her as part of that were many and varied, but the gist was the
same: would she comment on the risk of this person committing sexual
andor violent acts in the future? The work brought her into contact
with a mix of problematic individuals, including the opportunistic, the



mean and the vicious, and occasionally she was required to defend her
opinions in court.
'I'm on foot, today. Want me to walk you to your car?' asked Harry,
seeing Kate's face and aware of her personal caution. Unsurprised by
his chivalrous offer, she declined.
'Thanks, Harry, but I'm fine.' If it had been midnight she might
have taken him up on his offer, but three thirty on a sunny afternoon?
She gave a small wave as Harry walked away towards the main exit
road, then hurried into the multi-storey and directly to the black Audi
TT parked in the shadowy dimness. She scanned the floor of parked
vehicles as she reached the little car. At this stage in the term the
campus was extra busy. When she'd arrived earlier, lecture imminent,
she'd needed to be certain of finding a parking place. This had been
the only option available.
Scanning her more immediate surroundings, Kate deactivated the
TT's alarm and unlocked the car. So I'm paranoid. I'm also alive. Dumping her 
belongings in the boot and adding her jacket, she
opened the driver's door and got into the car. One benefit of parking
here: your car wasn't a furnace when you returned.

Operating the central locking and checking her watch, she tapped
for the numbers list on her phone and selected one. It rang out.
Frowning, she tried again. This time she left a brief message. Recalling
the note Julian had given her earlier, she tapped that number too. No
luck there either. Sighing, she dropped the phone into the small
change compartment, turning on ignition then air conditioning.
Guiding the Audi out of the multi-storey and towards the main
exit of the university campus, she scrutinised the red-brick building
opposite. King Edward VI High School for Girls. The destination of
one of the messages she'd left. With some brief drumming of fingers
on steering wheel, she crossed the flow of mid-afternoon traffic and
followed the curved drive to the wide-open doors of the school,
scanning the small groups of young pupils and lone stragglers
meandering away.
Stopping the car, she peered through the doors -- above them the
school motto, `Trouthe Schall Delyvere' -- to the wood-panelled
entrance hall with its cool marble floor. Deserted. Everyone gone.
Checking her watch again, she followed the drive back to the road and
rejoined the traffic.

CHAPTER THREE

M

other and daughter were engaged in a face-off in the large square
kitchen, cooling now that the massive floor-to-ceiling folding
doors were opened on to the extensive garden. Dressed in dark
green combat trousers and charcoal agnes b. T-shirt, Kate was
unpacking shopping, crossing and recrossing the pale ceramic floor
to disperse cartons and packets to various cherrywood cupboards as
she spoke.
'We agreed that you would ring me during the morning or at the
end of your lunch break, so I would know what time to pick you up.
You didn't ring,' she finished irritably, closing one of the cupboard
doors firmly to emphasise the point, feeling the metal bracelet of her
watch slide loosely against her wrist. Must get that fixed.
Since her tenth birthday, Maisie had consistently pressured Kate
to allow her to have a mobile phone, pressure Kate had resisted for
around eighteen months. Since then she'd been anticipating a
demand from Maisie for Facebook access. Surprisingly, so far none
had come. If it did, Kate determined, there would be no Facebook,
unless Maisie demonstrated by use of her mobile phone that she was
trustworthy and reliable.
A muted pain started up behind her eyes. Don't fight battles before
they start. She pulled open the twin doors of the tall aluminium fridge
freezer, depositing items and removing others, closing the doors with
a foot and an elbow.
Seated at the large scrubbed-wood table, head supported by one
hand, Maisie glared at her mother and rolled her large blue eyes, heart
shaped face defiant, tawny skin flushed beneath a mass of thick curls.
'Because I knew you were busy with freshers this morning so there
wouldn't be any point! What's wrong with catching the bus, anyway?' 
Maisie got up and mooched to the biscuit jar sitting on one of the
black granite work surfaces.
Kate didn't yet have an answer prepared for that question, so she
ignored it, reluctant to communicate directly to Maisie her own fears
around personal safety. 'You know very well that you could have left a
message if I didn't answer. You and I must agree ground rules, Maisie,
for when you are out of this house, and then we have to stick to--'

A sudden pounding on the solid oak front door reverberated across
the wide hall and into the kitchen. 'Who's that?'
'How should I know!' groused Maisie, dropping back on to her
chair and nibbling a biscuit.
Kate heard the vacuum cleaner upstairs fall silent, followed by heavy
footsteps coming downwards. Still annoyed with Maisie, she quit the
confrontational atmosphere of the kitchen and walked into the hall,
to see her housekeeper, Phyllis, beating a path to the front door. Kate
slowed, watching Phyllis move, a galleon under full sail, bust an
impressive bolster, hair a mix of bleach-blonde and grey. Phyllis had
begun working for Kate way back, when Kate had an erring husband
and a plump, puce-faced Maisie in her arms. The two women understood
each other. Phyllis had reached the door and now heaved it open.

Standing on the wide porch, in white shirtsleeves, arms folded
across his barrel chest, was a man who would not see fifty again.
Greying hair plastered to his scalp by heat, face flushed, his eyes sharp
beneath impressive eyebrows, he grinned, showing the small gap
between his two front teeth, which added to the louche look.

'Afternoon, darling, is your mother in?'
As Phyllis turned away in disgust, there was a distant snigger from
the kitchen.

Kate acknowledged her visitor. 'Oh, it's you. Come in.' She turned
and headed back to the kitchen. 'It's okay, Phyllis.'
'Afternoon to you too,' responded Detective Sergeant Bernard
Watts of West Midlands Police Headquarters, following her inside.

Kate and Bernie Watts had met around eighteen months before,
when the plan to establish an Unsolved Crime Unit for the reinvestigation
of cold cases of sexual attack and murder was first
mooted by West Midlands Police. Her working relationship with
Watts and her other colleagues in the unit had evolved into an easy
camaraderie, despite her initial wariness of his abruptness and sarcasm,
his broad Birmingham accent and his allusions, historical and local,


which she'd found difficult to follow at times. Black humour and
banter had also been a part of her early induction into the ways of the
Force. She now recognised both as necessary coping mechanisms.

Kate entered the kitchen to find Maisie perched on the kitchen
table, a calculating expression on her face. Giving her daughter a
meaningful glance, Kate walked past her and on to one of the work
surfaces to construct a sandwich, talking over one shoulder.

'We haven't finished this discussion, Maisie, but it'll keep for now.'
Her daughter responded with a theatrical sigh.
Their visitor took a seat at the table, grinning at Maisie. 'What you
been up to, bab?'
Maisie pouted. 'Nothing! That's the point! I'm not allowed to do anything and 
every move I make is questioned. Who? When? What?
Why? Where?' She sighed again. 'I don't have a private life,' she
finished, watching her mother keenly from beneath long lashes.

Kate turned wearily, butter knife in hand, knowing she should quit
the back-and-forth. 'Maisie, you're too young to have a "private life".
You are twelve years old, and while. .
'Thirteen in eighteen-point-five weeks actually, Mother.'
`. . . you are young and in my care, you and I have to agree ground
rules. I must know where you are when you aren't in this house.'
Scowling and muttering, Maisie jumped down from the table and

headed for the door.
'What did she say?' demanded Kate, watching her daughter's back
as it disappeared in the direction of the stairs. 'And those shorts are
too . . . short!'
After a few seconds' silence, a door on the upper floor slammed.
Kate sighed, putting the plate she was holding down on the table.
'She said something about "No wonder my dad left",' Bernie
responded helpfully. He reached for Maisie's uneaten sandwich as
Kate dragged a tall plastic container of skimmed milk from the
refrigerator. 'Some advice for you, Doc. Forget it. Life's hard enough.'

'Coffee to go with that?' Kate asked. 'The trouble is, she knows
how to get me going. I understand she's at an age when she thinks she
can be out there making her own decisions. Obviously she can't. So
this is all we do at the moment. I set rules and guidelines, she ignores
them or argues, I rise to what she says . . . It's a constant merry-go
round. Compared to the aggravation I get here, my working life is -- yes, I 
know. I've forgotten it. See?' She displayed even white teeth
in a phoney smile and put the container down on the table.
'Got any decent milk in this house?'
Kate massaged her temples. 'Don't you start. Why're you here
anyway? I got your message. I rang you. Twice. No reply.'
Bernie wiped thick fingers on kitchen paper and reached into an
inside pocket as Kate got busy with the cafetiere.
'It's possible UCU's got another cold case. Remains found off the
Halesowen Bypass. Got a likely name already, would you believe.
Have a look.'

He pulled a flat manila envelope from his pocket and tossed it on
to the table. Kate came to pick it up, looked inside, then withdrew a
single ten-by-eight photograph.
'Who is she?'

Bernie leaned forward and tapped it with a finger. Kate read the
name from the gold necklace around the girl's neck. "Molly." '
'If it is her, her full name's Molly Elizabeth James. Eighteen. Disappeared
from Touchwood shopping mall in Solihull in 2002.' There
followed a brief silence while he ate. 'You know that Joe's back?'
Kate took the remaining half-sandwich, giving it her complete
attention. 'So I heard,' she said lightly.
'He's meeting me here in about ten minutes,' he said.
Kate's heart executed a small back-flip.
Bernie continued: 'We're going over to have a look at the scene.
Connie's been there since early this morning.'
Kate noted the involuntary movement of Bernie's hand to his hair
as he mentioned the name of Rose Road's attractive pathologist.
She placed coffee beside him, poured one for herself and sat down
opposite.
'How about it, Doc? Be useful to have you there as well. Want a
ride in my car?' The eyebrows rose and fell.
Kate looked at her watch, then nodded. 'Definitely, despite
Mummy's caution against that kind of invitation.'
Bernie finished the sandwich and scanned the table. As Kate rose,
there was a commotion on the other side of the kitchen door and
Phyllis appeared, lugging the vacuum cleaner. She and Bernie eyed
each other warily. They shared a history of sorts, both having grown up in the 
same tight-knit working-class area of Birmingham, which
Bernie invariably referred to as 'the Old End'. Kate wasn't entirely sure 
where this was located or even if it still existed, given Birmingham's
extensive urban regeneration over the last forty-something years.
Many months before, on learning of Kate's professional involvement
with the police at Rose Road, and more specifically with Detective
Sergeant Bernard Watts, Phyllis had delivered a quick foundation
course on the ways of 1950s working-class Birmingham and Bernie's
place in it.

'Detective Sergeant? Ha! His mother had seven kids, you know. All
in steps.' Phyllis had raised a flattened hand in a step-wise manner to
demonstrate the close, regular production of the Watts progeny. 'She
was a real tartar. Used to stand on the corner of their street screaming
the kids' names "Chrissie! Josie! Malky!" and they'd all come
running from different directions. He was the youngest. Everybody in
the area knew that family. My mother said they were common.' Phyllis
had closed her mouth at this, opening it to add, 'We had a television. And a 
car.'

Kate now turned to her housekeeper. 'Phyllis, I told you to call me
and I'd carry the Hoover down. Would you like coffee?'
Phyllis bustled past. 'Yes, ta. What's he after?' she muttered.
Bernie adjusted his face to bland. 'The Doc's helpin' the police with
their inquiries.' He looked at Kate. 'The Arse is raising the case at
headquarters' meeting tomorrow.'

Kate nodded at the reference to Inspector Roger Furman and to
indicate that she could be at the meeting. Her university timetable for
the term hadn't fully begun. She heard Phyllis tut, probably at the
word 'arse', as she shoved the vacuum cleaner into its cupboard.

'She's got enough on her plate without you bringing her more
to do. She's got that girl to raise single-handed, she's up at that
university all hours and in court--'
Bernie lowered the eyebrows at Kate. 'You been at the shoplifting
again?'
'It's okay, Phyllis. I'm fine.'
Phyllis was now at the table and on a roll.
'What she doesn't need is you or that other one coming round
here with murders and . . .' Here she dropped her voice, mouthing
the word 'sex'. 'And I don't know what else. She could do with an
'oliday.'
Phyllis shifted her attention back to Kate. 'Did I tell you, Avis has
just got back from the Republico Domingo? She said it was fantastic!'



Kate offered Bernie another sandwich and a repressive glance as
Phyllis exited the kitchen.
He shook his head, grinning. 'She's worth every quid you pay her,
just for the comedy value.'
`Sshhh,' hissed Kate. 'If Phyllis ever gives notice, I'll be in a real
mess.'
There was a sudden knock on the front door, followed by Phyllis's
heavy footsteps, more muttering and the sound of the door being
opened. Kate heard a deep, resonant voice and her heart picked up its
beat. In seconds Phyllis was back in the kitchen.
'It's the other one. The Yank. I told him to wait. Shall I let him in?'
'Of course, Phyllis!'
Kate leaned sideways, taking in the details of the tall, broad
shouldered arrival as he walked across the hall and entered the kitchen.
He was wearing a blue shirt the colour of his eyes, jeans and brown
Frye work boots. His hair was longer than it had been when Kate last
saw him, brushed back from his tanned face, sun-streaked and reaching
his collar at the back. He also had a small beard, brown flecked
with grey. Seeing all of this, Kate was oddly perturbed at the changes
eight or so weeks had brought. She glanced at him again, guessing
that he was as oblivious to his physical impact right now as he had
been when he joined the Force at Rose Road more than a year earlier,
his arrival causing a stir among its female officers and civilian workers.

Kate left the table with the cafetiere, in search of an extra cup.
Joe Corrigan. Kate knew that the Birmingham police had seized
the opportunity to offer a secondment to the highly trained firearms
officer from Boston, Massachusetts, at a time when all police forces in
the UK were having to deal with the threat of internal terrorism and
the consequent need to skill up their armed response teams.

She felt her spirits lift as she heard the soft 'Hi', and smiled up at
him as he took the coffee she offered. He thanked her with a tired
grin.
Within another two minutes, Bernie stood, adjusting generous
trousers. 'Right. Time we was gone.'
Kate walked with them into the hall, calling upstairs: 'Phyllis? Can
you stay until I get back? Then I'll give you a lift home. I'm going
with Bernie and Joe.'
Getting what sounded like a positive response, she turned to follow



her colleagues as Maisie appeared on the half-landing, lolling against
the banister, watching them as they crossed the hall.
Bernie looked up at her and winked. 'Stop giving your mother an
'ard time.'
Joe acknowledged her with a grin. 'Hi, Cat's-whiskers. How's the
math?' he asked, referring to Maisie's prodigious mathematical talent,
towards which Kate felt a marked dissonance: pleased for Maisie, but
also worried that it might set her apart from her peers. So far that
hadn't happened. Maisie wore her gift lightly.

Maisie returned the grin. 'Easy,' she said, matter-of-fact. Recalling
her 'put-upon' role, she grimaced and tossed her curls, giving her
mother a quick glance. 'I'm going to Chelsey's house. Could you
drop me in Hamilton Avenue, Bernie?'

Bernie eyed Kate, who gave him an imperceptible nod.
'Can do. You ready?' Bernie said.
Maisie bounded up the few stairs and reappeared in seconds with
her backpack. Kate followed her as they stepped outside the house.
'Seven thirty, Maisie. Don't forget. And I told you not to have your
name embroidered on that.' She pointed at the pink backpack. 'It's an
unnecessary risk to advertise your personal details.'
'Stop being so tetchy. It's only a name,' muttered Maisie, as a small
black-and-white cat darted past their ankles and through the open
door.
'Phyllis?' Kate called into the hallway. 'Mugger's home!'
They walked across the drive in leaden afternoon heat and climbed
into Bernie's four-by-four. Sitting with Maisie in the back as they
moved forward, Kate asked Joe about his return journey to the UK.
'Did you have a good flight?'
He nodded. 'Fine. But I've got a real bad case of let-jag. There.
See?'
Maisie giggled. With a glance in her mother's direction, she leaned
forward and spoke directly to Joe.
'Would you like to come and have dinner with us again, Joe? Mom
could make a curry.' Her tone became reassuring. 'Don't worry. It'll
be okay. She makes it from a

'Maisie!'

Within five minutes Bernie slowed as they neared a sprawling mock
Tudor residence with black wrought-iron gates at its entrance. Maisie
quickly opened the car door and leapt out.


'Seven thirty sharp, Maisie. Don't be late.'
With an open-mouthed shake of the head and a 'yeah-yeah'
response, Maisie ran to the gates and pressed the button on the
intercom. She spoke into it and one of the wide gates glided silently
open. Bernie released his handbrake and started to roll forward.

'Not yet,' commanded Kate.
He applied the brakes sharply. 'You born bossy, or did you have to
work at it?'

Kate watched as Maisie ran the length of the drive and reached the
front door, which opened almost immediately, revealing a tall, shapely
blonde who waved to them. Chelsey's mother.
Getting an okay from Kate, Bernie pulled away from the house, and
within a few minutes they were into their journey along the teeming
dual carriageway of the Hagley Road, one of the main arteries leading
out of the city.





CHAPTER FOUR
N
ow that they were on their way to the scene, Kate's increasing
anticipation acquired a sudden frisson of tension. She hadn't seen
any human remains in the months she'd been a member of UCU. Was
it the girl whose picture Bernie had brought? As if reading her
thoughts, Bernie looked at her in the driving mirror.
'We've got the necklace, but it might not be this girl, Doc. Her
details are on the PNC "MisPer" database, but you know how many
people disappear in a decade.'
Kate nodded and gazed out of the window at the open country now
racing past them. Coming as she did from the south-east, Kate was
often surprised even after several years of living here at how quickly
one could leave the UK's densely built second city and be in rural
surroundings. Even from its centre, it only took minutes. Theoretically.
Add half an hour to that for congestion.
Several more minutes of following the traffic stream and Joe's voice
broke through Kate's thoughts. 'We're almost there.'
She looked up to find his blue eyes on her face, before he turned
back to the road. Pulse quickening, Kate leaned forward between her
two colleagues, looking to where Joe was pointing. A knot of parked
police vehicles some way ahead, traffic slowing as it passed.
Reducing his own speed, Bernie activated his left-hand signal and
executed a gradual turn, close to a red-faced young officer in regulation
short-sleeved shirt who was energetically waving on gawking
drivers as they neared the police activity beyond the roadside. Kate
recognised the young officer. Whittaker. From the reception desk
at Rose Road. He directed Bernie to an open area running alongside
the dense, tree-lined expanse beyond the road. They came to
a stop beside a black estate vehicle with tinted glass, half a dozen




blue-and-yellow squared `Battenberg' Vauxhall Astra police cars, plus
two similarly marked transit vans.
Stepping out of Bernie's vehicle, they swapped air conditioning
for sudden heat, despite the hour. Kate caught a glimpse of white
through the press of surrounding trees, and her pulse accelerated
again.

Bernie showed ID to another officer, who took their names and added them to a 
sheet attached to a clipboard, writing Kate's under
the heading 'Civilian'. Issuing each of them with a roomy white
jumpsuit, into which they struggled, he directed them towards a
narrow pathway worn into the thick undergrowth.

They walked in single file, Joe in the lead, Bernie following, flapping
his hands against insects, a red baseball cap now on his head.
'That's a bad look, Bernie, if you don't mind my saying so,' Kate
murmured.

'Julian give it me. It's medicinal. My scalp's sensitive.'
As they followed the path over the bone-dry ground, Kate eyed the
cross-hatching of grasses and tiny dark-blue flowers whose name she
didn't know. She saw evidence of a fire and a litter of cans off to one
side. They walked on in silence, past silver-grey saplings, beneath
bowed mature trees, their lower branches spread like open hands,
leaves lit by the sun. She reflected that in different circumstances the
area might be a pleasant place to ramble.

How did anyone manage to navigate a way through here from the
road, burdened with a dead weight?
Or was she made to walk?

She.
Molly Elizabeth James.
Perhaps the area was less overgrown so many years ago.
Kate shivered as the direct heat was momentarily blocked by heavy
foliage. Another minute's walk and they reached a clearing. Added to the 
natural sounds of birdsong and the hum of distant traffic were the harsh, 
disembodied voices from the Communications Centre,
breaking intermittently from receivers attached to various uniformed
officers. Off to one side forensic scenes-of-crime specialists in blue
jumpsuits were using pegs and narrow yellow tape to mark out a grid. Others 
pushed latexed hands into earthy thoroughfares made by animals or worked in 
twos sieving earth, the bone-dry topsoil
cascading around covered feet.


Kate caught a glimpse of Harry Creed, blue-suited, pointing and
instructing as he moved around the site. With him was one of his
team, Matt Prentiss, a surly expression on his long face as he followed,
attending to what Harry was saying.
A technician was busily photographing every feature of the site.
Despite his mask and coveralls, Kate recognised the dark hair and
wire-framed glasses of Jake Brown, crime-scene photographer, and
nodded to him. No response. Back when Kate joined UCU, he
had invited her out for dinner She'd politely declined. He hadn't
asked again. Or even acknowledged her, as far as she could recall. A
'mature' man who couldn't handle minor rejection? She'd got that one right.
Kate suddenly caught sight of a slim figure in white, beyond
quivering Do Not Cross tape. She gave a small wave and got a positive
response. On reaching the tape they stopped. Bernie, now hatless,
smoothed his hair.
Connie Chong, Home Office pathologist, approached them carrying
her plastic face-shield in one hand, face flushed. 'I was expecting
you, UCU! Come under the tape and follow me.'
Kate and her colleagues did as bid, following her towards the white
tent. Kate felt Matt Prentiss's eyes on them as they passed. No one
acknowledged him, knowing from experience that Prentiss rarely
responded to overtures.
As she walked through the tent's entrance, Connie pulled on the
hood of her jumpsuit and repositioned the face-shield.
'Okay, UCU. Hoods up and come forward. . . forward and . . . stop. ' She held 
up a hand and they stood side by side inside the mouth
of the tent as she proceeded beyond them.
A wall of heat and earthiness rose to greet them. Kate gazed
uneasily at the stark rectangle of raw earth surrounded by green
yellow grasses. More tiny blue flowers quivered at its edge.
Connie was now on the opposite side of the rectangle. Crouching,
she pointed a small gloved hand towards what looked to Kate to be
little more than undulations in the raw earth, then gazed up at them.
'Two Forestry Commission workers were out here early yesterday.
They noticed a marked increase in vegetation in this particular area.'
She gestured at the patch immediately in front of her. 'They trowelled
it briefly and came up with part of the gold necklace you know about. Adding 
two and two, they rang Rose Road.' Connie stood and flexed
her legs.
'Nobody tells you how.hard pathology can be on the knee joints.
Anyway, this is as far as we've got in our excavation, but it's clearly
human remains. Almost certainly female.' She crouched again, pointing.
'See? Head this end. Feet there. I can't be categorical about her
age or how long she's been lying here. I'll let you know when I've had
a chance to get the bones under UV light and measure the nitrogen
content.' She scanned the barely visible remains, then looked up at
each of them in turn. 'My guess is that she's been here at least five
years.'

Interest piqued, Kate stared down at the newly worked earth. She
now recognised the undulations as human remains; could make out
the lines of long bones, the dome of a skull and the tiny pebble-like
features of a hand. She considered the timescale Connie had just
indicated.

It fitted Molly James, who disappeared in 2002.
Might fit any number of others. . .
Connie gestured towards the area immediately outside the tent.
'The technicians are looking for any remains that might have been
dug up and carried away by small animals in the past.'

Kate and her colleagues now crouched, studying the excavation and
the poorly defined skeleton.
Joe glanced at Connie. 'Got any guesses as to age?'
Connie smiled at him. 'Push, push! Okay, I'm guessing young. Late
teenage years possibly.'
Another fit with Molly James.
'I'll have an informed opinion when I get her back to Rose Road,
do the bones and take a look inside the mouth. Right now I can't even
confirm if the jaws are fully intact. If they are, it'll still be only an
estimate. The DNA samples I've collected from her may be degraded,
but I'm hoping to rely on familial DNA for identification.'

They waited as Connie gently dislodged red-brown earth from
around the skull with what looked like a very fine trowel. 'I took a look at 
what's on the system for Molly James before I left this
morning.' She sat back on her heels. 'Some far-sighted type from the
Bradford Street forensic team that worked the initial investigation
requested DNA samples off her mother shortly after the daughter was 
reported missing. The samples from our girl were sent to the lab early
this morning. Being processed as I speak.'
Kate wiggled fingers at Connie. 'What happens next?'
'We carry on freeing the remains, sufficient to move them without
causing damage.' Connie stood and walked over to Kate, removing
her face-shield, face damp with perspiration. She ruffled her hair with
her other hand. 'Which I reckon might take us into the early evening.
We've got scene lights, but any later than that and my job gets
difficult. I prefer to work in daylight. Once the remains are freed,
they go back with me to Rose Road for a thorough examination. The
scenes team will stay. To make sure we've got everything there is to
get.'
Kate and her colleagues straightened, Bernie with a grunt.
'What about debris around the general area?' asked Kate, pointing.
'There's remains of a fire back there, plus some drinks cans.'
Connie looked at her, head on one side. 'What's your thinking,
Katie? Our girl's been here at least half a decade. The stuff you're
referring to is probably recent partying.'
Kate lifted her shoulders. 'I thought it might be worth salvaging.
Depending on whoever killed this young woman, he might have
returned since. For some. . . recreational purpose.' She was referring
to the predilection of some killers for spending masturbatory time
with their victims.
There was a huff of disgust from Bernie. He'd learned a lot from Kate in the 
short time they'd been colleagues. Most of it he'd have
preferred not to know.
Connie gazed at Kate for some seconds, then grinned, with a shake
of her head. 'Yours is a dark art, Katie. Okay. I'll instruct the scenes
technicians to snap-and-bag.'
Kate nodded her thanks.
Bernie had not spoken up to then. Now he looked away from them,
squinting at the woodland scene. 'Bloody waste. Whoever's done this,
if you want my opinion, he wants stringing up--'
'Once incarcerated, such offenders can make a useful contribution
to theory,' intervened Kate, knowing all too well Bernie's hang-'emand-flog-'em
sentiments.
'Yeah, yeah. You've said. And give 'em all a plasma screen and
therapy and everybody's happy, according to you.'
Kate left it. 'Any ideas at all as to cause of death?' she asked Connie. 
Connie shook her head emphatically. 'None. Even when I've got
her back to Rose Road, I still might not be able to establish cause,
given her condition and the time lapse.'
Joe quietly thanked Connie and turned to retrace their careful route
back to the road, boots striding over the dried vegetation.
Bernie gave Connie a terse nod and walked in the same direction.
He liked the pathologist. He liked the small stature and the nearness
of her. Like Kate, but without the attitude and the quick mouth. He
never minded getting just a 'yes' or a 'no' from Connie.

His phone rang. Furman. Wanting to know what was happening.
Kate hung back to watch as Connie deftly worked around the
contours of the remains with the little trowel-like implement,
perspiration sheening her face. Inside the Protech forensic suit, the
fine hairs on Kate's forearms suddenly stood to attention. She hugged
herself, wondering how and why the destroyer of this young woman,
whoever she was, had brought her to this.

Maybe he was a boyfriend and they'd argued?
He killed her in a fury of-- jealousy?
Or maybe he was a stranger?
If so, how did he accomplish what they were now seeing?
A sudden blitz attack, or something more subtle?
An opening gambit?
Hello! Can you direct me to. . . ?
Kate's thoughts took a darker turn.
Hello, darling. Looking for business?
She looked again at the remains that might be all that was left of
a young woman named Molly James. She considered what might
reasonably be deduced about the doer -- the killer -- known or stranger.
Had to be mobile.

Familiar with the area.

. . . And that was it.
UCU would have a lot to do in the coming weeks if it was their case.

Kate shivered despite the heat, pondering the enduring daily risk
to females, thoughts of Maisie whispering around the edges of her
thinking. She suddenly found herself hoping it wasn't the young
woman whose photograph she'd seen.
Without looking up, Connie spoke quietly. 'If you want to know
when to come and talk, and assuming I get her back to Rose Road 
later today, I'd say your best bet is really early on Friday morning. It'll
be quiet then. Just Igor and me there.'
With a last glance at the remains, Kate left the tent, her mind still
full of questions. Removing the white suit and dropping it into the
large paper sack held by a gloved officer at the entrance to the scene,
she joined her colleagues inside Bernie's vehicle and began to order
her thoughts.

Length of time fits.
Gender fits.
And most significant of all -- the 'Molly' necklace found with the
remains.
She shook her head. They needed to wait for Connie. Still. . .
The question now: why was this young woman's life ended?
Establishing the why would lead them to consideration of the
bigger question.
'Who?

Kate was finally on top of her outstanding work and prepared for the
new term ahead. She tidied the desk in her downstairs study, thinking
not for the first time that her post as senior lecturer at the university
was enough work for anyone, without taking on the extra demands
associated with criminal cases.

Shaking her head, she recalled the telephone call she'd had early in
the summer vacation from a firm of solicitors, asking if she would be
willing to see their client, currently on remand in Birmingham Prison,
assess him, and report on her opinion as to his future capacity for
violence. She had allowed herself to be drawn in by a mix of professional
flattery and detail about the client's deviant history.

Now she glanced at the hefty addressed envelope sitting on the
corner of her desk. Report completed. The solicitor wouldn't like it.
Neither would his client, who, in Kate's opinion, was a tightly coiled
spring of impulsivity and resentment, ready for activation at the
slightest provocation. Somewhere down the line she would probably
be directed to attend court to defend what she'd written about him.

She had decided she wouldn't take on any more such work. What
she did at the university, plus the hours she now gave to UCU when
needed, was enough. She walked out of the study and closed the door
firmly.
Professional life under control and Maisie eating dinner at Chelsey's,
Kate was now revelling in the quiet of the old house, watching a rerun
of Inspector Morse. With a faint tinkling sound Mugger padded across
the sitting room, leapt on to the sofa and circled several times before
draping himself over Kate's legs. The case was defying Morse, who
was becoming increasingly grumpy, despite having one eye on a beer
and the other on his well-built leading lady.
Kate repositioned the sofa cushion, half-closed eyes on the screen.
She hadn't a clue who'd done it and cared even less. Her thoughts
turned to Maisie and the friction between them earlier in the day. A
small frown appeared at the top of her nose. Maisie knew she was
expected to return home from Chelsey's house at seven thirty. But
would she? As Kate watched the mellow collegiate scenes play out, she
felt torn between her reluctance to allow her daughter out alone and
the need for Maisie to learn how to keep herself safe whilst becoming
increasingly independent. Kate knew that the forensic nature of her
profession, combined with her innate circumspection, resulted in a
marked personal caution. Did she really want the same for Maisie?

She put the strains of single parenthood firmly to the back of her
mind and let her thoughts drift to Joe. Their working relationship was
characterised in the main by light-hearted banter, and there was a lot
she didn't know about him.

How old? At a guess, early forties . .
Old enough to have a significant other tucked away in Boston?
Her thoughts moved on to UCU's new case. What was it her old
and beloved PhD supervisor had said to her several years ago?
Work with the police if you feel you must, Kate. But be warned. Do well and 
they'll take all the credit. Make a mess of things and they'll hang
you out to dry.
A loud advertisement for car insurance dragged her back to full
consciousness. Dislodging the cat, she walked from the sitting room
across the spacious hall to the kitchen in search of the envelope left by
Bernie earlier in the day. Returning to the sitting room and the sofa, she 
opened it and shook the colour photograph on to the low table in
front of her. It came to rest face up.

Kate studied its subject.
Young, female, sweet smile, long fair hair. A hint of spiritedness in the eyes. 
She touched the photograph gently. It felt slightly warm, from the residual 
heat of the kitchen. Peering into the envelope again, 
she noticed a sheet of paper. Extracting it, she read the name 'Molly
Elizabeth James', plus a reference to an ex-boyfriend of Molly's, aged
twenty-eight at the time the girl went missing.

Mmm . . Bet that didn't please her mother.
She replaced the sheet and the photograph in their envelope. Morse
had reappeared. In a pub. The cat stopped arching and circling and
rearranged itself on her legs.
Kate stared in the direction of the television screen, now robbed
of relaxation by her second viewing of the photograph of Molly
Elizabeth James. She thought about tomorrow's meeting at Rose
Road. She disliked that kind of formality. Just as she had managed to
recreate a more relaxed mindset, the front door opened, then
slammed closed almost immediately.

'Hi, Mom! I'm home. Dead on time!'
Kate heaved herself to standing, leaving a small, disgruntled cat
alone on the sofa.
CHAPTER FIVE

M

olly James gazed from the free-standing glass screen inside the
spacious square office of the Unsolved Crime Unit, located on the
ground floor of the massive modern red-brick building that housed
West Midlands Police Headquarters.
It was early Thursday morning, and Kate and two of her colleagues
were already at work at the extensive table in the centre of the
room. Near one wall stood a computer workstation, the curved desk
supporting various manuals, textbooks, Caffe Nero cups, an opened
crisp packet and another packet in similar condition containing
M&Ms. Julian's domain. The office was carpeted in dark green, its
walls a pale toning green. Hung with vertical cream blinds, the wide
windows looked out on to smart little terraced houses beyond the
black metal railings and brick pillars of the car park.

'We need to get some ducks in a row, quick, if what we've seen is
the James girl,' said Bernie. 'You know what'll happen at the meeting.
Furman'll be going on about finances and he'll see to it that the
minimum's spent and we won't get enough time to reinvestigate
properly.' He gestured to a box labelled 'James'. 'Any road up, on
the strength of what we know so far, I fetched this from the evidence
store.'

The phone suddenly rang and Joe lifted it. Today he was wearing a
formal dark grey suit. The long hair and beard were still in place.
Kate watched as he listened and occasionally nodded.
He hung up and looked from Kate to Bernie. 'Connie's started the
post-mortem. Short length of gold chain found within the bypass
remains matches the rest of the necklace found at the scene. In case
we're still in doubt, the DNA checks out. It's Molly Elizabeth James
lying downstairs.'
Kate breathed in. They'd expected it. Now they knew for sure. 
The door suddenly opened and Julian walked in dressed in Lycra
shorts and carrying a cycling helmet.
'Afternoon, Devenish,' murmured Bernie.
The youngest member of UCU turned to him, looking surprised.
'It's only eight fifteen!'
Kate smiled at the young newcomer. 'Hi, Julian.'
Bernie placed a hand each side of his substantial waist. 'NI can carry
on? The stuff in this box is all we've got on the James girl's disappearance.'
He
flipped the lid and lifted out what looked to be a motley
collection of loose A4 sheets and plastic envelopes, which he placed
on the table, proceeding to divide them into two approximately equal
piles. He passed one of these to Kate.
'Here you go, Doc, you and Devenish have them. Me and Corrigan'll
take the rest. By the way, have you heard what he's up to?'
'Dread to think,' responded Kate with a wary glance at Joe as she
prepared a page in her notebook to receive the day's information, and
Julian left the room carrying his backpack.
'Corrigan's got himself a mountain bike. Easy Rider comes to
Harborne.'
Kate gave the relaxed American a mock-severe look. 'Hope you've
bought a helmet as well. Wouldn't want a scraped nose.'
'I'm improvising. With half a watermelon.' Kate laughed and he
gave her a grin, head on one side. 'Sounds like you care about my
well-being, Hanson.'
Kate looked up quickly, straight into the blue eyes. 'Actually, I only
have to care for people under fourteen,' she huffed, cursing as she
listened to herself, uptight and humourless.
As if reading her thoughts, Joe grinned again, brows raised. 'Have
to take your laughs where you can get 'em, Red.'
'More Boston-Irish philosophy?' she snapped. 'And I've told you
not to call me that,' she added stiffly, at a loss as to why she'd become
so snippy and wondering how to recover the usual lightness between
them.
'Probably. But still true,' he said.
Kate gave her attention to the small heap of papers Bernie had
handed her. Within a few minutes Julian had returned, showered and
wearing jeans. Leaving his backpack near the computer, he took the


chair next to Kate. She looked up as Joe stood, watching him as he
walked to the glass screen and picked up a black marker.
'How about we get some background information up here for
quick reference?'
Mind back on the job, Kate read the notes he was making, including
some verbal contributions from Bernie. There wasn't much.
Molly Elizabeth James, aged eighteen, disappeared from Touchwood
shopping mall, Solihull, in July 2002. The ensuing local investigation
was followed by a request to West Midlands Headquarters here at
Rose Road for assistance. The investigation into Molly James's disappearance
officially ceased in early 2003. Kate considered the timing
of that decision. Probably financial in part, plus the impingement of
newer, equally serious investigative demands.
'Why aren't these cases better recorded? Why aren't they on some
detailed system of missing--'
'They would if they weren't "old and cold",' interrupted Bernie.
'There's no money to include them on the COMPACT system that's
now up and running. This force is no different to any of the others.
It's cash-strapped.'
Joe pointed to some yellowed newspaper cuttings on the table.
'Molly was eighteen, five-seven tall, long fair-to-blonde hair. The day
she disappeared she was wearing a pale-blue polo shirt, cream casual
trousers, brown suede loafers, gold necklace, carrying a navy-blue
backpack with white trim and Ellesse logo. Reports from Birmingham's
own newspaper, the Post, and one or two nationals, including The Times, 
indicated that she was regarded as a cool, on-the-ball
kind of young woman. Not the type to go anywhere with a guy she
didn't know. Consensus from the adults in her life was that she was
responsible. Sensible.'
Julian's head shot up. 'Why wouldn't she be? She was eighteen,
man.'
'Listen and learn, lad.' Bernie snorted. 'I've got a daughter older
than you.'
'You got suits older than him, my friend,' Joe murmured, scanning
what he'd just written.
'All I'm saying is most of 'em seem sensible but generally they're mad as 
herrings,' Bernie responded indistinctly, pen in his mouth
acting as surrogate cigarette.
Kate sighed, looking ceilingwards. 'Holding that thought for now, 
do we know who from Rose Road was actually involved in the original
investigation?'
'Let's see. . .' Bernie riffled A4 sheets. Kate watched patiently as he
read through information, mouth moving silently. At last he spoke.
'Rose Road was called in very early on . . . after the first couple of
weeks, by the look of it. I remember there was talk of local officers
struggling and needing Headquarters expertise.' He turned more
sheets. 'Names of six officers from Upstairs .. . none of them still
here . . . Bradford Street nick provided the forensic scene specialists.'
He looked up. 'Rose Road didn't have its own Forensics back then.
Let's see who the senior investigating officer was from here . . . Oh,
you'll love this. It was the Arse. Sergeant Roger Furman, as he was
then.'

Julian was leaning on his forearms studying the press cuttings. Kate
looked from him to the two senior colleagues.
'How do you think he'll view our reinvestigation of the case, given
that it was once his?' As she asked this, she experienced a quick jab of
dislike for Furman, now an inspector. Joe raised his shoulders slightly
in response, his limited experience of Furman more or less matching
hers.

Bernie walked heavy-footed towards the glass screen, talking over
his shoulder. 'I've known the Arse a few year. s now, Doc. He don't
like or support nothing that isn't in his own interests. But I'll tell you
one thing that'll happen now: as it was originally his case, he'll be
interfering with everything we do.'
He scanned the written-up information, clearly finding it deficient.
'This girl . .
'Molly,' prompted Kate.
'Yeah, she leaves home, walks the mile or so to the shopping mall,
and zap! Good night, Vienna. What we've got to find are the names
of persons of interest from the original investigation.' He pointed at
the papers on the table. 'They'll be in that lot. Then we get 'em into
a list.' He turned to the screen and wrote Molly James's name and
'Persons of Interest' in large letters, which he underlined twice.
Within ten minutes they had five names.
Kate watched as Bernie completed the last entry on the list, then
pointed to the first. 'John Cranharn -- I've heard that name. Why?
How?' she demanded.
'You would, if you've ever had a Mercedes. A right posh git from what I recall 
of the talk here at the time. His family owns one of the
biggest dealerships in the country. In Solihull. I'd really be interested
in him as one of our persons, but according to his statement, which
I've just read, he was out of the country when she went missing.'
'So he had an alibi?' queried Kate.
Bernie held up a wide hand. 'Not so fast, Doc. All this needs
rechecking. And there's something else here that could use our attention.
According to the press cuttings, Cranham's dad offered a
twenty-thousand-pound reward a couple of weeks after the girl went
missing, "for information leading to the whereabouts of Molly
James". That could indicate a link to Posh Git.'

Kate frowned at him, palms up. 'So, Cranham Senior's a wealthy
local businessman? Maybe he wanted to be seen to be doing his civic
duty, by encouraging the search efforts?'
Bernie gave her a look. 'The point I'm making is what might've
been behind the reward angle.'
Kate eyed him. 'How about altruism?'
- He shook his large head and one thick finger. 'No, no, Doc. You
need to start thinking outside of the box.'

'I'll do my best,' she said drily.
'How about this for a theory. Maybe Cranham Senior had an idea
that Number One Son knew this young girl -- yeah, yeah, Molly. She
lived close to his place of work, don't forget. He could've seen her out
and about. Maybe the reward angle was his dad's way of diverting
attention from Posh Git being involved in her disappearance?'

'Right. By drawing nationwide attention to the family? I see your
thinking,' responded Kate, rolling her eyes.
Bernie continued, unabashed. 'Reverse psychology. You should
know about that. What I'm saying is, all the persons of interest need
another good look, right?'
'What about Person of Interest Number Two, George Colley?'
asked Kate, pointing at the glass screen. 'Who's he?'

'I know him and the next one,' Bernie replied. 'First, Colley. He's a
sex type who was living close to the mall at the time. Says here he was
in a bail hostel. A nuisance in the area for years. A flasher.'
'Exhibitionist,' corrected Kate.
`Wha'ever. There's a lot else he's done. We'll definitely have him in
if he's still about. Now, Alan Matins, our third POI, he was working


at Molly James's mother's house at the time Molly disappeared -- and he's one 
of the Lads.'
Kate looked thoughtful. 'What was he doing there?' she asked,
recognising the police euphemism for known criminal.
'Local building contractor. With sidelines in domestic violence,
GBH and fraud.-He was landscaping the Jameses' front garden at the
time Molly disappeared, which is very promising for us.' Bernie
rubbed his hands together.
Julian looked up at Bernie, frowning. 'Why's this photographer
guy, George Brannigan, a person of interest? He was working at the
shopping mall taking pictures that day. He had a legitimate reason for being 
there.'

Joe turned to him. 'Probably for that very reason, Jules. He
would've been regarded as a potential witness.'
Bernie jabbed a finger at the list. POI Number Five -- Jason Fairley. That's 
the boyfriend. And not much of a boy at the time, neither.'
Julian looked at Molly's photograph, then at Kate. 'What do you
think might have happened to her?' he asked quietly.
'I could only guess, Julian, until we know the results from the postmortem.'
'You
listening, Devenish?' Bernie transferred his gaze to Kate. 'Sex,
Doc. It's always about sex.'
Kate nodded. 'Often true.' She stood and paced slowly towards the
window, thinking of what they'd seen at the bypass, then turned. 'It
seems to me that we need to focus this reinvestigation quickly.' She
avoided looking in Bernie's direction. 'But, we need to be careful not
to make any assumptions. The remains are a key source of information
for us.' She paced some more. 'When we get Connie's findings, they
might help us establish whether Molly was killed by someone in
whom she evoked strong personal feelings. Maybe someone who was
angry with or about her. Perhaps that person was jealous, or frustrated
by some incident or situation involving her. Emotions so strong,
directed at her as an individual, that he -- and it probably was a he --
killed her. Obviously that would mean that he knew her. It would
signify his having an emotional connection to Molly and a personal
motivation for what he did to her.'

Joe stood and walked to the glass screen, where he wrote two of
Kate's words, ending with a question mark. Kate continued as they
listened, Julian busily note-taking.
'The other possibility is that she was abducted by someone who
didn't know her at all. A total stranger. Motivated by some unknown
agenda or need in him that he felt compelled to express. . . and he
used Molly as a vehicle for that self-expression.' There was a brief
silence. `If she was killed by a stranger, our reinvestigation is obviously
going to be much more difficult.'
`That'd make it a sex murder, what you just said? Like I said, sex.'
Bernie nodded sagely.
'Probably. It would also signify that Molly's abduction was instrumental. She 
was a means to an end that only the doer knows and
understands.'

In the following small silence, Joe wrote another of Kate's words,
again adding a question mark, as Bernie looked at Kate, eyebrows
together.
`So say, just for example, it turned out be somebody like this
photographer who done it, somebody who didn't know her -- that'd
be your. . . instrumental type, right?'
'Possibly,' nodded Kate.
Bernie shook his head, looking vexed. Never expect a straight yes or
no from the Doc.

The door opened suddenly and they all watched, silent, as Inspector
Roger Furman crossed the room. He was wearing a well-tailored suit,
fight-brown hair faultlessly brushed, his usual air of arrogance evident
in the set of his shoulders and his facial expression, Bernie's epithet for
which was 'Arse-about-face'.
'Forget them,' said Furman, jabbing a finger at the list on the glass
screen. 'They were exhaustively checked out as part of the original
investigation. After this morning's meeting I'll brief you on time
scales. I'll see you upstairs in ten minutes. I've got an important
document to look through.' He headed for the door and disappeared
back through it.

Bernie watched him go. 'He means his Blockbusters catalogue's
come in the post.'
With a last look at Molly James's face staring from the glass screen,
Kate adjusted the fitted white shirt over slim caramel trousers and
followed her colleagues out of UCU and upstairs to Meeting Room
One.

CHAPTER SIX

As UCU's personnel walked into Rose Road's largest meeting room, Pi they were 
subjected to a barrage of greetings and comments from
the officers already present, a group known collectively as 'Upstairs',
due to the location of their extensive office.
'Hey, Wattsie! Got yourself a cushy cold case investigation? Here's
a tip for you -- it was the butler that done it.' This from Detective
Sergeant Alan Rand, a sharp-eyed officer whom Kate knew as one of
Joe's armed-response trainees.
`Ta for that, Randy. I'd write it down if I was interested.'
Randy transferred his attention to Joe. 'Hey, boss, can I be there
when the Arse sees the hair? And the beard?' Joe grinned, and Randy
continued: 'When's the next range practice? I've been watching The
Wire and I'm gonna humble you.' Following this, Randy and his two
colleagues, 'Newt' Newton and 'Sticky' Hemmings, began a tuneful
rendition of 'A-Hunting We Will Go', as they executed small side-byside
steps, arms rolling, fist over fist, fingers pointing in unison.
Joe gave a sideways glance at Randy. 'All in the game, boy, and I'm
gonna whup yo' ass.' This elicited laughter from all three officers.
Newt grinned at Bernie, then looked to Kate and back again. 'See
you still got your shrink, Wattsie. She sorted your little problem out
yet?' He took a bite of the doughnut he was holding, followed
immediately by a mouthful of coffee.
As Kate and her colleagues took seats at the expansive meeting
table, Newt rested his considerable backside on its edge and Sticky slid
into the chair next to Kate.
'Hey, Kate,' he said softly, but sufficiently loud for the others to
hear. 'You started reading our minds yet?' He grinned at her, one
eyebrow raised.
'Sticky, I'd be reading yours right now, if you had one,' she said
with an answering grin.
`Ooo-ers' and laughter drifted around the room. 'Word of advice,
Stick,' called Randy. 'Kate's way out of your league, my son. Brain the
size of a small planet, which well outranks your walnut.' There was
more good-natured laughter.
Kate thought back to her initial experience of scenes like this and
the difficulty she'd had at the time in identifying her own responses,
given that she was used to the politically correct social discourse of
the university. Now that she knew what to expect in terms of Force
humour and repartee, she was a match. Which didn't stop her tackling
Bernie whenever she considered something he said to be
inappropriate.

Female inconsistency? And why not.
The door suddenly swung open and several people filed inside,
Connie Chong among them. Kate raised her eyebrows in Connie's
direction and the pathologist responded with a small smile. The
atmosphere had now changed in the room. This was what Kate
didn't like. The formal meeting. Everyone quietly took seats as Kate
gazed around at the newcomers.

Chief Superintendent Gander was seated at the head of the table, a
heavyweight with ruddy jowls spreading over his shirt collar. He sat,
hands clasped together, rhythmically tapping the surface in front of
him. To his left was Superintendent of Operations Al Bowen, heavyset
northerner and sometime golfing partner of Gander, and next to him, 
Superintendent CID Gus Stirling, mild-mannered, courtly,
known to don the kilt at Headquarters celebrations. Kate had had
some limited contact with the three men during the time she had been part of 
UCU. They all belonged Upstairs.

The door opened again, this time to admit members of the various
forensic departments Kate had seen at the bypass, including Matt
Prentiss, Scenes of Crime Operations, looking older than the late
thirties Kate knew him to be. He took a seat, his gaze not shifting from the 
middle distance, his usual sour expression in place. Next to 'him was Jake 
Brown, Kate's would-be date, whose glance skimmed the top of her head, and Dr 
Wes Jacobs, the short, scholarly scientist
responsible for forensic testing. Kate had never seen him dressed in anything 
other than his white lab coat. Harry Creed, in a creamkoloured
shirt and black linen jacket, grinned across the table at Kate.

He was looking tired, and she was aware that he, along with Matt and
others in the Scenes department, was working long hours at the
bypass.
Kate's contact with Upstairs was renewed only when a cold case was
identified for reinvestigation. So. Here she was again, keen to pursue
the new case, grateful that the Vice Chancellor had slightly reduced
her university workload for this academic year to enable her to pursue
her additional role with UCU.

Gander quickly opened the meeting by thanking them all for
attending, then officially informed everyone of the resurrection of
the Molly James case. Connie briefly and efficiently communicated her
limited findings from the remains so far, in similar terms to those she
had already used with Kate and her colleagues.

Furman seized the opportunity to keep the limelight on UCU,
which Kate knew he regarded as his personal fiefdom. She focused on
the table as he turned to her and her colleagues. It was Joe he singled
out.

'Lieutenant Corrigan. Familiarise the meeting with the facts of the
case,' he directed.
Joe calmly outlined the basic information about Molly James's
disappearance. As there was little to say at this point, he switched to
describing the unit's ideas for working the case.
'We've already got some names, persons of interest from the
original investigation who we'll be following up.'
Kate flicked a look at Furman to see how he was receiving this. The
vein in his right temple was now just visible. He took back control of
the meeting.
'Chief Superintendent Gander and I have agreed that I'll be SIO of
this reinvestigation, given that I had that role in the original investigation.'
Kate sighed inwardly. Furman as senior investigating officer
of UCU's cold case. That hadn't happened before. Did that mean
he'd be micromanaging them every step of the way? She retuned.
'There was no evidence at the time that this girl was even abducted, let
alone murdered. She could have been one of hundreds of people of all
ages who walk away from their lives every year.'

Kate studied him closely. Self-aggrandising dolt.
There was restlessness at the head of the table, followed by Gander's
voice: 'Inspector Furman and I have agreed that UCU shall have--'
Furman swiftly cut him off. 'I've arranged a meeting in UCU immediately after 
this, sir, when I'll inform personnel of agreed time
scales. I can reassure this meeting that, given the financial constraints all 
departments are under, this reinvestigation will involve a limited,
controlled expenditure to establish that nothing was overlooked by
the original investigation.'
Kate analysed Furman's words. They provided her with further
confirmation of his considerable self-regard. Budgets. Regulations.
Initiatives. All serve to keep you centre stage. The most important person in 
the room. Or so you think.

Bernie's face was stone. Joe was doodling on a pad. Seeing that
neither of her colleagues was about to make a response, Kate broke the small 
silence.
'I thought that reinvestigation was exactly that -- a further full 
investigation. Not an exercise merely to confirm what was done
previously.'
Gander looked benignly at Kate, then frowned at Furman, who was now smirking in 
her direction, vein pulsing.
'Your problem is you've been too long in academia. Or watching too much TV 
crime, if you don't mind my saying. . . Dr Hanson.' Furman gazed round the 
table, getting one or two weak smiles in response, one of them from Jake Brown.
'I do,' she said.
He swivelled back, frowning. 'What?'
'Mind. I do mind.'
Gander jumped quickly into the silence, jowls quivering as he poke. 'Okay. I 
think we can move on . .
Kate occupied herself with monitoring her breathing. Gander was
still speaking, and she gave his voice her fultattention.
`. . . to Matt Prentiss. Matt has a brief statement on experimental
work currently being conducted at the Facility.'
Kate and the others turned to the sour-looking Prentiss. Kate

glanced at her student helper's smooth, seemingly untroubled face

lend experienced the usual twinge of concern she had about Julian's

Intact with Prentiss. She knew that at times it was Prentiss, rather

an Harry, who directed Julian's forensic-scenes training, and she

some doubts about his ability to do it with sufficient patience and

ght. Although she was Julian's senior supervisor, she hadn't yet

ed the issue with him, not wishing to influence his perceptions.

c thought now that it was time she discussed it with him, and began

a quick note in her diary. As she wrote, she recalled the reason for
Julian being assigned to UCU. Eighteen months before, he'd hacked
into the university main computer and got into its financial records.
He'd done nothing other than that, and the Vice Chancellor had
prevailed on Kate to request that Julian be given a small role in UCU
in which he might legitimately apply his computer skills. Gander had
agreed. It was working fine, and Kate wanted it to stay that way, for
Julian's sake.
Prentiss talked on about work being done at the Facility, a Home
Office-funded forensic service occupying a large tract of land at the
edge of the university campus upon which sat a substantial property,
Winterton, surrounded by high razor-wire fences and 'Keep Out'
notices. Forensics was allowed to have up to five donated bodies
buried or otherwise concealed there for research purposes.
Prentiss was now well into his monotone discourse. 'We're currently
investigating the effects, if any, of a purposeful increase in the
arachnid population . .
Kate paused in her writing, aware that Furman's eyes were on her
again.
`. . . on two recently placed remains, one hypothesis being that
a purposeful increase of arachnids would impact on the availability
of flies and other organisms, which in turn might impact on rates of
putrefaction and thus the estimates of times of death. .
Now it was Kate's face that was stone.
Furman smirked as he leaned towards her, eyes drilling into hers. 'A
little anxiety?' he whispered.
Bernie gave him a scowl and Kate a wink. Bernie was catcher-inchief
in UCU, as and when required. She looked Furman in the eye,
face serious, tone matter-of-fact.
'No. Actually, it's a phobia.'

Furman quickly withdrew, having spotted Gander's mouth beginning
to open. As Prentiss finished, Furman promptly intervened in
order to exercise his voice further. 'The usual reminder to each
department. Nobody, but nobody, mentions the Facility outside the
walls of Headquarters. This is an area of expensive housing. Residents
round here are Nimby as hell. If they get even an idea that the Facility
exists, that remains are being used for research purposes, there'll be a
hell of a stink.'
Harry Creed shook his head slightly and grinned at Kate, crossing
his eyes in response to Furman's unintentional joke.
It was now Harry's turn to address the meeting.
'The Facility is continuing to prove its value in providing us with
opportunities to study human decomposition. Inspector Furman's reminder
about confidentiality is appreciated by all the forensic services
at Rose Road.'

Kate listened as Harry spoke about the work being done at the
Facility, aware of visits he'd made to law enforcement in Virginia and
New York State a few years previously as part of his commitment to
the Facility's early development. Following a couple of other, unrelated
reports from Upstairs, Gander brought the meeting to a close.

Five minutes later, Kate pushed open the door of UCU, causing it
to hit the wall with a low thud. Julian started to speak, but stopped
after a warning look from Joe. Bernie followed them inside, walking
directly to the drinks-making corner, known as the Refreshment
Lounge.

After a few minutes, furnished with coffee and a muffin, Kate had
calmed down. Slightly. She looked from one to another of her
colleagues.
'How do you do it?' she demanded. 'How do you sit in a meeting
with that. . . that. . .' She flailed both arms, frustrated at her lack of
descriptors.
'Imbecile?' suggested Joe.
Kate smoothed her hair from her face, twisting it more securely
behind her head, and sipped her coffee.
Joe turned in his chair to face her. 'Like I said before, Red, we all
know he's a dope. That means we pretend to listen while we think of
other things.'
'Like what?' snapped Kate.
He shrugged. 'Beer, women, soccer . . . women . . . beer. You
might want to work on your own list--'
Julian grinned and Kate sighed as Furman thrust open the door. He walked 
casually into the room, glancing at each of them in turn.
'Given the Chief Super's insistence that you're a part of this unit,
want you ' this with a finger-point towards Julian 'to be re
onsible
for entering into the system data from any new statements
hi this reinvestigation, marking any anomalies and raising them with
Lieutenant Corrigan. You did a more or less reasonable job of it last time,' 
he added grudgingly. 'Lieutenant Corrigan and. . . you, Watts,
can focus on information-gathering.' He hadn't mentioned Kate. No
one said anything. 'Chief Superintendent Gander and I have had a
discussion and agreed a time limit of four weeks,' Furman continued.
'That's from today. After one month, if there's no real progress, no
new persons of interest worthy of further investigation, the James case
is closed again. Clear?'

Kate stared at him in the ensuing silence, suddenly very fed up. She
shook her head. 'It isn't possible to do a thorough reinvestigation in
four weeks.'
Furman hardly acknowledged her directly. 'Instead of querying
management decisions, this unit needs to get started on its task.' He
gave Kate a sideways glance. 'Which means you could get on with
"entering the mind of the killer" or whatever it is you--'
Kate had had as much of him as she could take this morning. 'I
don't do that,' she said coldly.
He glanced at her. 'I'd assumed from last--'
'Don't make any assumptions about me, please.'
There was a brief silence before Furman responded. 'I sense you
have some kind of problem with the parameters I'm laying down.'
'This isn't about parameters,' responded Kate, knowing very well
that it was. Mostly. He glared in her direction but slightly beyond her,
his mouth a lopsided sneer.
'Whilst this unit continues to be in existence, as its superior officer,
what happens here is--'
Mindful of Julian's presence, Kate tried for a stance of positive
assertiveness. 'Actually, you're not my superior,' she said evenly,
sticking to facts. 'I'm a civilian. Managed by my professional body
and my university.'
'Yes I am.' Furman looked directly at Kate for the first time. 'This
unit is my responsibility, and anybody working in it is, by definition,
managed by me.'
Tension thickened the warm air. No one spoke. Kate was aware of
the ticking of the clock on the wall. Furman broke the silence.
'I want a progress report seven days from now.' He picked up the
keys and files he'd laid on the table earlier, strolled to the door and
left.
Kate was the first to speak. 'I take it we all see what he's doing?
Setting up UCU to do a superficial job. He's a vain, self-centred idiot with 
all the management skills of a house brick and zero interest in this
case.
`Attagirl, Red. Don't hold back.'
Kate scowled at him. 'I've told you not to call me that.'
Bernie gave Kate a close look. 'Your trouble, Doc, is you take him
on. You don't gain nothing by taking on the likes of Furman. Here's
some advice take the indirect route, like me. When I'm around
Furman, I'm like a lynx--'

'You don't say. That'd be one of the missing links, would it?'
snapped Kate.
Julian lowered his head to the computer keys, shoulders shaking.
'What's amusing him?' Bernie threw down his pen cigarette and
rubbed his face. 'I got a funny feeling that if we don't sort this case,
he'll try to make some changes to personnel in here. That means I'm
history. Or PBI.'

Kate frowned.
'Poor bloody infantry,' supplied Joe.
'I'd jack the lot in anyway, before I'd go back on the beat or get
desked. I could find plenty to do at home . .
Kate's attention was snagged by Julian's now serious face.
'Something wrong?'
He shrugged. 'What about me if what Bernie said is true? I like it
here. I'm doing this cool forensic stuff with Harry and his team.
Harry's got plans for the team and he wants me to be part of it. He
says I've got real aptitude.' This elicited a grunt from Bernie. 'A year
ago I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do. Now I do. Something
forensic, something with psychology. If I'm chucked out of the unit,
my dad'll have a fit. He'll never believe it wasn't my fault. He'll
probably pull his financial support and that's me finished at uni, and I'll 
never get to work on the projects Harry's told me he's got
planned.'

Kate reflected on what she knew of Julian's background. No
mother. A father who divided his time between business interests in
London, Europe and Canada. Home for Julian, when he went there and could find 
anyone in it, was a modern tenth-floor apartment
overlooking Imperial Wharf in Chelsea. A privileged background?
Kate thought not.
'Hey, don't start catastrophising just yet,' soothed Kate.
'Don't worry, lad. You know what they say nothing's finished till the fat bird 
has her turn. Any road up, Furman's not the chief round
here, Goosey is,' added Bernie, using the chief superintendent's Rose
Road nickname. 'And he supports this unit.' He turned to Kate.
'Furman really has got you in his sights.'
'Why?'
'Who knows, but he ain't bothering to hide it.'
Kate huffed. 'He's probably worried that we'll expose his hopeless
investigation of Molly James's disappearance. Surprising as it may
be to Furman, this isn't about him. It's about Molly James and her
family.'
'Your problem, Doc, is you expect a fair world. I got news for you.
It isn't,' responded Bernie, getting up from the table.
'What I expect is that people do their damn jobs,' snapped Kate,I
still riled.
At that moment Harry strolled in, giving each of them a quick
acknowledgement before turning to Julian.
'Julian, my man! Here's your graded assignments, as promised.
Good work on the modules I set for you. Have a look at the grades.'
A mix of emotions on his face, Julian took the folder Harry offered
him, looked quickly through it to the end, then flushed with pleasure.
Watching the brief exchange, Kate smiled. Couldn't have come at a
better time.
She turned her attention back to the table, reminding herself that
she had a well-paid and valued job as senior lecturer and had chosen to
put herself in UCU. She began replacing papers in the box.
'At least we know where we stand. We know what we're up against'
She pointed at Molly James's face gazing out from the glass screen.
'Furman doesn't care what happened to Molly. His main focus is his
own advancement, and if he can further that by concealing any
ineptitude, he will. So. We're going to solve this case.'
`Jeez, I love it when you get dominant,' murmured Joe, studying
the list of POIs they'd generated earlier. 'I'll go over to Fairley's office
for a chat. I'd like to hear what Molly's ex-boyfriend has to say. Then
I'll go and make a brief call on John Cranham at his place of work.
That okay with y'all?' he asked, using a vernacular he sometimes
parodied.
Bernie nodded as he gathered together evidence sheets and
dropped them into the box. 'Molly James's family's got to be told 


ASAP about the DNA confirmation, before the press gets wind of it.
I'm going to see the mother this morning.'
'Shall I come with you, Bernie?' asked Kate.
'No, you're all right, Doc. No telling how it might go, coming out
of the blue after so many years. I'll be taking somebody from Victim
Support.' He reached for the phone.
Harry walked past making a 'Drink?' signal to Kate. She nodded,
mouthing, 'Coffee.'
From her handbag, her mobile started to ring. Digging inside, she
pulled it out and answered.
'Maisie?'

'Mom, my extra maths class at school is cancelled. Chelsey's got a
dance lesson at four, but her mom can drop me at home.'
Kate paused, rubbing her forehead, then glanced at her watch.
Phyllis was leaving early today. 'Why don't you ask Candice to drop
you here at Rose Road and I'll take you home?'
Ending the call, she calculated that Maisie wouldn't be at Rose
Road for another three hours at least.
'How about I phone Brannigan and see if he's available for a visit?'
she suggested.
Getting no dissent, she lifted UCU's phone as Bernie replaced it
and started to make the call.


CHAPTER SEVEN

To the accompaniment of John Coltrane, Kate manoeuvred the Audi
through the heavy Broad Street traffic, past clubs and bars and the
vast grey-white Symphony Hall, its reflection gleaming in the blue
glass slab of the Hyatt on the opposite side of the road. Although not
native to Birmingham, she knew enough local history to appreciate
the vast changes that had occurred here in the last forty or so years.
The city was now home to a first-rate theatre, renowned orchestra and
the Sadler's Wells Ballet. It was difficult to comprehend that it had
once been the blackened industrial heart of the country.

Kate felt her spirits rise as she drove past clean-lined buildings and
litter-free kerbs-, before turning left over a small bridge spanning one
of the city's many reclaimed canals. Turning right into a wide driveway,
she parked in an area designated for 'Visitors to Symphony Court
Only'.

Retrieving her bag from the boot and securing the car, she walked
into the main entrance hall and pressed one of the numbered buttons
beside the lift as George Brannigan had instructed on the phone.
While she waited, her thoughts turned to the small number of initial
questions she'd identified for Brannigan. She hadn't written them
down. After years of devising schedules of key questions to ask during
time-limited, once-only prison visits as part of her criminal caseload,
knowing what to ask came almost as easily as breathing, and was the
reason Gander had sanctioned Kate being involved in UCU's interview
process.

After some seconds a male voice boomed through the small grille,
followed by the arrival of a lift, which conveyed her swiftly to the
second floor.
Exiting the lift, Kate located Apartment 20, rang and waited.
Noting the small aperture set in the door, she adopted a relaxed friendly 
face. Within a few more seconds, the door was opened by a
tall heavyset man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a white cotton shirt,
ubiquitous little polo player on the chest, casual trousers and leather sandals 
on otherwise bare feet. He politely motioned Kate inside, then
made a phone gesture and disappeared, giving her a chance to evaluate
her surroundings.

The sitting room was huge. Kate walked towards the expanse of
window and peered down at the nearby canal, where tubs and hanging
baskets of flowers lined the towpath. There are worse places to
live than right here in the city, she thought. But with Maisie? And the
cat?

Turning from the window, she gave her attention to the room
itself. Three massive abstract canvases occupied much of one wall.
Natural-coloured linen window blinds; engineered-wood floor, upon
which pale rugs and two long sofas upholstered in coral linen were the
only other furnishings. Kate noted Bang 8c Olufsen sound equipment
mounted on another wall. All tasteful. Just this side of extravagant.

She returned to the window, musing on Brannigan's professional
work. On young women who might be flattered to have their photographs
taken. Or even dazzled by the promise of an exciting career.
Oh, yes! Click. Hold it there! Click.
You're a natural, darling! Have you thought of becoming a--

'Sorry about that. I've got a job at the airport. UB40 are due in this
afternoon to do a concert. I've been commissioned by their agents to
get some shots, so ' Brannigan glanced at the steel Tag Heuer on his
wrist 'I have to leave in fifteen minutes at the latest.'

'Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Brannigan. As I said on the
phone, UCU is reinvestigating the disappearance of Molly James in
2002 from Touchwood mall.'
'That was a real shame, what happened there,' he said with a head
shake, sounding like he meant it.
'Can you tell me what you remember of that day at the mall, Mr
Brannigan?'
'Of course,' he responded, waving Kate to a seat on one of the sofas
and taking one himself opposite her. 'There was a fashion show that day and I'd 
been commissioned by John Lewis to do some marketing
pictures. I got there just after one. Yes, a real shame,' he repeated,
running a hand through his thick grey-black hair.
'Did the police speak to you at all?'

Brannigan nodded. 'They came to see me about three days afterwards.
After they knew she was missing.'
Kate stopped writing and looked at him, brows raised.
'When they knew she was gone, the police put out an appeal for
witnesses, for anybody who was at the mall on that day to come
forward.' Brannigan gave a small shrug. 'I was working over in
Solihull again, so I dropped in at Touchwood and gave my details.
Couple of days later I got a visit at the office I had then.'
'Can you remember who came to see you?'
Brannigan blew air between his teeth, looking thoughtful. 'Let's
think There were two of them. . .' He frowned in concentration,
one flexed arm resting on the back of the sofa, hand supporting his
head. He nodded. 'Yeah, that's right. One was a tall, fair-haired chap,
the other one was shorter, dark, with glasses. I don't remember their
names'
The first one would probably have been Furman. Kate was unable
to place the other, from the minimal detail Brannigan had given.
Brannigan spoke again, unprompted. 'I remember their description
of her. The girl. Eighteen, long blonde hair, pale-blue polo top and
light trousers . . . and . . . an Ellesse backpack.'
Kate studied him. 'Extremely good recall, Mr Brannigan, after so
many years.'
He smiled openly. 'I'm a details man. Goes with the job. That's
how I can be pretty sure that I didn't notice anybody matching that
description. I never saw her.'
He glanced again at the Tag.
'Did you take many photographs while you were at the shopping
mall, Mr Brannigan?'
'Quite a few, yes.' He gave Kate a direct look and a small shake of
the head. 'Sorry, I can see where you're probably heading and I'm
going to disappoint you. They asked me the same thing at the time.
The police. I told them I took only runway shots. The models. None
of the shopping crowd.'
Kate made a few quick strokes of her pen. The MacBook she'd had
for months was in her study at home. She preferred the shorthand
she'd learned years ago. Closing the notebook, she gazed around the
room. 'Thank you for your time, Mr Brannigan, especially as you're so
busy.'

)'


She stood and moved slowly towards the door. 'This is a lovely
apartment. I can see you're doing well.'
Brannigan looked keenly at her as he walked with her to the door,
then laughed loudly but pleasantly, raising heavy shoulders. 'And it's
not from porn, if that's what you're thinking.'

She was. Years of forensic experience had created in Kate a useful
mix of scepticism and cynicism. Not merely useful. A professional
necessity for dealing with the devious.

'Here are my contact details, Mr Brannigan,' she said, handing him
a card. 'If you think of anything else, I'd appreciate it if you'd ring me
at UCU.'
He took the card and slipped it in his pocket as they walked to the
apartment's small hallway. Beside the front door Kate noticed a
narrow wall filled with framed eight-by-ten black-and-white studies.
She gave them a close look. Without any knowledge of photography,
she could appreciate the evident technical know-how and flair. She
turned to Brannigan, who was looking distracted but amiable still.

'I can see you enjoy your job.'
He nodded. 'The years I've been doing it, it's lucky that I do.' He
offered his hand and Kate accepted the firm grip.
'If I need to see you again, Mr Brannigan .
'Just ring me. Any time. You've got my number.' He waited until
Kate reached the lift, then, with a brief wave of his hand, he disappeared,
closing the apartment door.
Back at UCU, Kate was sitting on the team table, feet on a chair,
listening to Bernie's account of his visit to Molly James's mother.
'I tell you, Doc, it's a-real shame to see somebody like that.'
The phone rang and Kate leaned across to pick up.
'Kate, it's Joe. I'm about to leave Fairley's building at Five Ways. I
should be back in about fifteen minutes.'
'How did it go?' Kate asked.
'Not much to tell. He came across as cut up about Molly, but he
didn't show the curiosity about our investigation I'd have expected. If
Bernie's there, can you ask him if he's arranged for Colley to come in?'

Kate relayed the question to Bernie, then returned to the phone
conversation.

'Yes. In half an hour.'


'Thanks, Red. See you in fifteen.' Kate opened her mouth but he
was gone.
Replacing the phone, she scanned the glass screen for information
relating to Fairley. An age gap of ten years might not be a big deal
later in life, but it raised queries for Kate, given that Molly was said
to have been barely sixteen when she and Fairley first met. She'd got
as far as adding a fourth query to her notebook when Joe walked
through the door.
'Was Fairley Molly's boyfriend at the time she disappeared?' she
asked immediately.
Joe grinned at her, shaking his head slightly. 'Hello, Joe! How ya
doin'? Nice to see ya.'
She pulled a face at him.
'He said not. They were "just good friends". And it seems that
Cranham was out of the country the day Molly disappeared. Most of
it, anyway. He didn't fly into Birmingham until around midnight that
day.'
Bernie looked vexed. 'Anything of interest to give us about Fairley?'
Joe sat, leaning back on his chair, fingers laced behind his head.
'Like I told Kate on the phone, I expected him to show some curiosity
about the reinvestigation. He didn't. That's as far as I'll go right now.
He stays on the list.'
The phone rang and Bernie snatched it up and listened, giving Joe a
thumbs-up sign. Kate stared moodily at the glass screen as Joe handed
her a professional-looking leaflet relating to Jason Fairley's company.
It included a photograph of Fairley, managing director, with impressively
white teeth. The prose reassured her that his company was
capable of servicing all her software needs.

Bernie stood and walked to the door. 'Let's get moving, Corrigan.'
He turned to Kate. 'The sex pest's cooling his heels down the hall.
Want to observe?'
Kate seized her notebook and followed him and Joe out of UCU.


CHAPTER EIGHT
K
ate watched through one-way glass as her two colleagues entered
the interview room, where their reluctant interviewee was waiting.
As soon as they were seated, Bernie took the lead, his initial setting on
'bonhomie'. The little man opposite him was mono-browed, narrow
face wary, lank hair hanging over his sweating forehead and grimy
shirt collar.
'So you found us, Mr Colley. But then you've been to Rose Road
before, haven't you?'
Colley made no eye contact. 'That was years back,' he muttered.
Bernie nodded, his face benign. 'Well, we're grateful to you for
agreeing to this informal little chat. I'm Sergeant Watts, but you and
me know each other already. This here's my colleague, Lieutenant
Corrigan. We need to talk to you about July 2002. We think you
might be able to help us as a witness to something that happened back
then. Any idea what that was?'

Colley looked from Bernie to Joe and back. 'No,' he said, almost
inaudible, his eyes dropping to inspect the room's skirting boards.
Kate saw a trickle of perspiration slide down the side of Colley's
face. As he fingered it away with a dirty-nailed hand, she leaned
towards the microphone in front of her.

'He's way more nervous than I would have expected, even with his
history. Offer him some water. Try some nurture,' she said into the
tiny earpieces her colleagues were wearing.
Bernie lounged back on his chair, forearms folded across his wide
chest. Kate watched his face growing increasingly disdainful and
beginning to heat up as he glared at Colley. She knew that what
she'd said about nurture was akin to suggesting to Bernie that he walk
on water. She shook her head. He couldn't do it, given what he knew
of Colley's criminal antecedents.


Joe stood, and Kate tracked him as he walked deliberately to the
water cooler, filled a paper cup and returned, gently placing the cup
on the table near to Colley before regaining his seat. Sighing, Kate
pushed her hair off her face.
'We had you collected in an air-conditioned police limo, Mr Colley,
and this building is good to work in,' Joe said conversationally. 'Air
con, all floors. And yet you're looking real hot. Care to tell us about
that? Got something on your mind?'
'Huh? I. . . There ain't nothing on my mind. Just tell me why you
wanted me here, ask me whatever it is you want to know, so I can go,'
muttered Colley.
'We're interested in a young woman by the name of Molly 'James.
She disappeared in July 2002. From the shopping mall not a mile
from the bail hostel where you were residing at the time.'
They waited. This got no verbal response from Colley, but he lifted
his gaze from the skirting board, eyes darting from Joe to Bernie and
back. Bernie stared at him for several seconds without speaking,
massive forearms still folded. Colley fidgeted under the unwavering
gaze and became interested in the wall to one side of the room.
Bernie pushed his heavy upper body forward, causing Colley to
shrink back with a quick intake of breath.
'You've got form, Colley. Years of sexual nuisance towards women
and a conviction for sex offences against your own stepdaughter!'
Colley's sweat-covered face darkened. 'I ain't no sex offender!'
Bernie looked at him with unconcealed loathing. 'Don't you give
me that. And don't you dare tell me she come into your bed in the
night and you confused her with her mother. I've heard that one
already. More than once.'
Colley persisted. 'I tell you, I ain't a sex offender! That was consensual
incest, that was. It was a relationship and she was as keen--'
Kate glanced at Bernie, who was now almost apoplectic. 'She was seven years 
old, you f--'
Kate sighed, shaking her head, aware that even exhibitionists and
paedophiles needed to hang on to some semblance of self-regard
along with their cognitive distortions. Bernie subsided in disgust,
leaving Joe to continue.
'Okay, Mr Colley,' he said evenly. 'Let's get right down to what we
want from you. You were interviewed by the police in July 2002. Tell
us about that.'


Colley looked furtively from one man to the other, running the tip
of his tongue over parched lips. 'Can't remember. What would that've
been about, exactly?'
Bernie shifted irritably, pointing a finger at Colley's face, his
patience at its limit. 'Listen to me, Colley. You're really starting to
piss me off now. You know the way this works -- we ask you questions
and you tell us what we want to know. Right? Try it again. Police
interviewed you in 2002. Tell us!' he barked.

Colley nodded vigorously, lank hair flopping, but still said nothing.
Kate glanced from him to Bernie, whose face was now a pale rust
colour, although he was clearly making an effort to stay in control.
'You were interviewed about Molly James, the girl who went missing
from the Touchwood mall. Tell us about it now.'
Kate noted Colley's hands shaking as he reached for the water cup.
'All that time ago, how'm I supposed to rem--'
'Stop trying to be clever. You ain't built for it.' A pause as Bernie
skewered Colley with a look. 'Tell us what you remember and then
you can sod off.'

Colley resorted to a whine. 'Look, Mr Watts, I can't tell you
nothing. Honest! I told 'em, I never seen that girl, whatever her
name was. I was only picked up because I was at Longmore Hostel. I
was never even in that shopping place!'

Bernie glared at him across the table. 'Funny how I get extra
suspicious as soon as the likes of you use the word "honest":
Kate leaned towards the microphone. 'Ask him how he spent his
days back then.'

Bernie was back to lounging, glaring at the hapless Colley. After a
few seconds he continued.
'Nice place, Solihull. Cracking shopping mall, that Touchwood.
Plenty to look at, for somebody like you with nothing better to do.
Every kind of shop you could want. Department stores, speciality
shops for --' Colley was nodding energetically at this -- 'chocolates,
perfume, ladies' underwear. .
'Yeah, Mr Watts, you're . . . VVha'? No, no. Hang on! You're trying
to mix me up here.'
Joe rejoined the process, speaking politely, his deep voice measured.
'Thing is, Mr Colley, we could sure use your help. The girl, Molly,
went missing at the time you were living in the neighbourhood. If you


think you might've seen her, please tell us, so we can get an idea how
she spent her last hours.'
Kate smiled to herself. Joe was such a good 'good cop'. His gentle
demeanour, and the voice, which could lull even the most hardened
criminal. . . She refocused as Colley's voice became a squeal.
'For God's sake, I never seen her. Wouldn't know her from a hole
in the floor. It's the truth!' He looked frantically from Joe to Bernie.
'It's always the bloody same. Put a foot a bit out of line and you lot are
all over and never let up. I'm telling you, I never went in that place. Never! 
Too posh. Full o' women with expensive hair and skinny tarts
showing off clothes. Not my kind of place.'
Kate's heart constricted. She watched as her two colleagues became
very still, and Colley suddenly noticed how quiet the room had
become.

CHAPTER NINE
C
olley looked frantically from one officer to the other.
'Wile? Mat!' he bleated.
Bernie was quick on the uptake, even before Kate could suggest it.
'We're all ears now, Colley. Tell us about the "skinny tarts showing
off clothes".'
Colley's eyes fficked between the two men, and his tongue darted
out again in a vain attempt to moisten his lips. 'Figure o' speech,
innit?'

Joe leaned forward, his voice low. 'You were there, weren't you,
George? When the fashion show was on.'
All of Colley's limbs started shaking. 'I'm telling you, I was never
there. Never! Everybody knows they have fashion shows in them
places.'
Bernie watched him intently as he slammed his meaty palms on the
table.
'Cut the crap. Now.'
Colley gyrated on his chair, then subsided, sulkily eyeing both
officers from under his brows. Trying to gauge what they knew.
They waited. And waited some more.

'Okay. Okay! So I was in there. I just popped in, like, to look
around. Wasn't no more than ten minutes. Then I cleared off sharpish.
It's a free country,' he added mutinously.
Bernie glared at him. 'Why sharpish?' he hissed. Seeing Colley's
mouth open, he jabbed a thick warning finger at him. 'Don't you dare tell me 
it's another figure of speech.'
Colley closed his mouth quickly, eyes shifting, then, 'Had an
appointment. Probation officer. She rung the hostel that morning.'
Kate watched Colley as she wrote, noting the meagre content of
what he'd just said and the style of its delivery. 
Bernie looked at him with disgust.
An officer had entered the room in response to a covert signal from
Joe.
Bernie glared at Colley, speaking slowly and deliberately. 'Listen! I
want you to go with this nice lady officer. WPC Sharma's going to
take you to another room to make a full statement about the day
we've been talking about. Tell her everything you remember about it. 
Everything, mind. None of this "don't remember" crap.'
He glanced at Rita Sharma, who nodded, then back to Colley.
'When she's finished taking down your particulars, and if you've
behaved yourself, she might give you a cuppa. When we've read your
statement we'll be in touch again. Now hoppit,' he roared.
A grey-faced Colley hopped it, followed by WPC Sharma.

Three minutes later they were back in UCU, Julian hanging on their
every word.
'He was there, the little runt,' fumed Bernie. 'Inside the mall. How
come the original investigation never-- What am I saying? With the
Arse in charge, it's a miracle there's anything to work with.'
'Which is why we'll be doing a damned thorough job this time,'
said Kate quietly, scouring her written notes.
Joe leaned back, hands linked behind his head. 'Tough talking,
Red.'
Kate shook her head. 'But if you want my opinion of Colley, he
didn't have anything to do with Molly James's disappearance.'
'Even allowing for the really interesting lie?' asked Joe.
He meant the reference to an appointment with a probation officer.
Kate had doubted it herself, on hearing Colley's clipped responses and
lack of self-reference, and given the dubious likelihood of a probation
officer phoning with an appointment that same day. She nodded at
Joe. How does he manage it? she wondered. The interviewing skills,
the psychological know-how. And Bernie was often right there with
him.
She glanced at Bernie, whose face was now that of a bulldog with
dental problems, knowing she was about to worsen his mood.
'Even allowing for his deviousness, Colley didn't abduct Molly
James.'
Bernie glared at her, arms folded. 'Here we go again. Just slacken your 
suspenders, yeah? I know you're already up Theory Alley, but it's
too early to say that.'
She sighed. Bernie was no fool. A politically incorrect nightmare,
yes, but no fool. Colley probably did require further checking for
thoroughness, but all her theoretical knowledge of sexual offenders
had confirmed for Kate that he was not the abductor and killer of
Molly James. She shook her head.

'There's unlikely to be anything of real interest in his statement.'
'Listen, Doc, he might be from the bottom of the gene pool and
look like he's off Sesame Street, but he's a sex offender and now we can
place him inside the mall. You know Colley's type, or you should do.
He's tri-sexual -- try anything. Bear that in mind.'

Joe grinned at Kate as she rolled her eyes. Bernie's problem was that
he didn't operate within a theoretical framework but responded on a
gut level. Kate was aware of Colley's past form for various sexual
offences. She also appreciated that his physical appearance in interview
suggested he'd come direct from Central Casting. It wasn't enough.

Bernie sighed, waiting. 'All right. Get on with it. Tell us why he's
no good.'
Kate directed her comments to both officers, as Julian resumed
writing.
'Think of Molly,' she suggested. 'What can we assume about her?
Educated. Almost certainly eloquent, confident, socially cool. No way
would she give an individual such as Colley the time of day. Colley is a
picture of low self-esteem, low confidence and poor social skills.
Chronically under-assertive. A girl like Molly would intimidate the
hell out of him. Which is partly why his preferred age group is a lot
younger.' She paused, shaking her head. `No. Whoever took Molly
James, if it was someone unknown to her, is a very different personality
from Colley. Somebody who was able to plan an audacious
abduction and successfully implement it. And in broad daylight,
don't forget. This was an intelligent young woman. To do what he
did required somebody with the ability to manipulate and the confidence
to control.'

Joe stretched his arms upwards briefly, then let them drop.
Kate glanced from him to Bernie. Neither spoke. She turned her
attention to the glass screen and the photograph of the young woman who went to 
the mall with her friends and never came home. Molly stared back at Kate across 
the warm afternoon dimness of the room. Kate wondered how many sexual crimes 
went unpunished. Undetected,
even. She looked directly into Molly's eyes, thinking of the
news this young woman's mother had just been given. That her
daughter had lain for ten years no more than an hour from their home
Have patience. We'll do whatever it takes.
Please.
Give us a chance.
Kate's mobile phone rang. Startled, she reached for it.
'Kate Hanson.'

'Kate, it's--'
'Kevin?' She immediately lowered her voice. 'What do you want?'
Leaving the table, she went to stand near one of the wide windows
as her colleagues started to tidy paperwork, Bernie harassing Julian
towards the kettle. Kate massaged her forehead as she listened to the
voice in her ear.
'I need to talk to you, Kate.' .
When she said nothing he continued. 'I know I'm scheduled to
have Maisie at my place from tomorrow afternoon, but something's
come up--'
Kate spoke into the phone, quiet but firm. 'No buts, Kevin. We
have an arrangement. You, Maisie and I agreed that she has overnight
stays at your place every second Friday. You've already changed it this
month. What's going on?'
'Situations change, Kate. Stop making an issue of everything. It's
just one weekend.'
'This is not good for Maisie, Kevin. She needs to maintain a
relationship with you. To do that, she has to have a regular routine
of contact--'
'Cut the lecture, Kate. How often do you find yourself putting your
precious career before--'
Kate's face flushed. 'I'm not giving you a lecture, and I work for lots
of reasons, one of them being to support our daughter.' She leaned
on the windowsill, one foot tapping against the leg of a nearby chair as
Kevin's voice floated into her ear.
'I'll call in at the house on my way back from court. Maybe we can
have a civilised conversation then.'
After a deep breath, Kate answered. 'Fine. I'll see you later and
we'll talk about it some more.' She mentally reviewed Maisie's commitments.
Cornet practice at five forty-five at her music teacher's 

house. 'Come after six o'clock. I don't want Maisie to hear our
discussion.'
She cut the call and walked back to the table, avoiding Joe's glance
as UCU's phone rang. She answered it. It was Whittaker from Reception.

'Hi,
Dr Hanson. Just to let you know, your daughter's here.'
'Thank you,' said Kate sharply, still irked by the interruption of the
previous call. 'Why're you irritated? she asked herself. This is Kevin
being Kevin.


CHAPTER TEN

K

ate silently placed coffee and home-made biscuits on the kitchen
table near her visitor, then returned to what she'd been doing
before he arrived. She'd decided to let him do the talking. To begin
with.
The case. Already she had so many questions. She resumed her
listing, aware of Kevin's biscuit-crunching. Strange how small cues
like that had the power to propel a person back in time. In Kate's case,
to a time she preferred not to think about. Although not all of it had
been bad.
'Like these,' he said, watching her.
'Maisie made them.' Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up from
her writing at the man she'd been married to for seven years.
Medium-brown curly hair, beginning to thin at the crown; average
height and stocky. She noted the broad, clean-shaven face, the sensual
mouth. Kevin Osbourne. Hotshot barrister. Lousy husband.
He gazed at her, swallowing coffee. 'Ever thought, Kate, that if
there had been only one profession in our marriage, it might have
worked?'
Kate put down her pen and watched him take another of Maisie's
biscuits. 'I see your point, Kevin,' she said easily. 'You the house
husband and me the working professional.'
Kevin gave a small grin. 'Very good, Kate, but you know there's a
truth there somewhere.' He looked across the table at her, echoing
her own earlier thought. 'It wasn't all bad. I can remember some
good times. .
Kate dredged up memories. 'Probably when I was at home with
Maisie and you were at the office getting "acquainted" with Dolores.'
Kevin shook his head. `Why're you raking up old issues? That was a
difficult time for me -- for us,' he added quickly. Kate gazed at him. `Mmm . 
. I remember how surprised you were
to discover that babies needed time and care.' She sighed and changed
tack. 'How was court?'
'Just finished a case today. Client accused of sexual abuse of his
partner's nine-year-old daughter, his accuser being the partner, from
whom there'd been a vitriolic separation. No physical evidence and
the only witness the girl herself.' He shrugged as he uttered the last
few words.

'And that's relevant? How many intrafamilial sex offence cases
include witnesses?'

Kevin examined the ceiling. 'The jury made its call, Kate. They
found him not guilty.'
`So, you're still doing the amoral thing? Helping the guilty go
free.'
'Change the record,' he snorted. 'You don't know that he was
guilty. Plus, you know as well as I do how the system works. Or you
should do, given that your own father was a part of it.'
Kate's father had also been a barrister. A fact Kevin brought up
whenever they had these kinds of discussions. Her chair scraped floor
tiles as she stood and walked towards the cafetiere, past the square
black briefcase and dark-blue drawstring bag emblazoned with
Kevin's initials beside his chair. She spoke over her shoulder.

'I know the system. One that sanctions the roughing-up of victims
and allows professionals like you to-- By the way, how terrified of you was the 
nine-year-old witness while you cross-examined her?'
He looked exasperated. 'Oh, come on, Kate! She wasn't even in
court. She gave her evidence via live video link--'
'That's all right, then,' said Kate, removing his plate from the table
and shoving it into the DishDrawer. She turned, leaned against the
granite work surface and folded her arms. He watched her, shaking his
head.

'Stop being so bloody idealistic. I'm not expected or paid to put my
personal values and attitudes on the line. The legal system isn't about 
principles. Your trouble is you think there's a truth out there. There
isn't! It's relative.'

'Yeah, right. Whatever,' Kate said, aware that she sounded like
Maisie.

'I see you're still using the vox pop. Trying to rewrite your 
middle-class roots. Or is it the influence of that coarse yob of a police
officer you're working with?'
Ignoring the jibe about Bernie Watts, Kate looked at Kevin. 'What a
grey world you live in.'
'Oh, zip it,' he muttered irritably.
`Ah, vox pop does it for you too?'
'As far as professional work is concerned, I'll leave the moral high
ground to you, Kate, and we'll see where it gets you. You're taking a
risk working with the police, d'you know that?'
This was how it tended to be whenever they were together. In
fact, it was how they'd been when married, though less vitriolic back
then.
A short silence. Kate transferred her gaze from the garden beyond
the expanse of kitchen doors. 'You said you want to cancel Maisie's
sleepover. What's going on, Kevin? Why the change of arrangement?'
He replaced his coffee cup carefully on its saucer. 'Why would you
assume something's going on?'
'Experience,' she responded.
And insight, which protects me from getting caught up in old emotions.
Kevin
watched her. 'I don't want to cancel, but things are a bit. . .
complicated right now.'
'Kevin, I told you on the phone. Maisie needs to have regular
contact with you. She lives with me and I care for her seven days a
week, except for the times when you--'
'And still managing your university post and working with the
Force. Busy-busy,' he mocked.
She waited, looking down at him, at his hands, still surprised after
all these years at the absence of a wedding ring. The one she'd given
him, a lifetime or two ago. She watched his face as he spoke again, not
meeting her gaze.
'I've been thinking that sometime in the near future I might want
to increase my involvement with Maisie. She's reaching a difficult age,
you know.'
'She's been there for a while.'
'Don't be tart, Kate. It isn't attractive. I was thinking that she might
benefit from spending bigger blocks of time with me.'
Kate's chest tightened as she walked back to the table.
'Kevin, you've cancelled two of Maisie's weekend stays in the last three 
months. Now we're on to a third. It's totally illogical to break
our arrangement, which means Maisie is seeing less of you, and then
come here saying you're thinking of an increase in contact.'
He'd stood as she approached. She gave him a close look. And
suddenly she got it.
`Ah. Let me guess. The liaison of a lifetime, with Stella, has ended.
You're feeling lonely. At a loose end. But also feeling the need to put
yourself out there again. So Fridays involving Maisie are suddenly
inconvenient, because you're looking--'
He picked up the briefcase and drawstring bag and moved towards
the kitchen door. 'I'll talk to you another time. When you're in a
better mood.'
'There's nothing wrong with my mood.'
He turned to face her, unruffled. 'One of these days, Maisie will be
able to make her own choices. When she does, I'll be there.'

'That'll be a first.'
'Take my advice, Kate. Drop the bitterness. Not becoming in a
woman your age.'
She glared up at him.
So bugger off
Get searching for another twenty-something love interest.
She watched in silence as he headed across the hall. Listened as the
front door closed.
After he'd gone, she reprised the conversation in her head. He
hadn't asked after Maisie. Not even enquired where she was. Absently
she ran her fingers over a clutch of seldom-used recipe books,
amongst them a small, well-thumbed volume, Kids First: What Kids
Want Grown-ups to Know About Separation and Divorce. She lifted it
out.

She thought back over the last seven years of single parenthood.
Single because Kevin's focus was easily diverted. None of his serial 
relationships to date had been with women sufficiently mature or
amenable to welcome a bright, assertive child into the duo. Kate knew
she was far luckier than many single mothers. But the bottom line was
that for the foreseeable future, she was it. Maisie's well-being would
be entirely her responsibility.

Her thoughts took a darker turn.
What if Kevin stepped up the female age range at some point in the
next two or three years?
What if he found someone with no objection to the presence of a
teenager in the relationship and the household?
, Kate's dark thoughts drifted forward.
What then?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At 7.45 on Friday morning, after a night of disturbed sleep, Kate left
Maisie in Phyllis's capable hands and was the first into UCU.
Opening the tall cupboard on one side of the Refreshment Lounge,
she peered in the mirror on the back of the door and evalUated her
appearance. 'What a mess!' she muttered. Attempting to curb her
hair's enthusiasm, she inspected her face closely, sighing as she did so.
'Like something Mugger dragged in.' She began to root around in
the small cosmetics bag that was sitting on the draining board.

'Tea or coffee?'
Kate vaulted sideways with a squeak, then whirled. 'Jesus H. Christ.
When did you arrive?' she yelled, clutching a hand to her chest.
Joe was standing there grinning at her, a tea bag between the index
'finger and thumb of one raised hand, coffee jar in the other.
'Seems like hours ago. Waiting to see if the soliloquy was likely to
morph into a conversation any time soon.'
Kate detected something suspiciously like sympathy behind the grin
"and bridled.
'Idiot. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to creep up on
unsuspecting females?' she demanded, her hair suddenly collapsing
on to her shoulders.
Nope. She missed out that advice. Along with a lot else.'
Kate closed the cupboard door hard, stowed cosmetics and comb in
her bag and then took the drink he was offering.
'Thanks. I'd have preferred tea.'
Bernie barrelled into UCU, a grease-stained paper bag in one
hand.
'Well done, Corrigan! Tea for me. Three and a bit sugars. La the
tea bag stand a good few minutes.'
Kate carried her coffee to the table. As she sat, the phone rang. Joe

64

came over and lifted the receiver. He listened, replaced it and looked
at his watch, then at his two colleagues.
'I have mandatory firearms practice this morning, but Connie's
ready to give you both the benefit of her extensive skills.'

Ten minutes later, accompanied by Bernie, Kate was tapping on the
green-glazed door of the post-mortem suite. Through a small circle of
clear glass she glimpsed Igor, Connie's pathology assistant, approaching.
His real name was Tony, or something equally prosaic. He
unlocked the door and let Kate and Bernie inside. They went to the
dispensers on the right-hand wall and each took a plastic apron, face
mask and latex gloves.
Applying these, Kate studied the smooth, cold surfaces inside the
PM suite, thinking how different Connie's job was from her own.
Although both of them worked with people, for Connie, it was people
without a voice, while Kate's working days were occupied with either
the young and curious, eager for knowledge and full of questions, or
those who had transgressed societal rules, often in horrific ways, and
were full of negative emotion they couldn't wait to express -- hate, fear,
anger, denial. Only very occasionally guilt. But one aspect of Connie's
and Kate's respective professions united them. They were both directed
-- or maybe it was more accurate to say distanced -- by theory.
As they approached Connie at the examination table, Kate detected
a reluctance in Bernie, and guessed that he was regretting an earlier
enthusiastic patronage of the 'breakfast club' run by one of the coffee
shops in Harborne.
Bernie was listening to the powerful fans whirring quietly. He
sampled the air. Chemicals. And something else. Glancing at Connie,
he clamped his mask to his face and stood next to Kate, his stomach
giving a sudden quiver.
Dressed in white rubber boots and coveralls, Connie eyed Bernie
for a few seconds, then grinned at him.
'Compared with many of my guests, there's hardly any smell. Just
earthiness,' she said.
Bernie received this information but continued to hold the mask in
position.
Shaking her head, Connie returned her attention to the examination
table, its surface covered in heavy-duty white cartridge paper.
Laid out on it were the stark remains from the bypass.
Guided only by a distant A-level in human biology, Kate surveyed
what appeared to her to be a more or less complete skeleton, the
bones stained a rich red-brown by the clay soil that had held them for
at least five years. The jaws were separated.
She moved up the table for a closer look. Beside the remains lay a
longish length of something that looked like fine rope, one soiled end
unravelled. She switched her attention, attempting to mentally superimpose
Molly's photographed face on to the skull.

Connie's voice broke into her concentration. 'Forensics are still
at the site making totally sure we've not missed anything, but these
remains are complete. I'll give you what I know so far, and have I got
some goodies for you two?' she murmured.

Kate was avid for information but knew that what occurred down
here was in the order and at a pace decreed by Connie. As she
prepared to listen, she was aware of Bernie lurking somewhere
behind her.
'Definitely female,' said Connie. 'I like to say "definitely" wherever
possible. It doesn't happen that often, contrary to televised portrayals
of pathology. Age estimate, based on presence of wisdom teeth,
eighteen-plus. Indications from the long bones of the arm suggest
incomplete bone growth, so she was not more than twenty-five years
old when she died. By my rough calculation so far, she was approximately
five-seven or -eight tall.' She eyed Bernie, whose jowls
were now grey. 'Her hair was blonde-brown in colour.'

She indicated the long item Kate had noticed. 'Looks as though it
was plaited. It became detached as part of the normal decomposition
process,' she continued, with a glance at Kate, who was busy writing.
'No clothing present, but--' Connie gestured with a latexed finger for
them to follow her along the table -- 'there's something here I think
might really interest you particularly, Kate.'

Kate looked to where the pathologist was pointing at the rib section of the 
remains. 'What is it?'
Connie pulled a free-standing lamp closer to the table, to supplement
the overhead source. 'Minimal tissue on the side of the body,
which has endured in places instead of decomposing because of the
presence of something of real interest.'
Using a long-bladed scalpel, she directed their attention to a
particular section of the bony hoops. Kate moved closer, aware of a
rising mustiness as she gazed intently at the undulating area. 
She looked up at Connie. 'Duct tape?'
'Ten out often, Katie. I found more fragments of it around here.'
Connie pointed to the left upper arm bones, then walked to a work
surface, returning with a metal dish.
Kate peered inside. Short brown-stained lengths of duct tape,
around seven or eight centimetres wide. She nodded, scribbling
shorthand notes, then glanced upwards at Connie and Bernie.
'Looks the same. Question is, was it part of her killer's MO? To
keep her subdued? Or was it an unnecessary behaviour the killer
included because it met a psychological need?'

She examined the tape a second time. 'I can't see how this would
have severely restricted her movements,' she mused. 'Looks to me like
the purpose of it was fantasy-driven bondage.' She caught the sounds
of muttering from Bernie, still somewhere behind her.
Connie smiled at her. 'If Igor ever quits on me, you're my first
choice. All I can tell you about it is it's eight-centimetre-wide duct
tape. No unusual characteristics found so far.'
Connie returned to the work surface, deposited the dish containing
the tape, picked up another item and returned. 'Now have a look at
this. Found on the facial area of the skull.'
Kate watched as Connie gently lifted an item from a flat stainless
steel bowl and held it aloft, suspended from scissors with rounded,
flattened blades. A largish oval piece of cloth, possibly once white or
pale in colour, now stained and foul, a small hole on each side.

'A gag?' The significance of the small holes and the dimensions of
the cloth dawned on Kate. The fine hairs on her arms were at attention.
'A full-face covering of some kind. Home-made.'
Connie returned it gently to the bowl. 'Whatever held it in place
has long since perished. Any theory come to mind?'
Kate nodded. 'According to my Bumper Book of Sexual Deviance, "Any treatment of 
or activity with a body during the commission of
a homicide that is not strictly related to causing the death of or
disabling the subject is deemed a signature." ' She frowned slightly.
'Actually I'm open-minded about signatures, Connie. There's some
theoretical doubt about killers leaving calling cards. The rare exception,
when it does occur, is when the killer poses or displays a victim in
order to shock the public or the police. It represents a kind of "up
yours" gesture, and is almost always done by repeaters.'

Kate peered again at the duct tape on the remains, picking up peripheral 
sounds of squeaky rubber boots as Igor went about his
tasks. 'Both the tape and the cloth could be signatures. Whoever this
handiwork belongs to, what I can say about him -- and I'm using
"him" for convenience as well as likelihood,' she added, 'is that he's
into bondage. Big time. From that and the fact that he appears to have
interacted with this young woman prior to killing her, in order to
put these "personal" touches in place, he almost certainly has sadistic
tendencies. He planned this. It was -- is -- an expression of his very
elaborate fantasy life.'

Connie walked away from them, returning with an item suspended
from the long scalpel. 'So this won't come as any surprise to you?'
Kate studied the rusted metal object swinging gently from the
scalpel.
'No. Where?'

'Around the long bones of the left arm. Near the wrist.'
Kate looked at Bernie as she nodded at the remains. 'Whoever killed
this young woman was intent on objectifying and controlling her
whilst she was still alive. And I doubt the killer was someone for
whom she had an emotional relevance or attachment.'
Poor Molly.
'Bastard,' muttered Bernie, looking anywhere but at the examination
table.

Kate glanced at Connie. Was she killed where she was found?'
'No.'
'So, Molly James was abducted and taken to a place by her killer
where he kept her for some unknown period of time so that he could
do what we can see . . . and who knows what else,' Kate finished
quietly.

Connie nodded silent agreement. Bernie's eyes skimmed the bones
again.
'Did he leave anything else?' he asked.
'Not in the sense you mean.'
Bernie shook his head and walked a few paces away from the
examination table. 'Just for once, just for one case, I'd like to live in CSI 
Land.'

Connie nodded again. 'Know what you mean. A wealth of offender
DNA, plus fibres, plant spores and footprints. Wouldn't we all? Back
on the planet we currently live on, I've gone over the remains very
carefully. Nothing that belonged to anyone else.' 

She glanced at each of them. 'I can't identify a likely cause of death
from these remains. But before you leave, there's one more item I

need to show you, which possibly connects with what you said, Kate,
about calling cards.'
She walked to the nearby work surface and returned with a small
item lying on a sheet of absorbent paper. When it was placed on the
examination table, Kate and Bernie pressed nearer to examine it.
CHAPTER TWELVE

I

t was a squarish remnant no more than a few centimetres across
and heavily discoloured in places. Connie angled one of the lights as
Kate leaned forward. Bernie did the same. They stared hard at the
small scrap.

'Would you turn it over, Connie, so we can see the other side?'
Connie nodded and did as Kate asked, using slim tweezers. Kate
stared at the scrap until her eyes prickled. After a few seconds she
straightened.
'I can't see anything on that side. Can you, Bernie?'
Now wearing his glasses, Bernie leaned closer. 'Nothing there as far
as I can make out.'
Kate looked at Connie. 'Is it possible for us to get a better view?'
Connie delved into a pocket and handed Kate a magnifying glass.
'Here. Let me turn it back to what I think is the key side.'

Kate looked through the magnifier, then handed it to Bernie. He
shook his head and they stared at each other, confused.
Kate broke the silence. 'It looks like a fragment of some kind of
heavy-duty card, but card wouldn't have survived so long, surely?'
Connie shrugged. 'I've 'scoped it. It's essentially of paper construction,
but very robust. Extra thick. It originally had a shiny protective surface, now 
more or less degraded. But what do you think of what's
on it?'

Two heads came together again. Bernie passed the magnifier back
to Kate.

'The material itself looks like it was once very light in colour. But
there's a patch of something among the discoloration. Just there.'
Kate pointed.
Bernie moved away slightly, stomach undulating at Kate's reference
to discoloration.

'Looks to be a brownish-red mark,' continued Kate. She looked
up at Connie. 'Obviously caused by something that's happened to it
while it's been buried. A bloodstain? Or . . . is it part of the card
itself?'
Bernie looked at Connie, stomach continuing its undulations.
'Where'd you find it?'
She smiled at him and made a clapping movement with her small
hands. 'A key question, Bernard.'
Bernard. Kate saw his jowls regain slight colour.
'I can tell you exactly where.' They waited. 'It was lying directly on
the skull. On the face.'
Kate's eyes widened. `So what're you saying, Connie? That this,
whatever it is, was placed there, prior to the body being buried?'
Connie lifted her shoulders. 'Can't be that categorical, but that's
how it looks.'
'And the face covering, mask, was on top of it?'
'That's how I found it,' said Connie carefully.
Kate paced a few steps from the table then returned to look at the
remains and the small item. `So the card was under the mask at the
time he buried her?'
Connie raised her hands in a steadying gesture. 'Like I said, Kate,
that's how it was when I examined her in situ. Can't say more than
that.' She pointed at the card. 'The marking you've noticed, we can
only guess at the original colour. But it would probably have been
strong, primary, to have remained visible so long. Looking at it, I'd
say red's a good guess.'
Kate stared at the scrap, a small frown above her nose.
'Why? To what purpose?' she murmured to herself.
Connie picked up the fragment and returned it to its place on
the work surface, talking over her shoulder. 'I'll be sending it for
testing. As to your last two questions, Katie, that is for you and your
colleagues to work out.'
Bernie led the way out of the suite and up the stairs to UCU. Kate
watched as he walked directly to the refreshment area, took a glass,
filled it with water and drank. Continuing on across the room, she
lifted the phone and dialled.
'I think it might be time well spent this morning if I make a visit to
see Dianne James. I need to know more about Molly.' 

As the number rang out, she noticed a pink message slip lying in the
basket on the table. From Reception. She read it and looked up.
'John Cranham's phoned us. His workplace is nearby. I'll do
both--'
Kate's call was picked up.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

S

tanding at the front door of the detached house, the heat of the day
on her back, Kate drew a deep breath and pressed the bell, waiting
as the sound of it drifted through the silent house beyond the door.
Nothing. Kate frowned.
Maybe Mrs James had gone out? But she was expecting--

The door slowly opened. Framed within it was Dianne James.
Mother of Molly Elizabeth James.
Kate knew instantly, from every angle of the woman's body and
every plane of her face, that years of desperate hope were gone. The
finding of the gold necklace, followed by Bernie's confirmation of
identification, had ended them.
Kate opened her mouth to introduce herself but got no further.
'Come in.'
Dianne James turned away from the door and walked slowly away,
leaving Kate on the doorstep. Kate stepped inside and closed the
door, aware of the heavy air and the silence of the house. She followed
the long hall into a light, spacious kitchen, overheated in the absence
of open windows. Dianne James was now sitting. Kate assumed this
was where she'd been when she rang the bell. She glanced at the
ashtray at the woman's elbow, noticing the smell of cigarette smoke
for the first time. No book or magazine. No radio. Just sitting.

Smoking.
Kate briefly introduced herself and accepted the offer of tea. Dianne
James got up and left the table. Taking a seat, Kate looked around
the kitchen. A pleasant room, done in tones of yellow and orange-red
with touches of pale green that seemed to draw the brightly planted
garden into it. She switched her attention back to the rigid figure
moving slowly nearby.
Who maintained this house and garden? Surely not this woman?
Bernie said there was no Mr James--
'Biscuits?'
'No. Thank you.' The silence was oppressive. 'This is a lovely room
I like the colours and--'
Dianne James came to the table carrying china cups and saucers. 'I
did it. I used to dabble in interior design. Only in a small way. For
people I knew. . .' She placed the china on the table, looking critically
around the kitchen as if for the first time. 'It needs doing again. I
finished it a month before Molly went.'

The words lay on the heavy air. Kate felt tension settling into her
own shoulders. Sympathetic as she was, she wanted to be away from
this woman and the sorrow exuding from every aspect of her.

'Mrs James? Is it all right with you if I take a look at Molly's
bedroom?' she asked quietly.
'Help yourself. First on the left.' No question as to why.
Kate stood and returned to the hall, climbed the wide staircase off
it and slowly pushed open the door of Molly James's room, feeling
intrusive. Taking her notebook and a pen from her bag, she stepped
noiselessly inside.

The room was stifling but immaculate. No dust. Everything scrupulously
neat, as though waiting for its owner's return. Stuffed animals
on a shelf, the bed covered by a pink and white duvet, gauzy material
draped either side of a white-painted metal headboard. Several framed
photographs of young females. Kate recognised Molly in all of them.
Soft, smooth face framed by blonde hair flowing freely or tied back.
One photograph brought her to a halt and she crouched on her heels
for a closer examination. Younger, yes, but still clearly him, from what
she recalled of the leaflet photograph she'd recently seen. Did teenage
girls keep photographs of their ex-boyfriends?

Her thoughts flitted to her own house. Photographs of Kevin. Two
of them. One in the sitting room, a move she'd made years ago,
following the divorce, its presence an assurance to Maisie that her
father was still a relevant member of the family. And another that
Maisie had subsequently requested and that was now on her bedside
table. Which hadn't pleased Kate, although she would never have
admitted it.

Leaving the photograph, Kate stood and walked slowly to the small
desk supporting the outmoded computer. Without touching any of 
the several items there, she bent, arms folded at her waist, notebook in
hand, to examine what appeared to be Molly's college work. Sheets of
paper aligned one on top of the other so that the beautifully illuminated
manuscript-style writing was visible.
Rage at the dying of the light, she read, recognising Dylan Thomas.
An essay, 'The Role of the Shepherd in Virgil'. Another sheet bore a
hastily scribbled note. Using her pen, Kate gently lifted the essay by
one corner to read it: Hi, MoL Go and see what's on offer. J. No date,
no signature. She made a copy of it in her notebook.
She scanned the walls of Molly's room, examining the mass
produced posters and others, home-made but done with flair and
computer know-how, gaining a sense of the young woman who had
worked and dreamed and prepared herself here for her last day. Given
the scant information so far provided by Dianne James, it seemed that
mother and daughter had had creative interests in common. She
looked down at the small dressing table, at the cosmetics, the electric
hair curler, and recalled Molly James lying in the post-mortem suite at
Rose Road, unable to come home.

Crossing to the window, Kate thought of Molly's carefree foray
with her friends to the shopping mall. A trip that had almost certainly
ended in terror and pain for Molly, taped, cuffed, her face masked.
She put her forehead against the warm glass. Not with her friends.
They came home. She gazed down at the neatly paved front garden.
Who had Bernie said was the contractor who worked here? Alan
Malins.
Kate imagined a scene during that long-ago summer. Perhaps
Molly had had this window open, listening to the contractor and his
employees talking and joke-telling as they worked? Perhaps she had
leaned out and spoken to them? Young men, laughing, browned by
the sun, their employer--

'Tea.' Dianne James's voice drifted from below.
With a final glance around the room, Kate went downstairs and into
the kitchen. Dianne was back at the kitchen table. She'd resumed
smoking. As Kate took a seat and lifted her cup, the other woman
spoke with such unexpected vehemence, Kate spilled her drink.
'After all these years, I still can't get past it. She was warned and warned 
from when she was a little girl "Don't go off with anybody
you don't know. Don't go off with anybody, no matter what they
say."' She looked across at Kate. 'I know what you're thinking, but I'm 
telling you, Dr Hanson, my daughter, my Molly, wouldn't have gone with a 
stranger. No matter how smooth he Might be.' She
pressed her lips together and fell silent.
Kate wanted to respond. To say how easy it could be to turn
someone, anyone into a victim. She didn't. One glance at Dianne
James's face indicated the futility of reasoning on the issue.
'Most parents want to know where . . . and what happened, don't
they?' Dianne asked softly, looking towards the window. 'I never did.
Because it meant that I'd have to handle what had been done . . .
when I wasn't even handling her going.' Her eyes drifted slowly to
Kate's face. 'Is that wrong?'

Kate resolutely closed a door on the remains in the post-mortem
suite.
'No. It's not wrong,' she said quietly. In the ensuing small silence, she 
glanced at her notebook, keeping to :factual issues. 'Mrs James,
can you give me the names of the two friends Molly went with to the
mall?'

Dianne refocused on Kate. 'Jessica Barnes and Samantha . . .' She
stopped. Kate looked up to see a mix of emotions playing across the
other woman's face. She waited. After several seconds, Dianne continued:'.
. . Wellings. Saying those names reminded me of that day.
The last day. Molly was happy. A bit fed up of being a student, having
no money, the usual thing.' There was more heavy silence, then: 'I
suppose you'd like their phone numbers?'

Kate nodded, and Dianne stood and walked from the kitchen into
the hall, returning with a small address book.
'These are their parents' phone numbers. Where they lived at the
time. . . I haven't heard from Jessica or Sam for quite- a while, so the 
numbers could be out of date.'
She read out the details. Kate quickly wrote them down, then
looked hesitantly across the table.
'Did you have any. . . suspicions at the time Molly disappeared as
to what might have happened?'
The older woman blew smoke from her mouth, then crushed her
cigarette in the ashtray before responding, voice quiet: 'No. The sights you 
see nowadays, here and in Birmingham. . . young women
out and about at night with next to nothing on. . . that wasn't my
Molly. She was a nice girl. Respectable. But she still went. In daylight.
I can't accept it.' She was silent for a few seconds, then: 'I never liked 

Jason Fairley. Molly knew it. So did he. Too worldly for my liking.
But then I probably wouldn't have been keen on anybody Molly liked
at that age. She was still young.' Silence. 'Now, she always will be,
won't she?'
Hearing those words, Kate felt unable to ask about the nature of
Molly's relationship with Jason Fairley. This woman's devastation and
anger was too palpable.

Kate left Dianne James's house, ashamed of her need to escape to the
warmth and sounds of life outside. Sitting inside her car, a hand on
her forehead, she sighed. Not her finest professional hour. She'd
carried with her the other woman's final words:

'You tell me, Dr Hanson, why any man thinks he's got a right to
take somebody's daughter, put her somewhere so she can't come
home, and make her family's life hell because they miss her and can't
stop wondering what happened to her.'
Kate knew she had nothing to offer that would satisfy Dianne James.
Or anyone else. She hadn't tried to convey the ease with which
someone committed to destruction might turn innocent quarry into
powerless victim.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN
K
ate drove a relatively short distance from the James house and was
soon parking in front of the edifice of Mercedes-Cranham, the pink note she'd 
found in UCU on the dashboard. She glanced at her
watch.
So geographically close to Molly's home.
She stepped out of the car into oppressive heat and locked it.
As she entered the cool glass-and-steel showroom, she was instantly
aware of the leathery new-car smell. A prosperous company in difficult
times.

She approached the reception desk. 'I'm Dr Kate Hanson from
the Unsolved Crime Unit, Police Headquarters. I have an appointment
. .

'Mr Cranham's expecting you.' The young blonde woman behind
the reception desk nodded, stretched violent-red lips and tapped the
buttons of the phone in front of her with splayed fingertips, gazing up
at Kate.

'Hi, John! Mmm . .' She giggled into the phone. 'Anyway, Dr
Hanson's here from the police. Shall I send her up?. . . Okay, bye.'
The blonde-replaced the receiver, looked up at Kate and pointed.
'He said to go up. Take the stairs over in the corner. First office you
come to.'
Kate followed the directions. As she reached the top of the stairs,
she saw a dark-haired man, late thirties, walking slowly towards her.
Within five seconds, she had summed him up as someone who
projected the persona of a man at ease with himself. A man who felt
confident that he knew and understood women. She recognised this so quickly 
because she had been married to someone just like him.
His voice was low and pleasantly modulated. 'Dr Hanson. Welcome
to Mercedes-Cranham. Come this way, please.'


He held out an immaculate hand and led her into the first-floor office,
furnished in glass, chrome and black leather. Tediously predictable,
thought Kate. Another thought nudged her subconscious. Something
Dianne James had said. No matter how smooth.
Once they were both seated, she appraised John Cranham further.
He was most definitely not tedious. He was extremely attractive. And
he knew it. Tanned face, thick dark hair, silk tie, dazzling white shirt
topped by a suit Kate estimated to have cost several hundred pounds.
'Tea? Coffee?'
Kate declined both. She didn't intend this to be a lengthy visit if she
could avoid it.
'My colleague Lieutenant Corrigan met with you yesterday, Mr
Cranham . .
'Please. John. Yes, the American officer.'
`. . . to clarify your whereabouts at the time a young woman named
Molly James disappeared from very near here in 2002.' Kate gave a
slight nod towards the Touchwood mall, just visible from Cranham's
office window.
Cranham steepled his fingers. Wedding ring. He gazed directly into
Kate's eyes and smiled.
'The TT. A nice little car. But if you ever feel the need for a
change. . .' He leaned forward, taking a business card from a silver
box on the desk. 'I'm sure we could find something that would
suit you. Something with a little more . . . gravitas, as well as flair.
Something more in accord with your professional standing.'
Kate took the card. What was it Bernie had called him?
'You rang to say you have something to add to what you've already
told Lieutenant Corrigan.'
He looked at her for a few seconds, then nodded, becoming
businesslike. 'Actually, I feel rather a fool.' Kate doubted it. 'I promised
your colleague some paperwork to confirm where I was at the
time this girl disappeared. So I had our accounts department do a
search. It seems I made an error. A small error. I hope it hasn't caused
you or your colleagues any difficulties or unnecessary work.'
As if on cue, a woman of indeterminate age wearing a business suit
entered the office, handed Cranham a folder, glanced at Kate, then
exited. He extracted a single sheet from the folder and handed it to
Kate, who read it quickly. It confirmed that John Cranham returned to the UK 
on the same day Molly disappeared. But much earlier than

he had indicated to Joe. And presumably to the original investigation.

Kate started her car, looking back at the showroom, the gleaming
vehicles inside it, the well-presented staff. And their boss. Sleek, like
the vehicles he sold. Wealthy. Something else Dianne James had said
came into her mind: Molly James had been short of money.

Joe was on the phone as Kate walked into UCU. He covered the
receiver.

'How was Molly's mom?'
Kate dumped her belongings on the table, shook her head and
passed him the printed information Cranham had given her.
'She's currently clinically depressed. Cranham, on the other hand, is
arrogant and always will be. He was making a charm offensive and
trying to sell me a car. He failed on both. He was in the UK when
Molly went missing. He arrived at Birmingham airport at six a.m., not
in the late evening as he told you and the original investigation.' She
walked towards the Refreshment Lounge, still talking. 'He could have
emailed that information -- or faxed it. No. He wanted one of us
over there so that he could give it to us personally, perhaps disarm us
before we found it ourselves.'

Joe raised a hand and turned to talk on the phone.
'Mr Fairley? Joe Corrigan, Unsolved Crime Unit. Since my call on
you, I've been thinking -- about your coming into Rose Road some
time. We're not far from Five Ways. . . No, no, a casual chat.' Silence,
then: 'Any time to suit you.' Joe mentioned a date and time and raised
his eyebrows at Kate, pointing to a day in his open diary. She came to
the table, peered and nodded. 'Yes, that'd be fine. See you then.' He
hung up as Bernie arrived. 'Jason Fairley's agreed to a meeting here.'

'When?' asked Bernie.

'Next Tuesday.'
`Why're you getting him in?' asked Kate.
Joe raised his shoulders. 'Partly because I'd like to see if he becomes
any more curious about our reinvestigation.'
Bernie dropped on to a chair at the table, face red, hair damp. 'I
called in on Malins, just as he was leaving for a few days' holiday.
Crete. According to him, while him and his lads was doing building
work at Molly James's house he never spoke to her, and he knows 

nothing. Got him coming in next Friday afternoon. He's away till
then. He's not best pleased.'
Kate gave Bernie coffee and the information from Cranham.
'Very interesting. The Git stops in the frame.'
Kate nodded. 'What I want to know is, was it an oversight, an
innocent mistake? Or was it a lie by omission?'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

An hour later, Whittaker powered into UCU with a brown internal
envelope, flipped it on to the table and left in the same manner.
Kate opened the envelope. Colley's single-sheet statement.
Within five minutes she had read what Colley had had to say to
WPC Sharma and she gave the gist to Bernie and Joe. 'He says he
went to the mall, saw that there was a fashion show on, but was in
there no more than ten minutes because he spotted a couple of people
in there he didn't want trouble with . . . so he left.' She passed the
statement to her colleagues to read for themselves.

'So who were these two people he saw, d'you think?' she asked.
Bernie shrugged. 'You know yourself, Doc, sex types ain't your
most popular members of the community. They was probably local people in the 
know about what he'd done. That kind of news travels.
It can cause a lot of aggro.'

Kate picked up Colley's statement, slipped it into the box on
Julian's workstation and started writing up her notes from her visits.
They needed to contact Molly's friends, Jessica Barnes and Samantha
Wellings.

Bernie and Joe were discussing Malins's Police National Computer
check, left for them by Julian, when the door flew open and Furman
strode into the room.

'Give me a quick update,' he said, without preamble.
Joe provided details of what was now known about the remains,
which he'd learned from Bernie, plus the arrangements made to see
Malins and Fairley.
Kate had decided not to voice her own thoughts about Molly
James's remains. Not yet. Not to Furman.
He glanced in her direction and she described her own activities. 'I
went to see Dianne James this morning, and then John Cranham.' 
He wheeled and glared at her. 'I said to leave him alone.'
Kate frowned. 'No you didn't.'
Had he?
'Yes I did.'
Kate willed herself calm. 'Actually, he phoned us and requested the

visit.'
Furman looked momentarily wrong-footed, but quickly recovered.
'His family is wealthy. It could mean trouble for the Force if not
handled right. Focus on finding some new POIs. Do some door-to
door inquiries.'
Idiot.
Kate watched him, waiting. When he didn't continue, she asked,
her tone patient, 'Would you like to know what Mr Cranham had to
say?'
In response to a terse nod, she shared Cranham's latest information.
Furman shot her a suspicious look as she finished, then transferred his
attention to Bernie and Joe.
'Sounds to me like he made a simple error. Like I said, watch what
you're doing with Cranham.' He turned to Joe. 'Lieutenant Corrigan,
you can handle any future contact with him.' He walked to the door,
then turned back to them. 'The press has got a sense of what's going
on. Probably saw Headquarters vehicles coming and going. Nobody, from this unit 
knows anything, got it? I'll handle the media, if neces
sary.'
'Why don't we tell them what's going on? Get them on side? Maybe
they could help. The least we could do is make people aware, warn--' 'No.' 
Furman looked at Kate, one corner of his mouth raised.
'That's typical civilian thinking. We don't disclose--'
`But--'
'Listen. This is the Force line "following up a number of lines of
inquiry in relation to" whatever it is that's happened. That's how it's
going to stay. Got it?'
Kate stared after Furman as he went through the door, then sat for
a while mulling over what else he'd said. Find some new POIs. She
thought again about what Connie had shown them. The 'goodies', as
the pathologist called them. She'd been preoccupied with the visits
she'd made, and Dianne James's grief and unhappiness, and hadn't yet
given her colleagues any indication as to the clear implications of the
items lying in the post-mortem lab.




She looked across the table at Bernie's florid face. He wasn't going
to like it, as and when she shared her thinking. She glanced at the label
on the file he and Joe were studying: 'MalMs, A.' Deep in thought,
Kate inventoried the items Connie had shown them. The duct tape,
the handcuff, the home-produced mask and the as yet unidentified
scrap of card. Of one thing Kate was sure. They were dealing with a
very committed killer.
Kate threw open the massive folding doors that made up almost the
whole of the end wall of the kitchen. One eyebrow raised, she held
aloft a bottle in Joe's direction. He was sitting at the table, eyeing the
small book of advice to separated and divorced parents.
He looked up and nodded. 'It's Friday. We know it makes sense.'
Kate took a corkscrew from a drawer. 'It seems to me that Furman
wants to keep us away from Cranham. Why would he want to do that,
do you think?'

Joe took the glass she offered, sipped and placed it on the table.
`Furman's a career officer. A self-promoter who defines every situation
in terms of his own professional progress and future and other
people in terms of their money, power and influence. He's afraid of
upsetting a rich clan.' He looked directly at Kate. 'I can't take the guy.'
Kate grinned. 'I had a vague impression he's not on your Christmas
list.'

A word Joe had just used set up a small resonance inside Kate's
head. Money.
Suddenly the front door opened and they heard voices. Maisie. And
Kevin. What was he doing here again? Maisie erupted into the kitchen,
followed by her father.

'Hi, Mom! Hi, Joe! Look who just arrived. Daddy said he's going
to take me to Disneyland and--'
'Whoa! Steady on, Maisie Mouse. I said it depended on my workload
and whether I can get enough free time.' He looked fleetingly at
Kate, who was keeping a pleasant face. He and Joe nodded at each
other.

'Florida,' said Kevin. 'Your neck of the woods.'
Joe stood, drained his glass and set it down on the kitchen counter.
'Give or take a thousand miles.'
'Joe's from Boston, Daddy. I told you.'
'Here for long?' Kevin asked casually, eyeing Kate.


'Uncertain,' responded Joe. Equally casual.
Kate walked with Joe to the door, thinking about names and money.
The note on Molly's desk. J. She thought of the Js in the case thus far:

J for John Cranham?
Or J for Jason Fairley?
J for Julian. Hardly.
J. . . for Joe.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
B
y seven o'clock on Saturday morning, Kate was ready to action a
plan she'd thought of the previous evening.
After Kevin had left, she'd spent an hour in her study, completing
student grade sheets, then checked through the notes for one of the
coming week's lectures. She wanted to spend some time this weekend
with Maisie.
Now that Molly James's remains had been identified, however,
she couldn't stop the case from dominating her thoughts. Before
she raised her ideas about the nature of Molly's murderer with Joe
or Bernie she wanted to give them more consideration, including
exploration of the killer's behaviour. Which would in turn give an
indication of his thinking.
Running lightly up the stairs, she checked on Maisie, who was
sleeping soundly. She'd told Maisie last night that she had to go out
early this morning. Turning from the room, she hurried downstairs,
seized her keys and left the house.
The mileage counter read 5.7 miles when Kate left the road and
parked close to where Bernie had parked a few days ago. As the traffic
pounded past behind her, she stared ahead through tinted windows
towards the bypass site, beyond the press of trees, unmoving in the
early morning sunlight. Getting out of the car, she closed the door
' quietly, locked it and started walking along the same small path.
.4 She passed by the remains of the fire and on to the clearing. To
. where the forensic tent had stood. She stopped uncertainly, looking
around the site. Some markers remained in place, along with the
how-and-black Do Not Enter tape. She slipped under it, surprised
t there was no one here. No one guarding the site. Cutbacks? $'She walked over 
the uneven ground, mindful even now not to step
' and Matt Prentiss's carefully placed tapes and pegs. The area had


been thoroughly gone over. Perhaps that was why no one was here.
They'd got all there was to get, as Connie would say--

'Dr Hanson?'
Kate whirled at the voice and the sound of her name. It was
Whittaker. How had he got here? She'd seen no car. Where was he
when she'd arrived just now?
He walked towards her.
'Sorry if I scared you. I had to . . . you know.' His young face
coloured as he gestured to some trees at a. distance from where they

were standing.
Kate nodded. 'I thought it was odd no one about.'
Whittaker grinned. 'I was dropped here at six this morning, when
the others went off. I'm here till the next shift come back on at nine.'

He glanced at his watch.
'Is it okay if I walk on a bit further? I'll stay within the lines.'
Whittaker frowned, then nodded. 'Gander wants the site watched
so members of the public don't get on to it. But you're okay.'
With a small smile at the constable, Kate walked on, away from him.
Within minutes she had reached the far edge of the clearing. She was
now approximately twenty-five yards past where the remains were
found. The trees here were older, the saplings a little heftier and the
grasses more lush. She looked ahead, towards a shaded area of woodland,
trying to decide if anything might be gained by going further.
Hands in the pockets of her jeans, Kate gazed at the surrounding
sweep of trees and vegetation, some of it now bathed in bright
early-morning sunlight. She couldn't see the road from here. Nor
Whittaker. Neither could she see her car. Leaning against a tree,
gazing to one side, unseeing, she let her thoughts roam.
How many people thundering past this spot in their cars knew what
was beyond the screen of trees along the road's edge? How many
knew that behind what appeared from the roadside to be a densely

wooded area there were open spaces?
She hadn't known. Yet the area was familiar to her and close to

home.
She toed the dry earth with one Timberland boot.
Once a car was driven off the bypass and a person slipped into the
shadows, no one would know what was happening behind these trees.
Five-point-seven miles from the south-west side of the city. Plenty
of opportunity for anonymity.
He'd needed a place to leave Molly. A lonely place. Concealed.
He had to have known the area well. He'd selected it on the basis
of known characteristics lonely and concealed, with small areas of
accessible soil under which a body could be buried.
Because it wasn't easy to bury a body.
He'd been here before.
Before he killed Molly.
This site was a place he knew very well. He'd already found it .
ideal?

Reaching into her jeans pocket for her phone, she dialled Bernie's
number.

He responded after two rings. 'Watts.'
'Bernie. It's me, I'm at the bypass and--'
'What you up to now?'

'Coming here's helped me to think. About how unlikely it is that
whoever abducted Molly and left her here did it only once.'
Silence. 'He's a repeater, Bernie.'
She listened to Bernie's anticipated sigh and his verbal response.
'Must be something I've done in a past life. How sure are you?'
'I'm sure. He planned He went to a lot of trouble. At the time he
abducted Molly, he already knew what it was like here, off the road,
behind the trees. You know what that means, Bernie. This site needs
extending.'
She heard another sigh. 'Doc, we do the cases that the Arse gives
us . .

'I know, but trust me on this, Bernie. Molly isn't the only one. It
makes no sense for him to put such effort into a single killing. Think
of what we know of his methods. The lack of clothes. The handcuff
and the duct tape. They all say "repeater". This area must be searched
for more remains. And we need another search of the MisPer database
for young women missing from the Greater West Midlands area.'
Bernie's voice exploded in her ear. `D'you have any idea how many
names we're likely to dredge up? Names of girls who've left home for
any number of reasons, girls who believed a city bigger than Birmingham
might offer them. . .' His voice faded.
'What?' asked Kate.
'Nothing. I give up. The Arse'll go mental when he hears about
this. We'll tell him on Monday. Or perhaps not . . 
Kate was about to respond when the call suddenly ended. Frowning
at her phone, she saw the 'Battery Low' message.
With a sigh, she shoved it back into her pocket, conscious once
more of her surroundings. A small breeze whipped through nearby

trees, creating a dry rustling. Kate eyed the swaying branches, then

looked quickly to her left, where she was sure she'd just heard the
crisp snap of dried twigs. Whittaker?
Steadying her breathing, feeling her heart rate starting to climb, she
began walking in the direction she'd originally come from. She didn't
want to be here a moment longer. She wanted traffic noise, the smell
of petrol fumes, the presence of people. She wanted to see her car. She
wanted to be inside it.

Twenty minutes later, in the weekend silence of UCU, Kate stood at

the glass screen. She'd added the word 'REPEATER' in stark capitals

above Molly's name.
She gazed around the empty room, then turned back to the glass,
feeling suddenly lonely. Forcing herself to concentrate, she looked

again at the screen, reminding herself of the information it already

held.
Connected to Molly's name by arrowed lines were those of her two
friends. And their telephone numbers. Information that needed following
up. Saturday morning. Not a work day. Picking up the office
phone, she tried both numbers. No reply from either.

A series of quick thumps from the stairs and Maisie suddenly appeared
in the sitting room.
Kate was on the sofa, propped up by a large cushion. After arriving
home, she'd stripped off the clothes she'd worn in that terrible place
and walked into her shower, to stand under cooling rods of water,
grateful that she and Maisie were together in this house. She'd spent
time on her hair, which now lay glossy and heavy on her shoulders.
She'd put on a loose-knit white cotton sweater and yellow knee
length shorts. Her tanned feet were bare, now set off by bright, shiny
orange toenails. She'd needed to do all of this.
She turned the page of the textbook and made another note. There
was always work to be done. And as far as Kate was concerned, that
was fine. She now felt equal to it.


'Hi, Mommy Bear!'

Kate looked up, then looked again, taking in Maisie's ensemble,
particularly the knot of silky blue fabric holding back the sumptuous
curls. It looked suspiciously like Kate's favourite Ralph Lauren scarf.
Her glance drifted over the short lace-trimmed yellow petticoat, to
which Maisie had added white knee-length leggings and a blue midi
top. If there was such a thing as a 'picture of health', Maisie was it.

'Hello, Baby Bear,' Kate responded cautiously, lifting her feet off
the sofa.

It had been quite a while since Maisie had tolerated the one-time
habitual exchange. Kate casually rearranged her notes. Sharp as always,
Maisie intuited her mother's intent.
'Mom, I know what you do. I don't need protecting from it.' She
plumped down on the sofa next to Kate, tucking brown toes under
her mother's thigh. Kate continued her writing.
'You know your problem, Mom?'
'No. But I've a sneaky feeling you're about to let me in on it.'
Maisie squirmed on the sofa, reaching for stray notes, mostly
those Kate had made as they came to her, when there was no access

to her notebook. Kate gathered them together and returned them to
her bag.

Maisie continued. 'Well, my theory is this. You think you know

everything, right? I mean, like, what's going to happen, and what

people might do, because all the people you work with are seriously

eird -- not Bernie and Joe, I mean the others, the risky ones you write

ports about for the old judges to read. So you think that everybody

t there is weird and plotting horrible stuff.' She took a breath.

4 t's what I think. Phyllis is right. You need to relax, chill out.
estly, people are okay.'
Kate glanced at her daughter's face. The smooth tawny skin, the

, fans of lashes and the tiny, almost imperceptible fringe of red
de along the hairline. She knew of sexual offenders who would

ow about Pizza Express later?'
ool!' In one smooth movement Maisie leapt off the sofa and
d for the hall.
ay up the stairs she yelled, 'Hey, Mom, I forgot, Joe phoned.
'd drop in later. He can come with us!'



Kate reached for her notes again. Was it her imagination or had
Maisie become noisier lately? She needed to have a word with her
about banging the garage door. Old Mrs Hetherington next door had
complained again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

E

lated, the young woman joined the early Monday lunchtime crowd
inside the city-centre coffee shop and waited to be served. As she
waited she people-watched, mood expansive due to the incredible
opportunity she'd been handed at work just one hour earlier.
Smiling benevolently at the tired-looking barista, she took her
order and change from him and scanned the busy scene. She saw a
nearby window table about to become vacant and walked swiftly to it.
Another sign that this really was her day! Life was on her side.
Smiling to herself, she set down the tray and sat, becoming aware
that she was now the object of keen male interest. Feigning aloofness,
she casually gave him the benefit of her profile, confident that he was
on her 'best side'. She ran her fingers lightly through smooth blonde
hair and gently tugged the cream Prada skirt and honey cashmere top
to good effect.
Raising the latte to her lips, she took a small sip, then put it down
and forked a tiny morsel of the celebratory chocolate muffin, a much
smaller mouthful than she might have done if she weren't conscious
of being observed. She stole a quick sideways glance, and he gave her a
brief smile of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his
newspaper. Mmm . . . Very presentable. Late thirties? After Craig's
buffoonery, indications of male maturity would be a definite plus.
Listen to yourself! A pafect stranger smiles at you in a coffee shop and
you're rating him as potential partner material. She grinned and
forked a larger mouthful of muffin.

Through narrowed eyes he watched the little pantomime intently.
Saw the private smile. Noted the single strand of graduated pearls,
probably her mother's, the soft leather bag she'd dropped carelessly
on the chair next to her, the black Gucci loafers.

He knew she was pleased about something this Monday lunch
hour. He glanced at the smooth, well-manicured hands. No indication
of a fiance. Expensive to run. Clothes for a modern office. The
kind with automatic doors, thick carpets. He had it. An organisation
with a career structure.
He continued to watch, absorbing more of her as she removed a
silver-coloured phone from her bag. The lightly tanned arm, the slim
wrist encircled by a narrow gold bracelet, the pale-gold skin of the
hand, each tapered finger tipped with a buffed pink nail. When her
attention returned to him, he picked up his coffee cup and made a
small acknowledging movement in her direction. He saw the light
flush on the cheek, the lowered lashes and the small smile.
Nice, very nice -- breathe and relax. . . breathe and. . . ree-lax.
Whilst he'd consumed her appearance he was inside his own head.
Thinking. About how she would look when he eventually removed
her face with his best little X-Acto blade.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


K
ate was in her office at the university when the call came from
Bernie. The further excavation of the bypass site that UCU had
requested was under way, sanctioned by Chief Superintendent
Gander. A second set of remains had been unearthed in the small
clearing where Kate had stood two days before. A human femur had
also been located, some distance away from the second burial site.
'Connie's there now. She's asked me to go over. Which means
she'll have something worth looking at or knowing about. I'm on my
way. How about it, Doc? Can you meet us there?'

Kate scanned a page of her diary and checked her watch: 3.10 p.m.
'Yes. Has Connie said anything to you about what's been found?'
'You know Connie. Cautious to the last. But it looks like we're in
business again.'
The call ended and Kate reviewed the brief exchange. Typical
Bernie. No Hey, Doc, you were right! or anything approaching an
apology for his attitude when she rang him on Saturday. She recognised
the call as the nearest he would ever come to such sentiments.

Forty minutes later, Kate was at the bypass site, which was once again
a hum of forensic activity. The white tent was back, west of where
Molly was found. She looked around and saw Joe and Bernie away to
one side, talking to Harry, who was handing them white coveralls. As
she approached, she called out:

'Hi, Harry, you two. Know anything yet?'
Bernie grunted his way into the protective suit and Joe shook his
head. Kate saw anticipation on Harry's face as he handed her a similar
garment. She knew he loved his job.
'Okay, let's go and see Connie,' she said quietly.
They left Harry and walked together in the direction of the forensic



tent. Ahead Kate could see Matt Prentiss, brows low, face thunderous
as he watched them approach.
'Mind where you're putting your feet, will you? Hey, you!' He
pointed at Bernie. 'Keep within the tapes. There could be evidence
anywhere around here.'
'Bloody Nazi,' fumed Bernie under his breath as he followed the
tape, ignoring Kate's disapproving look.
With a shared feeling of déjà vu, they made their way carefully over
the uneven, grass-covered terrain to the tent and stood just inside.
Connie glanced up at them, then pointed to the rectangle of ground
by which she was crouching. 'It's a rerun of what we got last time,' she
said quietly. 'Come and have a look.'
They drew nearer and looked down. It did look very similar, once
Connie had pointed out the position of the remains.
'Any characteristics that might be of particular interest to us?' asked
Joe.
Connie nodded. 'As before. Female, young -- under twenty-five.
Been here five-plus years.' She moved to the long side of the rectangle,
then gazed up at her receptive audience. 'There's more.' She pointed
to bony arches already exposed. 'See?' she said quietly, indicating the
remains of what looked to be strips of material encircling some of them. Kate 
nodded. Duct tape.

Was this it?
Whoever killed these two young women is duct-taping his signature?
His mark?
Proclaiming his handiwork.
'The femur we found this morning was lying over there.' Connie
pointed to a taped-off area a couple of metres beyond the forensic
tent. 'We know that Molly James has her full complement of femurs. I
don't yet know about these remains. Ask me tomorrow.'
The four colleagues glanced solemnly at each other.
Kate and Joe trailed back to their vehicles in the heat. Waiting for
Bernie to join them, Kate felt both saddened and exhilarated by this
development. The remains were clear confirmation.
They now had evidence of a repeater at work in the twenty-first
century.

Late that evening Kate was home, showered and in pyjamas, spending

a quiet evening in front of the television, Maisie curled up beside her, 

similarly attired. She put her arm around her daughter and drew her
closer. Maisie had her eyes on Sandra Bullock's smooth face.
'Mom?'

`Mmmm?'

'Would you ever have Botox? Or a facelift?'
Kate looked down at her daughter, up at the screen, then down
again.
'Depends on how much aggravation I'm likely to get in the next
few years.'
Maisie grinned. A couple of minutes of silence drifted by.
'Mom?'

`Mmm . . ?'
'Can I borrow your Abercrombie top?'
Kate did a quick mental review of the garment in question. Not
low-cut. Not tight. Not see-through.

'Yes. Don't wreck it.'
Maisie snuggled, wondering how receptive her mother might be
if she told her that she wanted to dye her hair. Black. Like Sandra
Bullock's. She watched the screen action. Wow! How cool was that!
Kate's thoughts were also drifting. To the likelihood of other
victims.

And the 'graduation' of offenders.






CHAPTER NINETEEN
K
ate was up and dressed by seven o'clock and tapping on Maisie's
bedroom door.
'Maisie?' She opened the door and stepped inside the room, noting
the semi-chaos on the floor. 'Are you awake?'
'Go 'way,' responded Maisie from beneath riotous curls and body
moulded
duvet.
'Maisie, listen to me, please. I'm going in to the university early.
Phyllis will be here at eight, yes? I'll leave a note reminding her to
remind you to tidy up this room before you leave for school.'
No response.
'Who's coming for you for school?'
Still no response.
'Maisie.'
`Wha'!'
'I said who--'
`Che'sey's mom.'
Kate sighed and looked at her watch, experiencing a pang of guilt.
She must agree some kind of rota for taking the girls to school. She'd

phone Chelsey's mother later. She scanned the room a second time

and sighed.
Show me a working mother, single or otherwise, and I'll tell you her
middle name beginning with G.
Which stands for 'Guilt'.
'It's time you were up. I'm going in ten minutes.'
Quitting the room, Kate went downstairs and wrote a hurried note
to Phyllis, involving one or two heavily underlined words. She had no
concerns about her housekeeper's ability to handle Maisie. Phyllis had
raised two sons and two daughters using the tough-love approach. 

Kate surveyed the ranks of students, waiting for them to finish their 
note-taking. She'd set up the PowerPoint presentation herself, and
was happy to do so given that Julian's absence meant that at this
moment he was in UCU, searching the PNC MisPer database for
other young women missing from the area in the last ten years.
Closing the Tuesday-morning lecture, Kate invited her young audience
to disregard the language and ideas of Hollywood's characterisation
of the predatory killer.
'They're based on an approach to repeat crime that isn't supported
by quality research. I would truly love the "serial killer" tag and the
"organised" and "disorganised" categorisations of crime scenes to
disappear. They've become banal terms with which we're now much
too comfortable, because cinema and television have done them to
death. Excuse the pun. We ought not to be comfortable with the
language of repeat murder.'
She looked around the auditorium, particularly at the female
members of her audience. 'One of the problems with murder as
entertainment is that we're so familiar with it, it has little to no
influence on how we live our lives. Watching a film that features
serial-killer activities doesn't lead to our living our lives more cautiously.
It's just entertainment, right? We continue as usual, never
seriously questioning our own safety. Why would we, when we're
distanced by television or cinema screens? Or by our choice to finish
the story, close the book? But the reality of the threat is there.
Operating quietly in the background.'

Searching the faces of her audience, most of them of similar age to
Molly, she delivered the key message, culled from her own research,
that the police often failed to alert the media, and thus the public, to
repeat sexual crimes.
'We don't live cautiously because the media is sometimes as
unaware as we are of an existing threat. Law enforcement tends not
to warn of a predator operating, saying little beyond that it is following
up lines of inquiry. Not until a predator's activities become very evident, 
perhaps due to the number of his victims, is there even an
official admission of his existence. Mostly, there is nothing from the
police until the first press reports emerge -- an arrest, a garden being
dug up in Gloucester.'
She scanned the faces. Young as they were, they got the history.
'We all need to be aware of and take responsibility for our own


protection.' She dropped her voice. 'The kind of repeater or doer of

interest to you in your future careers is smart. Not necessarily a great

intellect, but sufficiently people-wise to repeat on the scale of the men

on the screen.'
Kate changed direction, to what was known about the predatory
male, his ability to superficially charm the nalve or unwary. 'However,
contrary to popular myth, he's no Einstein. For insightful, mature
people, he might wear a little thin fairly quickly.'
A pause before she delivered another key point. Tut be sure of one
thing. He's capable of fooling all of us. His manipulative abilities, his
flair for mimicking an emotionally developed person and conning us --
that's what gets him what he wants. His focus is always on what he wants and 
how he's going to make that happen.' Her audience was

gripped.
'As professional workers in criminology, we need to be able to
recognise him for what he is, in order to stop him creating more
victims. We need to develop a quick awareness that he's operating and
not be misled by false beliefs about him. If you want to know more
about those false beliefs, you'll find them in this,' she added, holding
up three A4 sheets. 'You're welcome to take a copy from the table by

the door as you leave.'
The sheets exposed further myths of repeat crime, including one for
the would-be police officers among her students: that repeaters are
not generally caught via DNA evidence or by-the-book detection.
Kate was back at the front of the platform. 'The predator devotes
time to perfecting his craft. Creating the situation, scripting the scene.
Remind you of any job or profession?'
A few tentative hands were raised and a one-word answer floated

towards the platform.
Kate nodded. 'And as an actor, he can mimic anyone he chooses --
use a different look, a new name, a fresh con.'
And like all of you watching me, thought Kate, he progresses.
To graduation.
Thirty minutes later, Kate was inside UCU. Julian Was also there.
'Inspector Furman was on my case earlier for the information from
the visits and other stuff, but I'm getting into MisPers now to start the 
search you want, Kate.' When Bernie arrived a minute later, it was to find 
Kate writing on
the glass screen. He gave her a suspicious glance.
' "Graduation," ' he read. 'What's that mean for our cases?'
Kate looked at him. 'It sums up the criminal trajectory of the
repeater.'
'Meaning? They start out small, with petty thieving, say, then move
on to killing?'
Kate shook her head. 'Not quite. Okay, they might start with
low-level dishonesty, but what graduation commonly means is that
foundation offences are essentially the -same type as the later, more
serious ones. In our case, it means he probably committed comparatively
minor sexual offences to begin with. Over time, that behaviour
becomes increasingly serious and deviant until it involves the sexual
death of a victim.'

Bernie nodded. 'Got you.'
Julian took sheets from the printer and handed them to Kate.
She took them to the table and glanced through them, then began
constructing a separate list in her notebook. Bernie was making drinks
as Joe arrived.

'Hi y'all. I see heavy-duty industry. What gives?'
Kate waited for him to be seated.
'I asked Julian to print off details of females reported missing in the
West Midlands area between the mid-nineties and now. I specified the
mid-nineties on the assumption that Molly wasn't the first to be left at
the bypass. We need to avoid being swamped with "missings", so I
suggested to Julian that he key in specific characteristics -- age range:
sixteen to twenty-two; physical appearance: over five foot six, longhaired.
I also added "educated". We don't know at this stage if any
of these individual characteristics is essential for the doer --' Kate
shrugged -- 'but we have to start somewhere.' She glanced at Julian.
'Talk us through the cases you've found, please. I'll write them up on
the board as an aide-memoire.'

Julian left his computer to stand in front of the glass screen. Kate
pined him as he began.
'The search generated five names, including Molly James's. The
others are Janine Walker, eighteen, missing since July 1998, from
lakedovvn --' Julian lifted his eyes from the list -- 'which is geographic,
close to the bypass.'
He continued. 'Vanessa Miles, twenty-two, missing since January 

2000, from Walsall. Leah Wilson, twenty, missing since September
2001, from Halesowen . . .' He halted the dismal roll-call for a couple
of seconds. 'And the last one -- Amy Brown, nineteen, missing from
Bromsgrove since February 2003.'
He frowned down at his list then turned to look at Kate. 'So . . .
how come nobody's looked at these names and linked them before?'
'What matters right now is that we have,' said Kate quietly, then
turned to properly address Julian's question. 'It's a sad fact that
hundreds of people go missing every year. Many of them young and
female, with no indication that they didn't go willingly. We need the
dental and medical records of these girls in case any of them are at the
bypass. Can you do that?'
Julian nodded. 'Chief Superintendent Gander will countersign the
requests.'
No one spoke for some seconds. The phone rang and Joe lifted it,
listened, then hung up.
'Hey, kids. Ready to be benefited some more by Connie?'
Kate put down the marker pen and went to collect her notebook.
Leaving Julian in UCU, they walked downstairs.
In response to Kate's light tap on the frosted door, Igor let them
inside the post-mortem suite. Connie was already forensically kitted
out and working carefully at one of the tables. They went to the
dispensers to collect plastic aprons, face masks and latex gloves, then,
suitably attired, they approached Connie. She raised a hand when she
judged they were near enough and looked at each of them keenly.

'You're ready to know what we have here? The second set of bypass
remains. She's young. At a guess, of similar age to Molly James -- don't quote 
me on that yet -- and her skeletal structure is complete.' The
pathologist's eyes met theirs, each of them thinking about the lone
femur.
Connie returned to the remains in front of them. 'I have more little
gifts for you, UCU. Look.' She pointed to the duct tape around the
ribs that they'd seen at the bypass site. 'Same dimensions. Same
characteristics. Now take a look at this.'
Kate looked to where Connie was pointing, then moved up the
table for a closer examination.
'It's hair,' said Connie. 'But this time it's been cut. Probably with
scissors, not necessarily new, but sharp. Regular scissors. Nothing
fancy.'
Leaning down and to one side, her face level with and almost
touching the table, Kate gazed at the poor ruined hair: probably
blonde to mid-brown in life. As she continued her examination, a
tiny beetle came careening out of the ruin, a determined little tank,
up-down, up-down over the clumps and tendrils. Within the mass,
something else snagged Kate's attention.

'What's this, Connie?' She bent closer to the material, which was
stained by decomposition, small clods of earth stuck to its surface.
Connie's voice broke into her concentration.

'Appears to be some kind of small hair tie or scarf. Cotton construction.
Not sure of the colour yet. Possibly red, with a lighter spot
pattern of some kind. But, take a look at something else I have for
you.'

They looked down at the item in the shallow metal tray in Connie's
hand. It was virtually a rerun of Molly. An oval of dirty cloth, holes
at either side. Kate felt a shiver of recognition and dread. She glanced
up at Joe. His handsome face was solemn. Bernie had his lips pressed
together, arms folded across his girth.

Kate moved away from the table and tapped her phone for the
contacts list.

`UCU.'

'Hi, Julian. Can you do something for me when you have a minute?
Go through the MisPer reports on the girls you've got from your
search and take a look at the clothes they were said to be wearing on
the day they disappeared. We're particularly interested in hair ties and
scarves.'

'Will do. Call you back.'
Kate ended the call and turned back to the PM suite.
'And the final item --' Connie walked to the nearby work surface,
picked up a pad of absorbent paper and returned to the table -- 'is this.'
They pressed closer. A scrap of thick card. Similar to the one found
with Molly James's remains. Kate leaned again, her face as close to the
item as she knew Connie would permit.

'There are marks . . . there and here. See?' She stepped back to
allow her two colleagues to view it.
After some seconds: 'What do you think?'
Joe looked at Kate, then at the card.
'Letters? Writing?'



Bernie put on his glasses and bent closer to the little item, hands on
knees, arms braced.
'Yep. A round shape, then another one that looks the same, ending
with a long dovvnstroke just there.' He straightened with a low grunt.
Kate scanned faces as they stood around the table. 'What I said at
the outset of the case -- about classification of murder into emotional
and instrumental?' She glanced down. 'This is further confirmation of
instrumental murder-by-stranger.'
Connie looked in silence at the remains, then at each of them.
'Because she has her full complement of femurs, the logic is that
there's another body still out there.'
Kate pressed her lips together, nodding. 'Connie, we need that
whole area to be excavated.'
'Being done as we speak, Kate.'
Kate's phone jangled in her hand. She responded to the call,
listened, thanked her caller, then glanced at the faces around the table.
'That was Julian. Janine Walker disappeared in July 1998 wearing a
red cotton bandanna with a white heart-shaped design and carrying a
small red heart-shaped purse.'
Amid the heavy silence of the PM suite, Kate walked slowly along
the table to the mass of hair and peered down at the spoiled item
within it. She looked up at Connie.
'I'm assuming there was no purse?'
Connie slowly shook her head. Kate closed her eyes momentarily. What's the 
likelihood he took the purse?
As a fantasy aid
Where is it now?
CHAPTER TWENTY
B
y 6.30 on Tuesday evening, Joe and Bernie were searching the
MisPer information for details of clothing worn by all of the young
missing women on the day they were last seen. Kate had left at five
o'clock with some persuasion from Joe, after he'd heard her phone
home twice within the previous hour to check on Maisie.
In the quiet of UCU, Bernie left the table and strode to the glass
screen, glancing at Joe as he passed by.
'Here's the complete picture for Janine Walker, Corrigan,' he
murmured, holding up a single sheet then starting to write on the
board as he spoke. `MisPer indicates she was last seen wearing a short
sleeved white linen shirt, black jeans, flat black leather sandals. Hair
held back by a red cotton bandanna. Carrying two letters for posting and one 
heart-shaped red purse.'
Joe looked up quickly as he searched the sheets in front of him.
'What I've confirmed for Molly James is. . . pale-blue polo shirt and
cream trousers. Plus the gold necklace.' He glanced at his watch, up at
the glass screen, then stood and walked over to it, tracing a finger
down information put there by Kate.
'Fancy a ride?'
Bernie looked at him. 'Where?'
Joe gave a 'wait' gesture, returned to the table and lifted the phone. After a 
few seconds, 'Mrs Barnes?'
'Yes?'
, 'Lieutenant Corrigan here, West Midlands Police, Rose Road,
Harborne. We're reinvestigating the abduction of a young woman named Molly 
James.'
He heard a note of gratified concern in the answering voice: 'Really?
I didn't know the police were opening the case again. I'm really glad, but 
what's--' 
'Is Jessica there?'
'You're in luck. She's here on a visit. Why?'
'How do you feel about me dropping by with a colleague to ask her
a few questions?'
Silence. Then, 'Well, yes, if it's--'
'Say, in half an hour from now?' Another small silence. 'It's okay,
Mrs Barnes, we just want to ask your daughter some basic questions
about the day Molly disappeared.'
'Of course. Do you have our address?'
Joe hung up the phone and looked at Bernie. 'Let's go.'

Within the hour they were putting their questions to a young woman
in her mid twenties holding a sleeping infant.
'Tell us about Molly the day she disappeared,' Joe said.
The young woman's eyebrows slid together. She looked uncertain.
'If it helps, start by describing how she looked,' he suggested.
Jessica patted the infant as she gazed into the middle distance.
'It's such a long time ago. I need to think . . . She had her hair
loose, like long and straight, and she was wearing a light-blue polo
top. Cream trousers. She had her Ellesse bag with her. That surprised
me, actually. We were just going for a walk around the mall. I couldn't
see why she needed it.'
The young woman shook her head. 'That's all I remember. No,
wait. She was wearing her name necklace. You know, the kind that
spells out your name. Gold. But she always wore that. It was a present
from her boyfriend.'
'Which boyfriend was that?'
'Well, he wasn't her boyfriend at that time. Jason Fairley.'
'Can you tell us anything about Molly's mood that day, love?' asked
Bernie.
The young woman looked at him, puzzled. 'Her mood?' She
shrugged very slightly, careful not to disturb the sleeping infant. 'She
was as she always was, you know. . . chatty.'
She glanced from Bernie to Joe then back. 'Now I think about it,
she was a bit quieter than usual, but I put that down to not having any
money. Molly and her mom often argued about that. Molly wanted to
get a job: There were loads of jobs back then, in bars and shops, that
kind of thing, but her mom wouldn't have it. I think I assumed at the
time that they'd argued again.'

Joe nodded encouragement. 'That's really helpful, Jessica. The job
Molly would have liked -- did she have any bar or shop in mind?'
Jessica gave him a smile and a head-shake. 'She didn't actually say
anything about what she was doing to get a job. She didn't go to bars
or pubs herself very much. I only remember her going into one or two
coffee shops in the mall. Bit expensive.'

'Any one in particular?' asked Bernie.
She was silent for a few seconds. 'Sorry, but I have to think about
this. It's such a long time ago.' A little more silence, then, 'She liked
one in particular called the Coffee Lounge.' She suddenly smiled,
causing Joe to give her a close look.

'You went there with her?'
'No, but I've just thought of her telling us about it. She went there
a few times to do college work -- you know, reading -- and there was
this guy there who. . .' Both officers listened intently. 'Molly said he
was coming on to her. No, no. I don't mean anything weird.' Jessica
laughed quietly. 'It was just a bit funny.' She looked from one officer
to the other. 'Look, she never said it was anything creepy. It was kind
of, I don't know how to put it . . . old-fashioned. For a start, she said
he was a bit older than her and I don't think they ever spoke to each
other. She didn't even know his name.'

A frown had settled on Jessica's face as she glanced from Joe to
Bernie. 'Don't get the idea it was anything .. . Molly just laughed about it, 
saying how they would kind of give a little wave or smile to
each other. She mentioned it because she thought it was. . . nice.'

Joe nodded with a sidelong glance at Bernie.
'Molly have a boyfriend at that time, love?' Bernie asked.
'Not really. She'd already finished with Jason.'
'Do you know why?' asked Joe.
The baby stirred and snuffled. Jessica rocked it gently in her arms.
'He was too old for Molly. Spent a lot of time working. The police
knew all of this at the time. The thing is, he was an adult, whereas
Molly, all of us, we were just teenagers. So they split up.' She gave an
imperceptible shrug. 'Let's face it, we were immature. Jason Fairley
was, well, a man. But they were still good friends after that. Like I told
you, he bought Molly the necklace.'

'So, the older guy. The one in the coffee shop. Was he about the
same age as Jason Fairley? Or maybe older?'


Jessica frowned and shook her head. 'Sorry. I don't know. As I said,
I never saw him.'
'Jason Fairley still looked out for Molly? Helped her out, even after
they broke up?'
Jessica glanced at Bernie. 'When you say "helped her out" . . . he
didn't give her money or anything like that, but yes, he looked out for
her. Because they were still friends.'
Joe nodded slowly to indicate understanding. 'Do you see much of
Samantha Wellings now?'
Jessica looked surprised. 'Samantha? Good grief, no. She, her whole
family moved and went to live in -- Bristol, I think it was.'

They were in Joe's car en route to Rose Road.
'Don't know about you, Corrigan,' muttered Bernie, 'but I'm
getting interested in the old-fashioned cove in the coffee shop.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I ater that Tuesday evening, Kate was helping Maisie make cupcakes L for a 
fund-raising sale for flood relief that her school was holding
the following day. Maisie had remembered it only half an hour
before. Because of her own lateness home, Kate hadn't complained.
She lined up the little fluted pink cases and Maisie dropped cake mix
into them.
Mugger was standing with his front paws on the leg of the kitchen
table, his head tracking Maisie's movements backwards and forwards.
She giggled. 'Look at Mugsy, Mom. You silly cat! You like salmon
and chicken and. . . what else does he like?'
Kate responded as she separated more little pink paper cases: 'He
likes most things. But he has his favourites-2
Maisie put the tip of a finger into the remaining cake mix, peered
over the side of the table and offered it to Mugger. He licked enthusiastically.
Maisie laughed again.

`Aagghhh! His tongue's like sandpaper!'
'Here we go, Maisie. Let's get these into the oven. They won't take
long.'
Mother and daughter each carried a baking sheet across the kitchen.
Kate set the oven timer as Maisie returned to the table and the mixing
bowl.

'Hands, Maisie.'
Tutting quietly, Maisie went to the sink, ran water quickly over her
hands, then dried them. Sorting through a drawer, she returned to the
mixing bowl with a spatula.
'Mom?'

`Mmm?'

'How has Mugger decided what he likes? How does he know that
he's supposed to chase birds and eat mice and stuff?' 11
'I doubt it's a decision he makes.'
Maisie persisted. 'But he knows, doesn't he? How come he
knows?'
Kate took the scraped-out mixing bowl to the DishDrawer for
washing. 'It's what he's born to do. Cats have always done it and

Mugger isn't any different.' She caught sight of Mugger crunching a

sliver of biscuit. 'Don't give him any more, Maisie. They're bad for his

teeth.'
'But he likes them, don't you, Mugsy? D'you think he's a slow
learner? Special needs? Maybe he missed out on the lesson "Cats Do

Not Like Biscuits"; Maisie intoned, then laughed as she stroked the

little cat.
Leaning against the table, Kate watched them, smiling. 'He would
have learned a lot of what he does from his mother. Or any other adult

cat. But it's not only about learning. It's also about what Mugger is.

It's instinctive. It's his nature. He's hard-wired to chase after small
animals, catch them and kill them.'
Maisie frowned, taking a jelly sweet from a small mound on the
table and popping it into her mouth.
'So -- the people you work with. The ones who've done bad
things. . . Are they hard-wired?'
Kate glanced at her young daughter as she handed her a small
packet of icing mix.
'That's a good question, Maisie. A really good question.'
'So, what's the answer?'
The house phone shrilled. 'That'll be Chelsey, about the trip
tomorrow afternoon!' Maisie jumped off the table and dashed for the

phone, leaving Kate in the kitchen thinking about what her daughter

had asked.
Hard-wiring and learning. For animals. And people?
She walked slowly to the end of the kitchen to check that the doors
were locked, then stood, gazing out at the darkened garden.
A good question.
But it doesn't really help us find who took Janine and Molly.
And whoever else, by the time we're finished.
Kate heard the doorbell. That would be Joe. She'd invited him
round for a glass of wine.
A shout from Maisie. 'Mom, Joe's at the door! I have to get my
stuff together.'
'I've got it,' said Kate, as she walked across the hall and opened the
front door. 'Hi, come in,' she said, taking in Joe's faded jeans and the Go Red 
Sox! sweatshirt.
Her attention was caught by movement on the stairs and she
glanced upwards, aware of a continuous, faint sound from the kitchen.
'You won't need all of that, Maisie. It's only one night. Come in Joe
oh, the cakes!'

Kate sprinted into the kitchen, Joe following her at a leisurely pace
as Maisie reached the hall.
'Hi, Cat's-whiskers. You moving out? Going to university already?'
Maisie giggled. 'We're selling cakes at school tomorrow morning,
first thing, to raise money for people made homeless by the floods,
and then we're going straight to the Lickey Hills by coach for a
sponsored orienteering exercise, which is so cool.' Maisie paused for
breath. 'I'm leader of our team. Will you sponsor me, Joe? Here!' She
whipped a sponsorship form from beneath the heap of clothes in her
arms.

Joe grinned at her, taking the form. In the kitchen, Kate placed
cupcakes on cooling racks and transferred them to one of the granite
work surfaces.
'Maisie, you need to mix up the icing and--'
'Mom, I've got all this to pack oh, all right. Where's the icing
packet gone?'
'At a guess, under those clothes you don't need.'
'Mom, just listen, will you. Lauren Downell is taking a suitcase, I
swear. What do you think, Joe? It's one night plus the whole of the
next day and we're staying in this hostel thingy and there might be
some boys.' Maisie took the icing and jelly sweets over to where Kate
had left the little cakes, looking back at him earnestly.

Joe considered the heap of belongings on the table, his face serious.
'Well, I never take fewer than three pairs of jeans, four tees, pink PJs and. . 
. a jar of marmalade when I skip town.'

Kate smiled and handed him a glass. `So, what've you been up to
since I left UCU?' she asked quietly.
'We went over to see Molly's pal, Jessica Barnes,' Joe answered,
equally quiet, as they watched Maisie exit the kitchen.
Kate nodded. Was it helpful?'
'ITh-huh. Nice to see that the people Molly left behind are doing 
okay.' He noticed Kate bite her lip. 'And it seems that Molly may have
been the object of some "older male" interest.'
'Tell me,' said Kate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
B
y Thursday morning, the most recently found remains had been
formally identified via dental records obtained by Julian. Joe pressed
the photograph of eighteen-year-old Janine Walker to the glass screen,
alongside that of Molly.
Kate studied it. The blonde hair falling straight behind her shoulders,
eyes cool, smile subdued as she gazed ahead, as though her
photographer had made a not-so-funny joke.

Kate recalled what she'd said about the unlikelihood of Colley as
the doer. And here was another poised, intelligent young woman.
Colley would have run a mile if she'd given him one disdainful look.
Two found, plus the femur. Kate thought of Vanessa, Leah and Amy,
girls whom Julian's search had identified as also missing. Did the
femur belong to one of them? How long would it be before they were
in a position to know?

Kate glanced at Bernie, who was muttering to himself.
'What're you doing?'
'Writing up me notes from our visit to this friend of Molly's to
give to Julian.' He shook his head irritably. 'She's told us about this
bloke that was giving Molly the eye in some coffee bar before she
disappeared. Did she mention it to the original investigation? No. She
didn't. You just can't rely on members of the public in this job.'
'Maybe she didn't make any connection between the man and
'Molly's disappearance because--'
'It don't seem like rocket science to me! Friend talks about a funny
bloke. Friend disappears. You'd have thought she'd have mentioned

'No. Not necessarily.'
Bernie glanced up at Kate from his note-writing, then down again.
'Come on then, clever-clogs. Put me right.'
W.

Kate sat on the edge of the table, drawing her hair into a ponytail
before winding it and securing it behind her head. 'It wouldn't be
unusual, you know, not to make a connection. Think about it. The
funny-bloke bit could've been a while before Molly disappeared. I bet
the girls laughed about it. Then she goes missing, which is absolutely
tragic and upsets everybody. Two occurrences, separated in time. One
very minor. Light-hearted. The other . . . well, tragic, like I said. It
doesn't surprise me the two were never connected.'
'I'd like to be like you, Doc. Not surprised by nothing,' said Bernie,
looking fed up.
Joe lifted his jacket, glancing at Kate. 'Want a ride to the Walkers'
house in Blakedown?'
Kate gazed up at him, uncertain 'Are they okay about it?'
'I phoned them late yesterday. They have no problem with our
visiting.'

Twenty-five minutes later, Kate and Joe had reached the home of

Janine's parents, having driven past the bypass site on the journey

there. Both had seen the continuing activity but neither had referred

to it.
Joe parked the car at the side of the quiet road. Prior to calling
at the house, he and Kate walked in bright sun to a nearby corner.
According to investigative records, Janine Walker was said to have
turned this corner on the day of her disappearance, but hadn't been
seen by a man working in his garden in the neighbouring road. Joe
studied the road through Ray-Bans, shaking his head slightly.
'What?' Kate demanded, looking up at him.
'If she came along here, surely the gardening guy would've noticed?
Do you remember his house number?'
Kate consulted her notebook. 'Sixty-four.'
They walked on, side by side amid residential quiet. The area was
clearly pretty much a dormitory for commuters to Birmingham.

Ahead of them, standing near the kerbside, was a tall, cylindrical red

postbox. Kate and Joe glanced at each other. Janine had carried letters
with her to oblivion.
Passing it in silence, they continued on until they reached number
64, the unremarkable semi-detached home of the gardening neigh hour.
Kate looked back the way they had come. She pointed. 'Look, Joe. The road 
curves before it reaches here.' They studied the view. The
postbox was no longer visible.
'Got any ideas as to what happened here?' she asked.
He nodded. 'Yep. Whatever the detail, Janine Walker's abduction
was very quiet and controlled. She just. . . went with him.' He stared
at the ground near their feet. 'Maybe he disabled her. Maybe he had
an electroshock device. Taser. Stun gun.'
In silence, they retraced their steps along the still-deserted road
to the Walker home, wide-fronted and well maintained, surrounded
by tubs of bright geraniums, the front door glossy red. Standing at the door, 
Kate glanced around, musing on the tragedy behind the bright
facade, as Joe rang the doorbell. She didn't want to be here.
The ring had scarcely faded when the door was opened and they
were greeted by both of Janine Walker's parents, invited inside and led
into a huge conservatory running the width of the rear of the house.
It was pleasantly cool inside, windows open, roof blinds drawn, two
large ceiling fans oscillating the leaves of a tall indoor palm. Music was
quietly playing somewhere. Kate recognised an orchestral arrangement
of 'Eleanor Rigby'.
She took the seat offered and gave her attention to the Walkers,
unobtrusively studying them as they went about the business of
welcoming her and Joe to their home.
'Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant, Dr Hanson? Or maybe a
cold drink? Juice?'

'Coffee would be fine for me, ma'am, thank you,' said Joe with a
smile.
Kate watched the social exchange, the seemingly light-hearted
eagerness of both Mr and Mrs Walker, finding it odd and unsettling
given her recent experience at the home of Molly James.
Mr Walker was probably in his early sixties, with the look of a man
who spent a lot of time outdoors, the short-sleeved white shirt and
sand-coloured shorts setting off his tan. His wife looked somewhat
younger, also tanned, wearing a pink linen sundress, her ash-blonde ;hair in a 
bob. Kate could see now from where Janine inherited the
facial features shown in her photograph. To her keen eye, the couple
looked, if not happy, then relieved. She suddenly got it. Their focus
Was now entirely on UCU's reinvestigation of their daughter's death.
As they drank coffee, Mr Walker spoke about Janine's disAppearance,
indicating a willingness to provide any information UCU

might need. Coffee finished, he invited them to view the small
bedroom that had been converted into an office dedicated to their
own search for their daughter.
Kate and Joe followed Mr and Mrs Walker upstairs. As they reached
the landing, Kate quietly asked if she could look at Janine's bedroom.
Mrs Walker readily agreed.
Again with the feeling of being an interloper, Kate slowly opened
the door of Janine's room and walked inside. It was a large room
looking out to the rear of the house. As she gazed through the window
at the distant roofs of houses visible between trees, her thoughts
returned to the road down which she and Joe had walked earlier.
Those roofs belong to the houses in that road.
Where the man was gardening on the day Janine disappeared.
She spun a few possibilities in her head, one of which was that the
windows of the upper floors of those houses also had a view of this
one. And of Janine's bedroom. She studied the view for a few seconds,
then shook her head. Too far away. If she couldn't see any interior
detail of those houses from here, it was logical to suppose that anyone
looking from them to the Walker home would have a similarly limited
view.
In the middle of the room, Kate turned very slowly, studying its
decoration and furniture. A sophisticated room, one wall painted
cream, the others a pale yellow. A warm room, because the house
had full sun on its back elevation in the morning. Oatmeal carpet. No
soft toys. A large kilim rug at the foot of the bed, on which stood a
stripped-pine chest. She walked to the chest and, after a few seconds'
hesitation, lifted its lid. Books. She read some titles. Textbooks. A few
works of fiction. She took out her notebook and wrote down some of
the titles, then closed the chest and moved to the large mahogany
desk to the right of the window.
As in Molly's room, Kate had a sense of time having stopped.
On the desk was a copy of Private Eye. She skimmed it. An article mocking 
Mohamed Al Fayed's 'conspiracy theory'. Another about the
G8 Summit held in Birmingham, with slights and jokes at the city's
expense. Kate looked for the date. June 1998. All now outdated social
and political comment.
Above the desk was a wall planner. Kate leaned across to read its
notations. Some family birthdays. A day in late September 1998 on
which, according to the few words there, Janine anticipated being inducted 
into her University of Sheffield course. A couple of hair
appointments in May, neatly crossed through, presumably kept. Dates
marked with times and, perhaps because of a lack of space, the initials
of people Janine was maybe planning to meet. She copied them down.
Kate's thoughts turned to Molly's friends. Would UCU need to
trace the Wellings family in Bristol before this reinvestigation was
finished? She returned her full attention to the wall planner, noting
now a regular date annotated for each month. She immediately grasped
their significance.
.So many experiences Janine and her family would never share.
She walked slowly from the room, deep into her analysis of what it
had indicated of Janine' s personality. Crossing the landing, she quietly
entered the home office, where Mr Walker was talking to Joe.
`. . . and we still get a few hits. Nothing like in the early years, of
course, but it can vary, say if a newspaper or magazine runs the
story again. Because of the new development, your reinvestigation,
we're anticipating a bit of a surge. Janine was a very compelling young
woman.'

Kate caught the words, thinking that he and Janine's mother were
so much more positive than she herself could ever imagine being if she
were in their situation. Mrs Walker nodded her agreement.
'Janine was special.' She looked from Joe to Kate. 'Everyone says
that about their child, don't they? But she was. You see, she was given
everything. Not by us. By . . . life. She was beautiful, clever, full of
plans, full of . . . life itself. She had so much to offer.' Kate and Joe
listened, silent. There was nothing for them to say.
The small room in which they were standing was a testament to the
Walkers' determined search for their lost daughter. Kate took in the
'Missing'. posters bearing Janine's photograph, publicity details for
various fund-raising events aimed at keeping Janine's name in the
'public consciousness. Many were faded, their dates going back several ears' A 
cork-surfaced noticeboard held layers of cuttings relating to
evised appeals and programmes about the missing teen. Kate was pinking 'lig of 
the emotional commitment underlying those years. The
F
ctorsonal toll.
,In response to a question from Joe, both parents confirmed that at time Janine 
disappeared she had no boyfriend. Her focus was on departure for Sheffield and 
her future studies. She had no known al 'es about anything or anyone and was 
full of hopes and plans. 
Mr Walker looked at Kate then at Joe. 'We always knew our daughter
had been abducted,' he said, matter-of-fact, as his wife moved
quietly to his side. 'We don't want to sound. . . critical of the police.
Especially now. But at the time Janine disappeared, there was a reluctance
to accept that that was what had happened to her. They kept
asking whether she had a boyfriend. . . she didn't.'

Kate looked at him, feeling a hot flare of anger towards Furman.
'Janine walked out of our lives. I watched her go. Josh, her little
dog at the time, ran after her. She didn't want to take him so I went
and fetched him, waved to her as she turned the corner. .
The room was silent for a few seconds, Mr Walker himself breaking
the silence to ask if they would like more coffee. Before they left the
room, Joe asked him about the identity of the man living in the road
nearby who had denied seeing Janine
'Howard Kingsley.'
'Does he still live. . .' Joe's question faded as Mr Walker shook his

head.
'No. He died about three years ago.' Mr Walker seemed to
intuit Kate's next question. 'He wasn't all that old. About seventy. A

stroke.'
'Mr Kingsley wasn't able to give the police any help at the time?'
'No. He was adamant he never saw Janine that day. He thought he might have 
heard the sound of a car nearby, but he wasn't really sure.
We visited everyone we could in that road, you know. We went from
house to house. Asking if anyone had seen or heard anything. No one
had. Many of the residents were at work the day she went, and it was
also the holiday season, so quite a few of the houses were empty at the

time. It's a very quiet area anyway.'
Kate nodded, a sudden thought occurring to her. One on which
the investigation records were silent.
'Mr Walker, we know that Janine was carrying a small red purse and
some letters of yours that day. Were those letters. . . ?'
Both parents looked at each other and Mr Walker replied. 'The
letters were posted in the box just round the corner and received the
next day. But by the time the police checked that out, the envelopes
had been destroyed, so that didn't provide any leads. They sent some
people to look at the postbox itself, but. . .' He shrugged.
Mrs Walker continued where her husband had left off. `Janine's purse was never 
found. There was no indication she went to the local
shop. You haven't. . . ?'
Kate and Joe shook their heads and Kate gave her colleague a
meaningful glance. After the two men had gone downstairs, she
_
followed Mrs Walker into Janine's room, watching as she smoothed
the bedspread and straightened the curtains, wondering how to
introduce what was on her mind.
In a conversational tone as she looked out of the window she asked,
'What was Janine going to study at Sheffield?'
'Both our children were good at languages. Nick, our eldest, still is,
of course. He's working for the European Commission in Brussels.'
Kate nodded, inwardly angry at the lack of background data available
about the Walker family from the original investigation. There
was no reference to a sibling in the information Bernie had carried
up from the basement. Her anger was again directed at Furman, for
what now appeared to have been the very superficial job he'd done all
those years ago, but she kept her face and voice casual.
'Would you describe Janine as a very organised young woman?'
Seeing a slight frown on Mrs Walker's face, she added, 'Her wall
planner. Appointments and so on, all filled in.'
Mrs Walker's face cleared. 'Yes, you're right. She was a very orderly
kind of person. Not like Nick! But then, I don't see why we should
expect our children to be the same, do you?'
Mrs Walker's next comment brought Kate's thoughts crashing to a
standstill.
'You'll have seen her diary. He took it, the officer who was in
charge of the original investigation. Janine wrote in it every day, just
before bed. I never read it, of course, but I think she found it a useful
thing to do.'
' This was the first Kate had heard of a diary. No one else in UCU
: had mentioned one. Her thoughts surged, mind racing back to UCU.
`frhere had been no diary when she'd looked through the box that had
'opome up from the basement. No diary in which Janine might have i'WrittenMrs
Walker was still talking. 'Janine was a modern young woman.

pidependent. Self-reliant. She didn't seem to want or need to discuss

pings. She liked to work things out for herself. I think she did that by

'ting down her thoughts. I believe her independence, her ability to
;lai

yse, would have helped her get the kind of job she wanted.' Kate 
nodded as Mrs Walker continued. 'She had ambitions to work for the
UN. She'd set her sights on America.'
Kate nodded again. It fitted with the books she'd seen in the chest,
which included fictional accounts of the CIA. Janine seemed to have
had wide-ranging political interests.
Kate had another thought, hard on that one. The Walkers had been
willing to leave their daughter's diary in the hands of the police for
several years, no doubt hoping that it might help the investigation at
some point. Now that Janine had been found, they'd want it returned
to them.
What could she say if either of the parents asked for it?
Today.
Pushing the thought aside, she asked, 'Mrs Walker, I noticed that
when your husband was talking to my colleague, he used both "is"
and "was" in relation to Janine, but you always say "was".'
The older woman nodded. 'That's very observant of you.' She ran a
finger lightly over the computer keyboard. 'We both knew that if
Janine was still alive she would have been found by now. I was the one
who more easily accepted it. Now both Paul and I know she's never
coming home again. At least, not in the way we had hoped. But now
we can start to make plans.'
She glanced at Kate, then back to the keyboard. 'So many years
since she went. When we started all of this, we were thinking that any
publicity was useful to keep Janine's name and face in people's minds.
We got a sense of purpose from it. Now our purpose has changed.'
She looked briefly at Kate again. 'What our family wants now, Dr
Hanson, is to take Janine back into her family, celebrate her life and
mark its end.'
Thinking of the remains she had seen in the Rose Road post
mortem
suite, Kate searched for something appropriate to say,
without success.
Mrs Walker gave her a small smile. 'It's okay, you know,' she said
softly. 'There's something to be gained from finally knowing that
Janine isn't alive any longer.'
She paused, glancing down at the computer. 'Janine got her
own email address in the couple of months before she went. It's still
there. The Net was a complete mystery to us at the time. We've had
to catch up quickly since then.' No trace of bitterness. 'Even now,
I occasionally go into the office and type a little message to her. Nothing 
elaborate. Just a couple of lines usually, telling her what
we've done, what kind of day it's been. . . that we love her.'
She transferred her gaze to Kate. 'When I've pressed "Send",
for those few seconds I've felt reconnected to her. She had to be out
there somewhere. Now she's on her way back to us. She's coming
home.'

Kate nodded, throat aching, not trusting herself to speak. She
quickly turned her attention to the photograph on the desk. Janine
and a small white Westie.

Mrs Walker noticed and picked up the photograph, running her
fingers lightly over it. `Ah, Josh! They went everywhere together when
Janine wasn't busy.'
She returned the photograph gently to its place. 'Do you know,
when he died, in 2004, it was like the last physical link with Janine had
gone. Believe it or not, that was one of my worst moments.'

Kate believed it. She understood.

That was when it came.
'We'd like to have the diary back some time. We did ask for it a
couple of years ago, but when it didn't materialise we decided we
wanted the police to keep it in case they took another look at the case.
Now that things have changed, we'd like it back when you've finished
with it.'

Kate nodded, managing an 'of course', feeling complicit in Furman's
neglect of this family.
As they left the room, Mrs Walker gently pushed closed the door
of the wardrobe. It resisted. She opened the door fully and Kate saw
inside a few items of clothing, seemingly unworn, one or two still
bearing price tags. As the older woman tucked the sleeve of a sweatrshirt
away from the door, she looked over her shoulder at Kate.

'. 'Janine's new outfits. For university. We don't have her other
i'clothes any more, but we couldn't dispose of these. They represented
;iour golden girl's hopes for her future.' She ended, matter-of-fact:
'Another decision to make now, I suppose.'

As Kate walked from the room with the older woman, she kept her hone as even as 
possible.
'.. 'As far as you know or remember, did Janine ever mention any of

hese names to you -- John, Jason, Alan?' Mrs Walker shook her head

each. 'I know they're not unusual names, but they would have 
belonged to adult males, men in their mid to late twenties at the
time.'
'No. Sorry.'
'Did she ever refer to a young woman by the name of Molly James?'

'No.'
Kate had a sudden thought. 'Why was Janine going to the local
shop?'
Mrs Walker smiled. 'To buy a card. She and all of her friends were
scattering to various universities around the country in a matter of
weeks. It was probably a good-luck card for one of them.'

Kate was silent on the journey back to Birmingham, thinking about
the Walker family, about their ability to remain positive in a situation
of such deep sadness. She gazed out of the window, thinking about
police work. A little humour and a lot of horror. Coexisting.
Joe gave her a sidelong glance as he drove them back to Harbome.
Kate's face was turned to the passenger window. A minute later he
looked again, saw her take out a tissue and a small mirror. Returning
both to her bag, she took out her notebook. Joe transferred his
attention back to the road. Neither looked at the bypass site as it
flashed past.
For the rest of the brief journey, Kate gave her complete attention
to the information supplied by the Walker family. There was one key
question, among others, to which she kept returning.
Janine set out for a short local walk on the day she disappeared.
According to Mrs Walker, Josh, Janine's little dog, went every
where
with her. The fact that he ran after her that day, anticipating an
outing, and had to be brought back supported it.
Josh expected to go with Janine the short distance to the postbox
and the shop.
Why didn't Janine want to take the dog with her?
Further questions surfaced in Kate's mind, hard on the heels of that

one.
Josh 'inconvenient' for her that day? In a way he wouldn't have
been if she was simply anticipating a journey on foot?
Did Janine make a decision about someone that day that cost her

her life?
Kate considered what Joe had said earlier, about the possibility of some sort 
of stun gun being used on Janine. There was another
option.
Janine accepted a lift in a car belonging to someone she knew.
Or thought she knew.

Later that evening, Kate was in the sitting room reviewing the
questions she'd written in her notebook, the headache she'd had on
arriving home now. almost gone. Just as well. She had a full university
day tomorrow. Tutorials, a lecture, preparation, followed by a welcome
weekend. She and Maisie were going shopping together on
Saturday and having lunch in town. Kate was looking forward to
it. Maisie hadn't yet reached the stage where she was reluctant to be
seen with her mother. And if they could come home with purchases of
clothes for Maisie that both of them agreed on, thought Kate, it
would be a gratifying first.
Kate was " now relaxed in the welcome quiet of the old house,
checking her notes, thoughts beginning to drift. To the time when
she and Kevin had moved from their first house to this one, bought
with some of the money Kate had inherited from her mother months
before. Kate had initially put Maisie in her crib in the room designated
as a nursery, then promptly moved her back to the main bedroom,
over Kevin's objections, because she was afraid of not hearing Maisie
through the thick walls. She rested her head against the sofa, thinking
about loss. The loss of a child.
Mugger put his head around the sitting-room door, giving Kate a
speculative look and his version of a miaow. Kate looked at him and
smiled.

'Okay, Mugsy. I'm coming.'
She got up and went to him, lifted him gently and carried him into the kitchen 
along with her notebook.
As Mugger crunched his meal, she stared at her questions. She
riffled pages, back to the notes she'd made about what Connie had
told them. Janine's hair was cut. He went to the trouble, made the
effort, to do that. She frowned. Molly's hair wasn't cut. Was hair in
If of particular significance for the killer? Long blonde hair was one f the 
characteristics Molly and Janine shared with the other young
men whose names had surfaced from the PNC MisPer database.
Why cut Janine's hair?
To defeminise her?


Or just because he could?
Why not cut Molly's?
Because he'd changed between 1998 and 2002?
He didn't feel the need.
So he changed his behaviour.
Change. Graduation. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

J

oe was at Kate's house early on Monday morning to give her a lift into UCU. In 
the car, Kate gazed absently through the window,
thinking of the worrying issue that had been in her head since the visit
to the Walker home. And she was thinking of her own status at Rose
Road. She breathed deeply. Civilian or not, it had to be raised.
'We must find Janine's diary, Joe. Even if it's only to give it back to
the Walkers. They entrusted it to the police. Now I'm worried that
Furman lost it.' She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head
and turned to him, her thoughts on the parents in UCU's cases. 'I'm
. also thinking about how it is that different people meet the same
experience but respond so differently. If you get my meaning.'
'I get it,' said Joe quietly. 'Maybe it's not the same experience,
though. Because they're not the same people.'
A few minutes later, they were inside UCU. Kate went directly to
the glass screen, picked up a marker and wrote a single five-letter word in 
large letters: 'diary'. As Bernie and Julian arrived, she was adding a
' large exclamation mark. Satisfied for now, she removed her notebook

from her bag and scanned what she'd written the previous evening.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting on the edge of the team table,
having delivered her theory to her colleagues. She glanced at Joe,
who looked laid-back, as always. Julian as usual had scribbled notes
while she talked. A glance at Bernie confirmed what she'd expected
om that department. He was clearly vexed, face heavy and stubborn,

's bulldog-with-an-attitude look firmly in place. Kate sighed and
.
mted to words she'd written on the glass screen.
'What I'm saying is that if we accept the premise that our repeater dn t start 
out with murder, then we need to think about what he
doing before that.' She gave a small shrug. 'Example: he could we started with 
relatively minor sexual assaults. Or possibly rape.' 
Bernie leaned his great forearms on the table, prodding the wood
with a thick forefinger. 'We've got two, no, three linked cases already
and hardly any time to do them, plus three other names of missing
women. How's it going to help to widen our investigation? Give

ourselves even more work?'
Joe responded quietly: 'Because, Ber-nard, sexual assault, rape,
leaves a potential witness. Murder generally doesn't.'
Kate nodded. 'By widening our search to include, say, unsolved
rapes prior to 1998, we could increase our chances of success with the
abduction-murders. We might find there aren't any that fit, in which

case we're no worse off, are we?'
Bernie looked even more aggrieved. 'Yes we are! Because of the
time it would've took us to find the info and check it out.'
Julian looked up at Kate from his notes. 'Fit how?'
Kate slid off the table and pointed to another area of the glass
screen.
'This involves you, Julian. We need a search for incidents of un
solved
sexual assault or rape in . . .' She gazed upwards. 'Let's say

we search up to five years prior to the bypass murders, so that's from

1993 to 1998.'
Bernie scoffed. 'There'll be ffippin' loads of 'em and we'll--'
Kate shook her head, tapping the glass screen 'No, no, Bernie.
Think about it. We can narrow the field if Julian trawls only for
unsolved rapes between those two dates in the Greater Birmingham
area in which the victims were young women aged, let's say, seventeen to 
twenty-one, blonde, slender, five-six-plus, educated.' She raised her
shoulders. 'If our search was too wide, we would be inundated, like

you said. We need to limit it.'
'But isn't that contrary to what you were saying in the intro lecture,
Kate? That they don't follow the same routines.'
She looked at Julian, gratified by his ability to make links.
'It's the only place we can start right now. We know what he was
doing during his murderous years. We need to retrace his behaviour.
You're right, Julian, but what I was saying at the lecture was that we
need to be wary of myths. The killer of Janine, Molly and whoever
the femur belonged to is both an individual and flexible. So we need
to be flexible in our investigation.' She glanced in Bernie's direction.
'Part of that flexibility is about the direction we take our investigation.' 
Julian nodded, turning to the computer, but after barely a minute
he swung back to Kate. 'I've got a lecture starting in half an hour.
How about I begin the search when I come back later?'
Bernie still looked irritable. 'If anybody's interested in what I've
got to say, I'd like to know how we're going to find the time for all
of this trawling and messing?' Arms folded, he sighed heavily as he
watched Julian pushing textbooks into his backpack. 'Throw us a
rock, Jules.'

Kate grinned as Joe looked at her, eyebrows climbing.
'Thought you said you were on a diet?' said Julian, passing the M&Ms , and 
pushing more textbooks into the backpack.
Kate glanced at Joe, mouthing, 'Diary?' He responded with a silent
'Records' and finger-pointed the floor.
She looked at Bernie, the doer's offence history still on her mind.
'There are prior cases waiting for us, Bernie . .
`Sez you.'
The door swung open and a tired-looking face appeared around it.
Harry.
'Connie said to let you know we're still searching the bypass site,
looking for more remains to go with the femur.' With that he was
gone.
'He's earning his bread at the minute,' Bernie said. 'Down at the
bypass all hours. I was in their offices the other day. They was having a
meeting and it was all go, and--'

'What're you saying? Harry always works hard,' said Julian hotly,
face annoyed.
Bernie craned to look at him, eyebrows up. 'Okay, okay, Devenish.
Simmer down. I ain't criticising your playmate. Why do people always think I'm 
makin' a point?'
'Complete mystery to me,' murmured Kate.
The phone rang and Bernie snatched it up and listened.
'Hallo, bab! Yes, she is. Hold on.' To Kate, 'Maisie. For you.'
Kate took the phone and listened to Maisie, enthusing as she had
done over the weekend about the orienteering trip and the sponsorship
money raised, finishing with her being invited to have dinner at
Chelsey's house.

Kate put the phone down, feeling a further layer of guilt settle on
her shoulders. How many times had Maisie eaten at Chelsey's in the
last week or two? She cast her mind back, trying to identify instances




of Chelsey coming to eat with Maisie and her. She sighed. Yet another

activity for which she needed to devise some kind of rota with
Candice.
As she prepared to leave for the university, Kate's thoughts drifted
back to the evening she and Maisie had made cupcakes. To Maisie's
question about Mugger and her oiA7n response. Nature versus nurture.
Whoever their doer was so monumentally angry towards, that person
was obviously female. A powerful female? Or one he perceived as
powerful? One he had to control?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
B
y late afternoon, Kate had returned to UCU from the university
and was in Rose Road's basement, inside its vast evidence storage
room. She had never been down here, although she knew it was the
repository for Headquarters case files, plus a good proportion of those
from lesser stations in the city and surrounding areas. To one side
of the basement were the heavy metal doors of the cold room, where
forensic evidence was kept at low temperature to prevent degradation.
Due to the unusually hot late-September weather, the basement
was stifling, even at this hour. Kate glanced at her watch. She'd been
down here ten minutes, and her hands were covered in dust and
perspiration was sliding from under her hair.
Initially working on the theory that if an item from the Walker case
had been misfiled, it might be inside a nearby box, she had examined the 
contents of four boxes bearing names beginning with the same
letter. Nothing. She pushed the last of those back on to its shelf and
moved on, to the fifth. Watkinson. After a couple of minutes of leafing
through the contents the result was as before. Nothing.
Kate pressed on. When she'd run out of Was, she started on the next letter. 
Halfway through a box labelled `Yelland', she sat back on her
keels and gazed at the surrounding shelves. This is hopeless. I can't do it
400 my own. Another thought occurred, hard on the previous one: 'Maybe I'm 
looking in the wrong place?
,'+ She pulled herself to standing, brushing the knees of her wheat,
oured trousers. At least that was how the assistant in Selfridges had
'bed them.
1M Why the hell did you choose to wear light-coloured trousers to come here
y?
'Because I didn't know what it was like down here!' Kate answered
If snappily, pushing her hair from her face, adding to the dust 
already there. She sighed and moved forward a few feet, looking down
at the files on the lowest shelf. Not even in alphabetical order.
Arriving at the end of the section of shelving, Kate slowly straightened,
gazing between the metal shelf supports at the huge door of
the cold room. She walked slowly towards it and stood, hands on hips.
If the diary had been misfiled, it was as likely to be in there as
anywhere else. Reaching into a trouser pocket, she pulled out the
keys she'd been given for the evidence storage room and examined
them. Within seconds she knew that the kind of key that opened the
cold room was likely to have a very particular shape and wasn't among

them.
Kate headed for the stairs and a now deserted UCU, straight to
the cupboard where spare keys were kept. She examined them all.

Nothing seemed likely to fit. She guessed that the key she needed was

large, long and probably sans teeth.
Closing the cupboard, she left UCU, heading for Reception.
Even at that hour it was a scrum, as Whittaker fielded queries from a
number of members of the public bringing reports of stolen or
damaged belongings and pet disappearances. Matt Prentiss was also
there, delivering precise instructions to Whittaker on how he wanted
him to dispose of the several envelopes he was waving at the young

constable.
As Kate reached the desk, Prentiss, red-faced and clearly at the end
of his short tether, was tapping an insistent finger on the envelopes
he'd now placed on the counter. Kate stood on her toes and caught
Whittaker's eye. He smiled at her and, interpreting her quick mime,
left the desk, returning in seconds with what she'd requested. Conscious
of Prentiss's malevolent gaze on her, Kate felt obliged to

acknowledge him.
'Sorry, Matt, but I urgently need this key -- it's very important.'
'And this is urgent forensic business. I'm not laying myself open to
criticism for the way I do my job because you can't wait,' he snapped,
waving the envelopes in her face before turning back to Whittaker.

'Right. Let's try it again. I want you. .
Kate escaped down the corridor, thinking that Joe was right.
Prentiss was a tight-ass. She'd heard the odd comment about his unpopularity 
within the forensics scenes team. She'd never seen him
smile or behave informally with anyone. Pain in the tail.
Running quickly down the steps inside the evidence storage room, she unlocked 
the cold room with the long, featureless key Whittaker
had given her. Heaving open the massive door, she stepped inside and
glanced around her, curious. It wasn't a refrigerator. Just very cold.
Again she was faced with rows of heavy boxes, though this time there
appeared to be no particular order at all. She walked slowly past rows
of boxes and envelopes tied together. Ah. Date order.

Moving further inside, away from the door, Kate studied dates.
Towards the back of the room she found what at first looked to be
gold dust, in the form of two boxes labelled not just with relevant
dates but with a 'W'. Five minutes later, however, they'd proved to be
fool's gold. No 'Walker'. Dispirited, Kate wandered along the shelves,
tracing the boxes and packets with her hand.

She stopped. She was in the 1996-2000 section. There were large
envelopes and a number of cardboard cartons at eye level. She
frowned at the gaps on some of the shelves, then recalled what
Bernie had told her and what she knew from her own experience of
the criminal justice system: that police case files were routinely sent
to the Crown Prosecution Service at various stages of their progress
through the justice system.

Lifting down one, then another of the envelopes, Kate peered
inside them. Nothing relevant to Janine Walker. Replacing them,
she pulled one of the cartons off the shelf and placed it on the floor.
Flipping the lid, she riffled the contents. Nothing. Idly she looked at
the name. Jarrett. No relevance at all. She replaced the carton and
lifted down a second one, labelled 'Dijon', and knelt beside it.

Opening the box, Kate studied the top sheet. The name written on
it was not Dijon but Kenton-Smith. Surprised by the disorder of the
case files and boxes, she dug deeper among this one's contents, lifting
out sheets of A4 and envelopes and-- She stopped, holding her
breath.

It was here. At the bottom of the box. Smaller than she'd anticipated.
Ten centimetres by twelve. Thick. Still-vibrant red leather. A
„small inset on the front cover announced the name of its owner:
'Janine Mary Walker'.

Sitting back on her heels, Kate slowly took the diary out of the box
and opened it. Turning the small pages, she gazed at words written in
uniform neat hand, tracing them gently with a fingertip, when
avithout warning the cold room was plunged into darkness.
Startled, Kate remained motionless for a few seconds, her capacity 
for thought on hold. She put down the diary and got to her feet,
feeling her way forward in implacable blackness. Edging along, steps
small, she noticed the chill air for the first time. And the enveloping
silence. She felt for her pockets, despite knowing that she didn't have

her phone with her. Damn!
Moving slowly forward, arms outstretched, her hands made contact
with cold metal. Kate's afternoon had just become infinitely worse.
The door of the cold room was closed. With her on the inside. She
stood there for some seconds, incapable of any thought beyond that
of processing the immediate physical experience. The silence was
suffocating. Like being inside a black velvet bag. Thick, chilly black

velvet.
She extended her arms. Again her hands made contact with cold
steel. She pushed on it. Totally unyielding. She slid trembling fingers

over the hard surface, forcing her mind to envisage the features of the

door, trying to recall if there was a keyhole on this side. She shook her

head. She hadn't noticed.
Her arms dropped to her sides, and as they did so, dense blackness
folded round her. She felt a first stirring of panic, followed by a
floating sensation. She knew why. Apart from the floor under her
feet, she had no other sensory cues. Quickly she reached out and
touched the surface of the door again. She had to have a sense of her
spatial position within the cold, dense blackness. Without it she was
adrift. Panic surfaced again and she forced herself to breathe slowly.

After some deep breaths amid the blackness, Kate's ability to
think logically had more or less returned. She glanced at the luminous
dial of her watch. Five p.m. Who knew she was down here? She
reviewed her earlier activities. She'd asked Bernie about the evidence
store. He'd work out where she was. If he was still at Rose Road. If he

hadn't left already.
She shook her head in the blackness, precipitating a third small
wave of panic. She tried to recall everything she'd ever learned in
her professional history as a psychologist about panic and self-control.
What you didn't do was think about the immediate situation. Hands
still on the steel door, Kate got control of her breathing.
Easy. . . Easy. Breathe in. . . and out.
Following her own instructions, pulling air into her chest, she felt
her heart rate drop slightly.
Okay. You need to attract attention.
Come on.
Who else knows you're down here and might hear you?
Two names came to her. Whittaker, and the objectionable Matt
Prentiss. Would they hear her in Reception? Were they still there?
Probably not. Panic stirred yet again.
She tried a couple of tentative calls. 'Hey? . . . Hello?' The result
was puny and muffled.
'Anyone?' She listened. Nothing.
Oh for God's sake. Even someone immediately the other side of the door
wouldn't hear that.
All you've got is your voice. Get shouting!
Kate yelled: 'Hey! Come on. Whoever's out there? Anyone? Open
the-3


A sudden click, and a seam of light appeared at the top and to one
side of the door.
Kate stared at the light, eyes wide, mouth open, then gave the
door a small push. It yielded. She pushed it again. It moved further.
Shoving it hard, she pivoted from the cold room into the light, dust
and heat of the evidence store.

Gasping, a sensation of nausea now kicking in, she took a few
faltering steps to the nearby shelving and leaned against it, one hand
clutching the metal support, eyes closed.
Hearing a small sound behind her, Kate whirled in its direction. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ded? What're you up to? Ah . . . have you seen your hair and face
n recently?'
Kate stared at him, mind a desert, mouth open. She found her
voice. 'What're you doing here! How long have you been hanging
around? Did you see who was in here?'
'Looking for you. I just arrived. Nobody. Next?'
Kate was wired. She gestured wildly with both hands, blitzing Joe
with more words. 'I was in here searching for Janine's diary, and the
light went and I felt my way to the door and it was closed and. . .' She
looked up at him, eyes narrowed. 'Someone locked me in. You must have seen who 
closed the door. Who was it?' she demanded.
Joe hooked a finger at her and led her to a panel at the side of the
cold room door. Kate, hair on end, dust on her nose, glared at what
he was indicating.
'Time switch. See? Releases the door after six minutes if the mech
anism
detects movement inside. Whoever locked you in there did it
several minutes before I got here.'
Kate looked at it, arms hanging. 'Only six minutes?'
Joe gazed down at her and spoke soothingly. 'Somebody closed the
door with you inside, yeah? But the safety device sprung you.'
Reviving somewhat, Kate huffed, rubbing at her face, spreading
more dust, as she looked up at him.
'Do you believe me when I say that someone purposely closed it --
with me inside?'
'You say it and I believe it.'
Kate gave the vast metal doors a confused glare as Joe continued.
'When the cold room was installed, couple of years back, I heard
that a Health and Safety guy gave a talk Upstairs. He warned all
personnel against closing and locking the door without first checking


that no one was inside. That led to Gander deciding to pay up for the
safety device motion detector and override mechanism.'
He glanced down at Kate, who still looked hot and annoyed.
'Who knew you were down here?'
'I've been through that,' she snapped. 'Whittaker. That horrible
Matt Prentiss. Bernie, Julian, possibly, and. . . you.'
'I mean apart from UCU, you little idiot. We're not likely to
lock you in a cold store, are we? Although now that I think of it, it's
given me some interesting ideas-- Ow! Hey, remember who it was
who came looking for you. I'm the hero here. It was destiny.'

'Huh! Hero-zero. More like density,' snapped Kate, annoyed with
herself, aware that she looked a mess.
Joe waited. When nothing further was forthcoming, he leaned
towards her, arms folded, speaking slowly and conspiratorially. 'What
did you find?'

Kate's face changed. 'I found it. I found the diary.'
Walking around him, she went back to the cold room and stepped
inside. The little red volume was still lying where she'd put it down,
not far from the door. Quickly, she retrieved it and stepped back out.
'It was hidden, Joe, in an unrelated evidence 'box.'
'Misfiled? Misplaced?'
'I know it might sound crazy to attribute my experience just now to a 
deliberate act by somebody, but I've been thinking.' She looked up at
him, face earnest, tapping the diary with a finger. 'What if the answer to 
Janine's disappearance, the how, even the who, is in here?'
Joe nodded, returning her look. 'Now you put it like that, I'm
really glad I found you,' he said, blue eyes crinkling as he grinned
down at her.

Kate's heart gave a sudden lurch.
Don't do that.

Don't give me that blue look, straight into my soul. . .
She turned quickly, headed for the stairs and disappeared, Joe
Mowing her. As they entered UCU, the phone was ringing. Kate was at the mirror 
in the refreshment area. Joe answered it as Kate sat
down with the diary.
Putting down the phone as Bernie came through the door, he
glanced across at Kate.

'Connie has some more information for us.'

Joe watched as she pushed Janine Walker's diary into her bag. 'Hey?
What are you doing now?'
'Taking this home to read.'
`Uh-uh. Don't do that, Red. If somebody locked you in the cold
room to hamper your search for the diary, it's remotely possible that
having it in your possession could be risky. It's evidence. It should
stay here overnight.'
With bad grace, Kate went to the small security cupboard in
the corner of the room and placed the diary inside it. Only UCU
personnel had a key.

In the quiet of the PM suite, they silently watched and listened as
Connie imparted information about the remains, pointing first to one
and then the other set and finally to a single long, slim bone lying in
isolation.
'I asked Harry to go over personally and collect familial DNA
samples from the Walker family. We now know for certain that these
are the complete remains of Janine Walker.' She took a few paces
to the other remains. 'We've already established that this is Molly
James. Found within a couple of metres of each other.' Connie was
silent for some seconds. 'I'm a practical kind of person. I do the
science. But I like the idea of them being together in that place.'
Bernie pursed his lips as Connie walked the few steps away from
them to stand by the table on which lay the single bone, stark in its
solitariness.
'And now, I've got a little information to give you about this item, which is 
helpfully somewhat beyond the norm.' They waited. 'It

belonged to a very tall young woman. My estimate is she was around
five-ten.'
Connie looked up from the femur, voice low. 'So, UCU. Three victims, each 
killed at a different time. Your case just went big-time.
You have a repeater?
Kate felt tension rise as a little pain immediately behind her eyes

lashed its tail.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At two o'clock the following afternoon, the phone shrilled in UCU
ti as Kate arrived. The only one present, she lifted it.
'Unsolved Crime Unit. Dr Hanson speaking. How can I--'
'It's what I can do for you, actually, Dr Hanson.'
Kate frowned. The voice. She searched her memory. The photographer.
'Hello,
Mr Brannigan.' She heard a rustling sound, then he was
back on the line.
'Remember I told you I took only photographs of the models?
Well, that's true, but I captured a bit more than that, apparently.
Don't know if you're busy, but I'm calling from Harbome High
Street. I'm doing some publicity work for Doctors.'
Kate nodded at the reference to the Birmingham-based daytime
television soap, which used a number of locations in the area.
, Brannigan continued, 'I'm happy to drop off what I've found at
!Rose Road later.'
1 Kate was reaching for her bag. 'I can come to you right now, Mr
r
rannigan. How about Cafe Rouge in ten minutes?'
She ended the call and scribbled a quick note to the others.
Within ten minutes Kate was sitting at a window table inside the

all High Street cafe, sipping an Americano and watching a clutch of people on 
the opposite side of the road. She could see a shoulder-held
camera and furry microphone focused on two bronze-faced actors
o were pacing and talking. She'd watched them go through it three
nits so far. This kind of location work was no longer an event here.
ore an inconvenience at times.
The chair on the other side of the table moved suddenly, startling
, and she looked up quickly. It was Brannigan. She hadn't seen
come in. He sat down opposite her, looking amiable in a denim


shirt, sunglasses pushed up into his thick hair. With a flourish he
placed a slim folder on the table between them.
'After your visit, I did some searching in my files. Don't know
whether these are of any help, but I think it might be her, the girl

who disappeared, although she doesn't look like they. . . Here, take a
look. See what you think.'
Kate felt her pulse quicken as she took the folder and slowly opened
it. Inside were three photographs. Two were very clear. After looking
at them for some seconds, she knew what she thought. She also
understood Brannigan's expressed doubt.

Kate's thoughts raced as she drove through the afternoon traffic.
Johann Pachelbel's Canon had spiralled several times before she
reached her destination. She parked in front of the modern glassand-concrete
building and cut the engine, then picked up her phone
and dialled a number from information she'd previously added to her
notebook. A male voice came on the line. Kate was direct.

'This is Dr Hanson of the Unsolved Crime Unit, West Midlands
Police Headquarters. I need to see you right now. There's something
I want you to look at.'
Within a minute she entered the reception area, and after a phone
call he appeared, looking calm and welcoming.
'Hello, Dr Hanson! Nice to see you. Come to my office. We can
talk there.'
She followed him, noting the white teeth, smart business suit and
neat hair. He led her into his office and they sat on opposite sides of
the large desk.
'I was expecting to come to Rose Road.'
Saying nothing, but keeping her eyes on him, Kate flipped open the
folder, slowly extracted two of the photographs and laid them in front
of him. His eyes flicked from one to the other, then to Kate, then back
to the photographs, a frown deepening between his brows.
She waited. Nothing came from him.
Kate leaned forward and pointed. 'These are photographs of Molly

James. Taken on the day she disappeared. We know it's the day she
disappeared because they were taken by the official photographer at a fashion 
show organised at the mall that day. Both of these are shots of
the show's runway, but they capture Molly well. Wouldn't you agree?' He made 
no response to that either, though Kate could almost hear
his thought processes.
'Particularly this one.' She tapped the photograph of Molly showing
her turning to her left, her companion equally well defined. She
reached a mental count of thirty. Still silent.
`Do you have any comment to make?'
He had paled in the last minute and looked worried. 'I. . . let me
think for a minute. It's a long time ago. I can hardly--'

She didn't give him an opportunity to finish. She tapped the picture again.

'At a rough guess, this photograph was taken within an hour,
probably less, of Molly James disappearing and never being seen
again. My understanding is that you didn't see Molly that day. Would
you like to explain your presence in it?'
His face had drained of its last vestige of colour. He looked from
the photograph to Kate, then back, silent.
Watching him closely, Kate heard her phone ring. Reaching into her bag, she 
pulled it out and listened, then, 'I'll be back in the office in around fifteen 
minutes. I'm going to suggest that within the next
half-hour Mr Jason Fairley presents himself at Rose Road for a talk
With us.'
±. She ended the call, picked up the photographs and replaced them

iitt their folder, a sudden thought occurring to her. 'By the way, have
u ever known a young woman by the name of Janine Walker?'
He looked at her, his face a total blank.
ate walked into UCU, went directly to the table and slid the photoraphs
Brannigan had given her from their folder. Her colleagues
ressed closely around the table. Bernie gave a small air-punch.

about that?' murmured Joe quietly, examining the photoaphs
closely.
,How'd he take it when you showed him these, Doc?'
"'Poleaxed" about covers it. And I doubt he knows about what's
len recovered from the bypass site.'
'ate looked down at one of the photographs in particular, then
rled her notebook and riffled its pages. Finding what she was oking for, she 
glanced up at the glass screen, seeking further conhiation.
liernie scanned her face. 'I know that look. It usually means that 
something we got that looks good's no bloody good, or there's some
other snag.'
Kate shook her head. 'I was checking that Brannigan's initial con
firmation to me of Molly's appearance on the day she disappeared
fitted with what we already knew from the previous investigation.
That she was wearing a pale-blue polo shirt.'
The three colleagues gazed down at the photograph. Molly James
in life, glowing with health, lips slightly parted, eyes bright, Jason
Fairley's hand on the sleeve of her white shirt.
Thinking ahead as to how the imminent interview with Fairley
might proceed, Kate picked up her phone and tapped in the mobile
number on the business card Brannigan had given her during their
first meeting. She had a request to make. One she hoped he could
fulfil in the next hour.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


They now knew that Molly James had changed her appearance on the
I day she was abducted.
'Might it have been a different day?' asked Julian.
Kate shook her head. 'I trust Brannigan's information. He was at
the mall because he had a contract. He took those photographs at that
fashion show and he's already told me that it was the only one ever
staged there, as far as he's aware. I've asked him if he can look out his
records of the job, to confirm it and counter any doubts Fairley might
raise about when the photographs were taken.'
She ran a finger lightly over the photograph, voice low. 'So. Here
She is. Molly. On the day she disappeared, wearing different clothes to
those she left home in. From what I recall, it also looks as though she
,
Changed her hairstyle. See? It's smoothed back. Secured at the back of her head 
in some way.'
Kate looked from Bernie to Joe. 'Jessica Barnes told you that Molly
had a backpack that day at the mall?' They each nodded. 'Maybe it

" ntained the change of clothes. We don't know what became of

er belongings. But the big question right now is about Molly's own

haviour. Why did she change?' She checked her watch. 'He should

here by now.'
, As if on cue, the phone rang. Joe lifted the receiver, nodded and
g up.
' 'Jason Fairley is in the building. And he's not alone.'

e and Joe walked into the interview room as Bernie diverted to the
t room to observe. They found Fairley seated beside a formally
;sed older man who had a briefcase at his feet.
:ate took the chair next to Joe. Glancing across the small table at

ley, she saw that he was in slightly better shape than when she'd 
left him earlier. He didn't look thrilled to be at Rose Road, but
neither was he still in shock. He nodded at her, face serious but now
showing some colour.
Joe started the proceedings.
'Thanks for coming in, Mr Fairley. Lieutenant Joe Corrigan,
Unsolved Crime Unit. We met recently at your place of work. This is
Dr Kate Hanson, my colleague, whom you met earlier today.'
Fairley didn't speak.
Joe transferred his attention to the soberly dressed man sitting next
to Fairley. 'And you are. . . ?'
'Alan Whitehead, of Whitehead and Graham, Mr Fairley's solicitor.'
Joe nodded genially, then looked back to Fairley, speaking quickly.
'Mind telling us why you thought it necessary to bring a lawyer to an
informal interview aimed at helping the police learn more about Molly
James's disappearance, Mr Fairley?'
Fairley stayed mute. Whitehead cleared his throat.
'Perhaps you're not familiar with the rules of law in the United
Kingdom, Lieutenant Corrigan. Mr Fairley is entirely within his rights
to bring legal representation to any meeting with the police, informal
or otherwise. I'm here to advise him about any contribution he may

wish to make to your inquiries.'
Whitehead glanced at Fairley, who gave a brief nod of agreement.
Joe chose to ignore the doubt expressed about his knowledge of the
British criminal justice system.
'Mr Fairley, Dr Hanson met with you earlier today and showed you
two photographs. Is that correct?'
Fairley nodded at Whitehead, who responded on his behalf. 'Yes.'
'And you would agree that depicted in both of those photographs is
a young woman known and easily identifiable as Molly James, who
disappeared from Touchwood shopping mall in July 2002? Here. Let

me refresh your memory.'
Joe took the two photographs from Kate and placed them on the
table in front of Fairley.
'Yes,' said Fairley, with permission from Whitehead.
'In both photographs there is a male person clearly identifiable as
you, Mr Fairley. What's your response to that?'
Fairley sat back in his chair, leaving Whitehead to reply.
'My client acknowledges that the male person in the photograph bears some 
fleeting resemblance to himself, but it is not a sharp
likeness, and with the passage of time . .
Kate felt a wave of irritation rising within her. Joe looked from
Whitehead to Fairley, tone insistent. 'Yes or no, Mr Fairley? Do you
acknowledge that this is a photograph of you with Molly James, taken
on the day she disappeared?'
Once again, Fairley did not respond directly. Whitehead spoke for
him.

'What my client is saying.
'Your client has hardly said anything yet,' intervened Kate, unable to stop 
herself.
`. . . is that he cannot be positively identified in the photographs,
given the limitation I have just described. He also says that it cannot be 
established without doubt that those pictures were taken on a
Opecific day.'

Kate was furious. Mainly with herself for giving Fairley sufficient
Oinking time to consult his solicitor. She glared from Fairley to
!Whitehead.
'That fashion show wasn't a regular event for the department
ore--'
`Ah, but that's the point, isn't it?' Whitehead cut in unctuously.
ou don't have proof that these photographs were taken on that
cific day and not on some other occasion.'
, Joe looked from Whitehead to Fairley. 'We're making further
uiries on that, Mr Fairley. In the meantime, would you care to
-cribe the nature of your relationship with Molly James at the time
disappeared?'
It was evident that Fairley did not care to do so. He sat staring at
table between Joe and himself.
ate's eyes were on Fairley's face. The interview was Fairley's
rtunity to give a credible account of the incident. So far his
uctance had done nothing to establish his trustworthiness. With a
t nod from Joe, she got to a key question:

:Witnesses in the original investigation said that Molly James left
c wearing a pale-blue polo shirt and cream trousers. During this

vestigation, a witness has confirmed that that same description was

to him by investigating officers who spoke to him shortly after

y's disappearance.' She tapped the photographs. 'Take another

, Mr Fairley. No polo shirt. No cream trousers. Molly changed her 
clothes.' She transferred her focus to the lawyer, Whitehead. 'Your
client was there. The question we'd like him to answer is "Why?"'
Whitehead adopted a patient air. 'And as I've already made plain to
you, there's no proof that--'
There was a soft tapping at the door. Glancing from Whitehead
to Fairley, Kate left the table and went to open it. It was Whittaker.
With a brief message. She quickly read it. Brannigan had come
through with the information she'd asked for. He'd looked through
his records and even gone further - he'd checked with the editor of
the Solihull News about the fashion event under discussion.
Kate returned to the table, her eyes briefly meeting Joe's, then sat,
all of her attention on Fairley. 'Mr Fairley, we now have confirmation
of the date of the fashion show.' She paused. 'And that it was the
only one ever staged by John Lewis at Touchwood.' Whitehead and
Fairley were silent. 'So, these photographs were taken on the day
Molly disappeared. We also know that they were taken some time
after two p.m. Prior to that, Molly was casually dressed. Afterwards,
her appearance changed. . .' Kate looked down at the photographs,
as did everyone else in the room. 'To what I would term "formal".
A white shirt, black trousers, and her hair smoothed back from her
face. Can you explain that change of appearance, Mr Fairley?'
Kate waited. So did Joe, beside her. Fairley didn't move for thirty
seconds, then he leaned towards Whitehead and whispered. Kate
Whitehead shifted in his chair. 'I need a moment alone with my
studied the ceiling.
Outside in the corridor, Kate and Joe were joined by Bernie. After a
client, please.'
brief pause, Bernie spoke. 'What's your thinking about him?'
Kate stood against the wall, arms folded. 'He hasn't said enough yet
for me to come to a conclusion about any involvement he might have
had with Molly's disappearance, but his demeanour doesn't inspire
She took one or two steps, then turned to her colleaguo. 'Right
confidence.'
now, I'm thinking about a very short note I saw on Molly's desk in her
room, when I visited her mother, remember? I didn't appreciate its
significance at the time. Now I think it could be key.'
'Remind me,' said Bernie.
'Someone signing himself - or herself - "J", suggesting that Molly
goes over to "see what's available". Or words to that effect.' 
Joe looked dubious. 'Any date?'
Kate shook her head.
'Any ideas?'
She nodded. 'Oh yes.'
Joe glanced at Bernie, then back to Kate. 'Okay. You continue
when we go back in.' He looked down at his watch. 'They've had
enough time. Let's get to it.'

, Joe and Kate returned to the room, where Whitehead was wearing
an inscrutable expression. Fairley looked cautious. And nervous.
Kate began. 'Okay, Mr Fairley. Have you anything to say to us?'
Fairley glanced at Whitehead, then nodded. 'I've just told Alan. I
see Molly that day, because she phoned and asked me to meet er.'
c, Kate studied him for some seconds, brows high. 'Leaving aside your
luctance to tell us about this, you didn't think to mention it to the
'ginal investigation?'
, Fairley made no response.
'So, where were you when she rang?'
'At my office. Five Ways. So I popped over, just to have a coffee
'th her.'
'Kate gave Fairley a level look. His use of the word 'just', a small t at an 
attempt to rationalise his activities that day.
44Quite a distance to "pop", from Five Ways to Solihull. Why?'
'Fairley shrugged. 'Just to . . . see her, you know.'
Were you in a relationship with Molly James at that time?' asked e, studying 
him closely.
his provoked a vehement shake of the head. 'No. We went out
about a year, but we'd finished a few months before . . . Her
er didn't approve. I'm . . . I was a few years older than Molly.
, mother didn't like me.'
te nodded. 'Okay. Molly wasn't your girlfriend at that time. Did
have another boyfriend?'
ley shook his head again. `Mol wasn't up for another relation


11.
Kate thought back to the little message on Molly James's desk. Id she have had 
a boyfriend that she kept secret?'
rley shook his head once more, this time with obvious assurance.

Mol was a very open kind of person. She'd have told me if she

eeing anybody. She told me everything. She even told me about 
some bloke she saw fairly often in some coffee shop in the mall -- I
don't mean she was seeing him. She told me they never even spoke.'
He shrugged. 'They just kind of . . . acknowledged each other, I
suppose. It was nothing. What I'm saying is, she even mentioned him. A nobody.' 
He stared at Kate, then looked down at his hands.
'And you remained friends with Molly after your relationship with
her ended?'
It was now Fairley's turn to nod.
Kate's eyes were on his face. 'Okay, how about this for a scenario?
You went to meet Molly at her request because she'd phoned and asked
you for some kind of encouragement, maybe a little moral support?'
Fairley's face reddened slightly, and his eyes slid towards Whitehead.
'Mr
Fairley, I think Molly had an arrangement to meet someone
that afternoon. Someone other than you. She clearly considered that
arrangement important, because she changed her appearance. Which
means she had to have left home taking additional clothes with her.
We think she was carrying them in her Ellesse backpack. But for some
reason she didn't tell anyone, not the friends she was with, nor her
mother. She didn't want anyone to know about the arrangement.
Except maybe you.'
Still no response from Fairley, who was now looking pressured.
Kate gazed speculatively at him.
'Let's think about this,' she invited with a quick smile. 'What
circumstances would lead Molly to go shopping with friends, taking
a change of clothes, and at some point ring you?'
More silence.
'Do you know what I think, Mr Fairley?'
He looked as though he'd much prefer that Kate didn't share her
thoughts with him
'More than one person who knew Molly at the time has referred to
her being short of money.' Fairley looked quickly at Kate, then away.
'I think the arrangement Molly had that day was a job interview.'
There was a frown on Whitehead's brow as Fairley swallowed and
leaned forward. 'It was nothing to do with me.'
Kate regarded him coolly. 'I think that's probably true, Mr Fairley,
insofar as you weren't her interviewer. She wouldn't have needed to
dress up for an interview with you. You and Molly knew each other 

well.' She studied his face. 'I saw a note in her bedroom, which I think you 
wrote.'
Whitehead's head jerked involuntarily to Fairley, whose face darkened.
Kate
continued: 'I think that when Molly rang you, you already knew about the 
interview and also who it was with. But unfortunately
for you, Mr Fairley, as things stand, you appear to be the last person to
have spent time with Molly prior to her disappearance. Unless you
know otherwise?'

Fairley was pale as he looked towards his solicitor.
Kate caught a glance from Joe and nodded. He looked Fairley in
the eye.
'You need to tell us who it was that Molly was seeing, Mr Fairley.
Right now.'
They watched as Fairley and Whitehead had a brief whispered
ptchange, at the conclusion of which Whitehead nodded briskly.
$airley looked from Joe to Kate.
'Mors mom was dead against her having a job. She wanted her to limcentrate on 
her college work. But Mol wanted to make some
ihoney.' He looked anxiously at Joe and Kate again, then down at his
ds.

Kate watched him. 'While you're giving some thought to the rest of
at you're going to tell us, Mr Fairley, can you confirm if you have
r met or known a young woman by the name of Janine Walker?'
Whitehead looked ready to intervene, but Fairley ignored him,
cious of Joe and Kate's eyes on him.

waiting for you to answer, Mr Fairley?' The atmosphere in the
Kate studied him. 'Okay. So -- how about the big question we're
'No. Never. I haven't.'

m was electric. 'Who was it that Molly James had an appointment
that day?'
looking down at his hands, Fairley gave them a name.


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It was five forty-five p.m. when the call came from Reception to
UCU. Bernie answered the phone, then hung up.
'He's here.' Walking heavily to the door, Joe and Kate in his wake,
Bernie looked back over his shoulder at them, face animated. 'All in
one day. We've got Fairley as a person of interest, a possible suspect,
even. And now this. It'll be my pleasure to lead this one.'

Their interviewee was waiting for them in the informal interview
room near to Reception. All three colleagues entered, Joe and
Bernie taking seats opposite him, Kate to one side of the room. John
Cranham looked coolly at each of them and said nothing. He evidently
hadn't felt the need to bring any legal representation with him in
response to UCU's request. Bernie started straight in.

'You had an appointment with Molly James the day she disappeared.
We know that you got back from your business trip early that same
morning. Tell us about Molly.'
Kate watched Cranham closely. No sign of discomfort. The well
dressed man gave Bernie a disdainful look, then glanced at Joe and
across at Kate. He smiled at her. 'I can't tell you anything. Because she
never arrived.'

He crossed one elegant leg over the other. Kate's peripheral vision
picked up shiny black loafers with leather soles.
She asked: 'Why didn't you mention this before, Mr Cranham?'
As he gazed from her to her colleagues, Kate speculated that of
all the occupants of the room, including Joe, Cranham was probably
the most relaxed. He shrugged, giving a smile that, in different
circumstances, might have been considered disarming.
'Because I'd completely forgotten. Look here, we're talking about
nearly a decade ago. It just slipped from my mind. Surely you can
understand that?'


Bernie looked at him, face hard. 'At the time of the original investigation,
you was saying you wasn't even in the country. You recently
told us the same. Until you had a "rethink".'
Cranham's focus was on the removal of an almost imperceptible
fibre from the sleeve of his immaculate suit.
'Yes. And then I corrected my error,' he said quietly, unperturbed.
There followed a short silence, during which Kate heard only
Bernie's breathing.
Joe broke the silence. 'What's with the game-playing, Mr Cranham?
Why didn't you tell us when you confirmed that information that
Molly had an appointment with you that same day?'
Cranham looked irritated. 'There was no "game-playing". I already
told you. I'd forgotten all about it. Plus, it didn't happen. It was a
non-event. She never arrived.'
, 'So when did you suddenly "remember" this arrangement you had ,xvith her?' 
asked Bernie.
, Cranham gave a rueful grin. 'After Dr Hanson's visit to the showroom.'
He glanced at each of their faces. 'Am I about to be charged 'for neglecting to 
mention an appointment I made years ago with a ' young woman to whom I might 
have offered employment but who
apparently couldn't be bothered to attend or cancel?' He glanced at his hands, 
face haughty.
; Kate's own face heated up. She wanted to slap him.
,
Joe leaned towards Cranham. 'The point is, when you did recall it,
you didn't tell us,' he emphasised.
Again their interviewee looked irritated. 'I have too many demands
my time to chase after the police with snippets of non-information.
PJhat use would it have been to you?'
", 'That's for us to judge,' snapped Bernie.
'I had no contact with this girl. I didn't know her. I never met her. ver. She 
was -- is -- irrelevant to me.'
.' Irrelevant. The discordance hit Kate. She glanced at her colleagues.
f y had also felt it.
4,Kate studied Cranham as he sat: the set of his shoulders, the relaxed
, ds, his head set high and slightly to one side as he favoured Bernie , th a 
supercilious look. She recognised the self-assurance and sense
entitlement his wealthy background had bought. She delved into
notebook and took out the photograph of Molly James she'd
oved from the glass screen prior to leaving UCU.


'Mr Cranham,' she said quietly. 'Would you take a look at this
photograph, please?'
He glanced at her then held out a well-manicured hand for the
photograph she passed to him. He stared at it briefly and Kate fancied
that some of the haughtiness in his manner lessened. He pushed it
back across the table.
'I remember it from the press coverage when she was missing. Very
sad. But I never met her in my life.'
Kate took back the photograph.
'Thank you. Last question. Do you know, or have you ever known,
a young woman named Janine Walker?' She felt Joe's and Bernie's
eyes on her.
'No,' he said without any hesitation.
This time Kate merely nodded her thanks.
Cranham looked at each of them in turn, then got up from his
chair. 'If there's nothing further, I'm leaving. It's late and I'm going
to hit the rush-hour traffic. If you wish to speak with me again, I'll
make sure it doesn't involve me in any further inconvenience. It will
be prearranged. You will come to me. And I'll have my legal representative
present throughout.'
He walked towards the door.
'Why did your family offer thousands of pounds as a reward for
information about Molly, if she was so "irrelevant" to you?' asked Joe
to Cranham's back.
Cranham turned, his eyes on Bernie and Joe. Cool. Controlled.
'Call it my father's public-spiritedness. My family's willingness to
assist at a time of need in the community.' He paused. 'Which West
Midlands Police should not rely on in future.'
With that as a parting shot, he was gone.

Back in UCU, Bernie was almost apoplectic with rage.
'Funny how he remembers some stuff and forgets other stuff, yeah?
I still say his father could have offered that reward because he thought
Sonny Jim was somehow involved with Molly. And who does he think
he is?' Bernie stormed. 'Him with his "you come to me" attitude. He
stops at the top of my list, the posh git . .
He was silent for some seconds, still simmering, eyes on the glass
screen. 'Still, it's not all bad news. Fairley and him are still POIs.
Now we work to move one or other of 'em up to being a suspect. 


VVhoever's killed these girls, he's a real piece of work. Once we've got
one of them in the frame and start leaning on him, he'll show himself
for what he is. We'll see it. This doer ain't just "somebody's husband,
somebody's son".'
Kate's head jerked upwards. She looked at Bernie, surprised. 'Who
said he was?'

'Julian.'


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mid-morning on Wednesday, Furman was in UCU, the vein in one
M temple pulsing. Kate gazed at it as Furman glared at her, Joe and
Bernie.
'I'm the manager of this unit. As the manager, I ' he pointed to
himself 'tell you three ' he pointed to them 'what you do and
what you don't do.'
He paced, clearly seething, then wheeled on them, addressing Kate
specifically as he waved a sheet of A4.
'What's this?' he demanded.
Kate glanced at it. 'That's a time sheet,' she said, tone helpful.
His colour heightened. 'I know that. What I want to know is, what
makes you think you can spend one-point-seven-five hours with the
James girl's mother?'
Kate looked him firmly in the eye. `UCU needs information. Mrs
James needed to talk. She's had to live through some very difficult
years since her daughter disappeared. I felt that the least the Force
could do was give one-point-seven-five hours to the visit, listening to
what she had to say.'
He narrowed his eyes, hands on hips. 'Did you hear yourself? All
that "feeling" and "listening". You're not her bloody therapist! This
woman doesn't expect us to go over there for--'
Kate had had enough. 'Dianne James expects nothing from us at
all,' she snapped, glaring back at him. 'Because that's what she learned
to expect from the previous investigation.'
Furman's eyes narrowed, face pale with rage. He switched his focus
from Kate to the others.
'Guess what I received this morning.' No one bothered to reply. 'An
email. From Rutgers.' They all recognised the name of the top-class Midlands 
legal firm. And what do I find out? That you three had
Cranham in here. For an interview!'
Kate focused on keeping her breathing even. Cranham had followed
up on his veiled threat. In the silence of the room, she heard sounds
from the world beyond the windows of UCU. She saw Bernie and
then Joe glance in that direction.

Furman ranted on: 'We've been over this. I said no interviewing of
Cranham unless I sanction it. What do you lot do? You get him in.'
He resumed pacing, one hand raking his short fair hair, the other
loosening his tie, his face changing from pale to a dull red, the vein
hyperactive.
Kate spoke. 'John Cranham had an arrangement with Molly to
interview her for a job on the day she disappeared. He never divulged
that, either to you years ago, or to us. He fits the type of person we're
looking for. Someone with the ability to charm. Someone who could
present as plausible and smooth to a young woman. Plus, he's mobile
and--'

'Who isn't?' bawled Furman.
Kate monitored her breathing, holding on to her patience. 'We're
looking for a combination of factors in our persons of interest. He
has some of the attributes we're seeking. The fact that he had an
appointment with Molly on the day she disappeared makes him
relevant to this investigation.'

`I say when there's a legitimate investigative reason for any kind of
interviewing of the likes of Cranham. His father's well in with the
Chief Constable so he's a potential source of trouble, and you're
Seeing connections that don't exist.'
" Kate felt her control slipping. 'Which is better than not looking for
any connections at all,' she said, voice rising. 'What's the matter with
ou? Don't you want these cases solved?'
The last question reverberated around the room as she and Furman
ed each other, Furman glaring at each of them in turn, finger
·inting.
'I hold the three of you responsible for this business with Cranham.
ut you --' he jabbed the finger at Kate -- 'you won't be managed. You
·n't be guided. You won't be told. It's always your way or no way. s unit needs 
people who can work as a team. You can't do that.
these two let you carry on doing whatever you want!' He directed finger towards 
Joe and Bernie. 
Furman paused for breath. When he spoke again, his voice was low.
'What happens in UCU is in accordance with what I say. I'll deal with
these two as police officers. But you're different. No way is this unit

being led by some control freak with mad theories that could put this
Force at risk of being criticised by the media and possibly sued for
thousands.'
He took a breath, glaring at Kate. 'Everybody remembers the
Wimbledon Common case. That's what happens when psychological
theory,' he sneered the word at Kate, 'gets mixed up with police
investigation. Well, I'm not having it, d'you hear? I'm not having
you link these girls' deaths on ffimsy evidence, then try to pin them
on somebody with serious financial clout, solely on the basis of
psychological mumbo-jumbo.'
He stopped for a few seconds, getting control of his breathing. 'The
Cranham family's a strong force to be reckoned with.'
Kate's face switched from suppressed anger to disgust. 'And here
am I thinking that that's what the police are supposed to be.'
The area around Furman's lips turned white. He took another A4
sheet from his file and waved it.

'See this?'
Kate stayed silent.
'This is a letter to your professional body.' He scanned it quickly.
'The British Psychological Society. It's addressed to their complaints
and procedures department, reporting you for gross lack of profes
- sionalism, flouting orders and ignoring Force management decisions.

It says--'
Red-faced, Kate leapt to her feet, squaring up to him, anger ignited
by his attitude as well as his words. 'Don't you dare threaten me!

Don't you dare lecture me about professionalism. You, of all people.
We're only here now, working on these cases, because you didn't do
your damned job!'
Seeing Julian standing white-faced in the doorway, Kate fought to
bring her anger under control. 'You can't make an official complaint
unless you give me a detailed explanation and an opportunity to--'
'Watch me.'
Bernie and Joe started to speak at the same time. Furman turned his
rage on Bernie.
'You'll keep out of this, Watts, if you know what's good for you.
There's real cutbacks on the way, and I can see the day coming when



you're out of this Force altogether.' He looked sideways at Joe, his
voice dropping. 'I'm putting in a request for you to be full-time
Armed Response.'
Joe eyed Furman coldly, rising slowly from his chair. He topped the
inspector by a good six centimetres.
'We'll see about that. In the meantime, Furman, you really need
to watch your mouth when you talk to any member of UCU. That
clear?'

The two men faced each other as the wall clock ticked. Amid the
thick tension inside UCU, Kate's watch suddenly fell off her wrist and
hit the carpet. It had happened before. Caused by her galvanic skin
response. Her stress response. She recovered the watch, getting a grip
on her temper and her voice.
'If you send that letter--' she started.
'Got one good reason why I shouldn't?'
'How about, if you'd done even a half-reasonable job on these
two cases at the time, they wouldn't need reinvestigating now.' Kate
paused, then, 'If you send that letter, I shall immediately request legal
advice from the Society, and also from the company that provides me
with five million pounds' worth of professional insurance cover.
That'll buy me a few lawyers.'

She glared at Furman. He glared back. She could see him thinking
his way around what she'd just said.
'You're on notice,' he snapped. 'One more step out of line, one
more disregard of an order this letter goes.'
He shoved the sheet back into his folder and stormed past Julian and
out. In the aftermath of his rage, the room felt like a vacuum. Julian
walked quietly to the computer station and sat, face pale, shoulders
rigid.

Bernie broke the silence first, looking at each of them in turn.
`Furman's barmy. You do realise that, don't you? Barking. I always
thought it. Now I can see it. He should see somebody. He's the one
;who's the control freak. He's--'
`--professionally dangerous for you, Bernie. And you, Joe.'
'Don't matter,' said Bernie, pointing in the direction Furman had gone. 'I'm 
not about to kowtow to the likes of him. He's looking for any excuse to fill 
UCU with some hand-picked lackeys.'
Kate suddenly became aware of more sounds from outside. 'What's mg on out 
there?' 


Joe walked to the window. 'Press vans with antennae have just
arrived.'
As he returned to the table, the phone rang and he picked up. 'Hi,
Connie.' He listened without speaking further.
Kate checked her watch and thought of Maisie, who would be in
the university this afternoon, at a maths lecture. She was taking A-level
maths soon. Years early.
Joe hung up and looked from Kate to Bernie.
'Connie wants to see us. The media know that Molly James and
Janine Walker have been found.'
CHAPTER THIRTY

I gor let them into the quietness of the post-mortem suite. Connie
was sitting under a powerful light examining a small item gripped by
tweezers. Her fitted pale green tee and knee-length black linen skirt
were visible between the open edges of her white lab coat. Pushing
her glasses up into her short black hair, she hooked a finger at the
arrivals, shaking her head as Bernie went for coveralls. 'Just gloves,
Bernard.'

They walked towards her, pulling on latex.
'Well, UCU. Want to see what I've found on the remains of Janine
Walker?'

Kate gave her head a small shake to focus, the scene with Furman
still reverberating.
Connie placed the item gently on the examination table, under
stark white light, and released it from the tweezer grip. They gathered
round. Yet another puzzle.

Connie looked up at the three serious faces opposite her. 'The card's
of similar construction to the one found on Molly James's remains, but
this time there's a little more to say about it. Have a look.'
They followed her directive.
'There's some kind of pattern, or marks.' Kate pointed to a specific
area. 'There. A round mark and another side by side. And a long
stroke. All three in black.'

Putting on his glasses, Bernie pored over the fragment. 'Makes no
sense to me. How about you, Corrigan?'
Joe bent close to the item. After a few seconds, 'Looks like letters. A
word.'
Connie looked from one to the other. 'I've got some information
about the card found with Molly James's remains. Forensics took a
look at it and reported back.'

She walked quickly to her desk and returned with a single sheet of
paper.
'It's pasteboard. Nothing to get excited about. Fairly commonplace.
Wes Jacobs describes its construction as follows.' Connie read
quickly from the printed report: "Layers of paper pasted together. A
common commercial process. . . extra-robust quality. . . extra paper
layers." He's confirmed indications of it having been thickly laminated
at one time. If it hadn't been heavy duty and laminated, it's unlikely
it would have survived. Wes also confirms that there's the remains of
colour, the kind you get from a permanent marker. Colour confirmed
to be --' she turned over the sheet -- 'red.'
Connie pointed to the small item now before them. 'This one looks
very similar to me, in terms of its construction.'
'So, what's heavy-duty pasteboard generally used for?' asked Kate.
Connie pointed to the report still in her hand.
'According to Wes, extra-sturdy rigid pasteboard is often used for
the construction of signs. Temporary signs. He also says that in this
weight it would be strong enough to provide very temporary repair
for, say, damage to the interior fabric of a building that might require
more robust attention in the near future.'
She looked at Joe.
'I agree with you about the features on this one being a word. This
time it's black ink.' She considered the item again, adding, 'It looks to
me like Os followed by a heavy downstroke. Whatever other letters
were there are long since gone.'
'Anyone have any idea what it might mean? Its significance?' asked

Kate.
'Darned if I know. What're you doing?' asked Joe.
'Copying it into my notebook.'
As they prepared to leave, Connie followed them to the door, arms
folded. 'I heard about the row.'
'Already?' asked Kate.
Connie looked at her, head on one side. 'Kate, the whole of your
floor heard it first-hand. Harry phoned and told me.' She looked
concerned. 'I have a high regard for UCU and I'm worried that it's
made a bad enemy in Furman. You also need to be careful with the
media, now that it knows about these two young women and the
reinvestigations.'


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
K
ate arrived home on Wednesday afternoon feeling a mix of emotions.
The impact of her row with Furman was still with her,
tempered now by a feeling that progress on UCU's cases was being
made. She moved through the hot, silent house, from front to back,
pushing open the folding doors to let in air.
Mugger was sitting patiently outside on the patio. She called to
him. He didn't come towards the house, merely wafted his tail from
side to side.

'Now who's put you in a mood?'
The phone in the hall clamoured and Kate went to answer it. 'Hello, sweetie,' 
said a husky female voice.
'Celia!' cried Kate with pleasure. 'I was going to ring you.' Kate and
Celia had been friends since they were children. That friendship had
survived their leaving their childhood homes, Kate's years at Oxford,
Celia's in London, their respective relocations, marriages, Kate's
divorce and several pregnancies, all of them Celia's, bar one.
'Of course you were,' responded Celia. 'We haven't met up since
last month and I need a friendship fix. Seeing four kids through
puberty is above and beyond. I need wine and laughs.'
Kate listened, grinning at the nearby wall. This was what she
needed. Normal life. Sanity. 'Sounds good to me.'
They agreed on an imminent arrangement and Kate hung up the
phone, still smiling to herself.
Running lightly upstairs to change, she noticed a pile of Maisie's
clothes, neatly ironed and folded by Phyllis, lying on the chest on the
landing. They'd been there for two days, despite Kate asking Maisie to
put them away. Sighing, she hefted them and walked across the
landing to Maisie's room, which was reasonably tidy compared to the
bedrooms of friends' children that Kate had viewed on occasion.





Making her way to the wardrobe, she pulled open one of the large
drawers beneath it. No space. She closed it and pulled open the other
drawer. Space. Placing the pile on the floor, she began moving items
aside so that she could add the ironed clothing.
She stopped and, frowning, picked up the two small items together
between her thumb and index finger. She studied them closely, heart
picking up speed a little. She sniffed them. Placing them on the carpet
beside her, she pushed more of the drawer's contents aside. And saw
an infinitely more troubling item.
Kate's heart hurled itself against her breastbone, perspiration prickling
her forehead. Shocked to her essence, she carefully removed the
small transparent envelope, hand quivering, to study the contents.
Three small, shiny blue tablets.
No. Not Maisie. Surely to G--

She heard a car door close, followed by the front door opening.
Shaking, she quickly rearranged the contents of the drawer, minus her
finds, and quietly closed it. Walking on to the landing, she dropped
the ironed clothes where she'd found them. She wasn't up to tackling
Maisie right now. Maybe later that evening. She needed time to
absorb what she'd discovered, and think about how she was going to

respond.

Maisie's foot hit the sitting-room floor with a sharp thump. Shocked
out of his catnap, Mugger leapt up, ears flattened, and raced under the
low table in front of where Kate was sitting, textbook on her lap. He
sat, fur puffed, tail flicking from 'side to side, giving Maisie a baleful
look.
'Careful, Maisie.'
Maisie was perched on the pink Swiss ball they shared. 'Mom,
how'd you do these? They're impossible!'
'Practice,' said Kate quietly.
Another thump. 'I am practising. And getting worse. Oh, for--'
Kate gave Maisie her attention. 'To sustain your balance what you
need to do is sit very straight on the ball and hold your torso really
taut,' she said, echoing Phil, her gym trainer.
Maisie's back was ramrod straight as she raised one foot, then
promptly lost stability again.
'See? It doesn't work!'
'It takes time. Try some cognitive imagery. Imagine your body is a
core of steel.'
'Hey, cool! I-am-a-core-of-steel,' intoned Maisie, Dalek-like.
'It does work. Imagine yourself having a core of steel and you'll be
able to carry on for as long as you want. Nothing will unbalance you.'
Kate watched her daughter as she dwelled on the events of the day.
The row with Furman. The way she'd challenged him. Not her finest
hour, professionally. The 'finds' in Maisie's room. What advice had
she offered Maisie just now? Core of steel. . . and balance.
Stuff bounces off steel.
Maybe she should try imagery in future contacts with Furman.
Despite the pleasant atmosphere between Maisie and her, Kate
knew that she could no longer avoid what was on her mind.
'Maisie?'
`. . . six, seven, eight-nine-ten.' Maisie raised one small, tanned fist
in the air. 'Yeah! What?'

'You and I need to talk.'
'Okay. . . One, two, three--'
'Leave that, Maisie, and come here, please.'
Catching Kate's tone, Maisie looked at her mother. Her eyes
dropped to the two items lying on Kate's outstretched palm. She
didn't move, but Kate saw shock and guilt in equal parts in her
daughter's face.

'Tell me.'
Maisie hesitated for a second, before deciding that counteraccusation
was her best option.
'You've been in my room? You've been through my stuff. How--'
'Listen to me, Maisie--'
`--could you!'
'I said, listen.'
At the tone of Kate's voice, Maisie slumped on the ball, looking
sulky. Kate forced herself to wait a few seconds before she expressed
her thoughts. Any display of anger and Maisie would respond in kind,
and then Kate would get nowhere.
'Are you smoking?'
No response.
'Maisie, I need to know. I would have thought you more intelligent
than. . .' Kate reverted to basics. 'These haven't been smoked at all.
Have there been others?'

Maisie looked up at her, then away. 'No.'
'Are you sure?'
Maisie flared. 'I said no, didn't I! You're checking up on me, going
through my personal stuff, and now you don't believe what I say!'
Kate looked at her daughter's flushed, angry face. She did believe
Maisie. She'd examined one of the cigarettes, its tip smeared with lip
gloss. She'd sniffed it. Sherbet.
Looking at it now, Kate imagined the little scenario that had
probably played itself out in Maisie's room: Maisie wearing cosmetics,
fingernails painted as they had been last week, posing in front of her

dressing-table mirror with an unlit cigarette. Her child-woman

daughter.
The cigarettes had not pleased Kate. The other item she'd found in
Maisie's drawer made them pale into insignificance.
'Care to tell me about these, too?'
Maisie flicked a sideways glance at her mother's hand, then stopped,
lips parted. Silent. Kate saw surprise and shock in her face, quickly
replaced by something else. Hectic thinking.
'In your own time, Maisie, but I want an answer.'
Dear God, this -cannot be happening to us. That I should be having a
conversation with my twelve-year-old daughter about--

'They're not mine!'
Kate looked at her daughter. Despite the furtive quality of Maisie's
face, Kate sensed that the tablets were indeed not hers. But it couldn't
be the whole truth. She thought over what Maisie had just said.
'So whose are they, Maisie?'
'I don't know. I told you. . . they're not mine.'
'Well they were in your room. No one else goes in there except you
and your friends.' Kate was fighting to keep her tone even. 'What are

they? I'm guessing they're not aspirin.' She instantly chided herself.
She'd sworn she would not get sarcastic.
'How should I know?' Maisie scowled.
'Did one of your friends Chelsey or. . . ?'
Maisie jumped up, giving the Swiss ball a little kick as she headed
for the door of the sitting room, then turned, face flushed, arms rigid
at her sides, small hands fisted.
'You are so unfair, Mom. I don't say stuff about your friends. You
know Daddy doesn't like Joe coming here, but I don't--'
'Maisie, don't say another word. Go.'



'I'm going, I'm going to phone Daddy! I'm going to ask him if I
can stay with him!'
The sitting-room door slammed.
Well done. You handled that really well. 
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

J

ulian was busily processing the statements and notes accumulated by
UCU's investigations, following an earlier visit by Furman demand
ing
them. Mercifully, Kate had missed this.
Cool in a gauzy white shirt and dark grey linen trousers, she paused
and looked solemnly from Bernie to Joe sitting opposite her, both in
short-sleeved shirts against the rising mid-morning heat beyond the
windows of UCU.
'What was done to Molly and Janine, and possibly the other as-yetunidentified
young woman, took hlin time and effort and may have
put him at risk of discovery and arrest. That suggests he had an intense
need to do those things. It was all a fantastic experience for him.
Literally. He'd done it many times already. In his head. This was
clearly no angry or jealous boyfriend.'
She glanced at Bernie, who was chewing his pen, and experienced a
surge of frustration with her efforts to convey the psychological imperative
of the doer. Bernie caught the glance and stopped chewing.
'Wile? Okay, Hanson. Get on with it. I know it was impersonal
stuff -- that instrumental whatsit you was on about before. I'm no
dummy.'
Sitting at the computer, Julian tittered.
Bernie turned and glared at him. 'Is that kettle on yet? Half an hour
ago you said you'd do it in ten minutes. All you've done so far is sit
there tapping and looking moody.'
Muttering, Julian left the computer station, taking pen and notepad
with him. He continued listening as water boiled.
Kate went on: 'Impersonal as it was, each victim was pre-selected,
on the basis of her physical characteristics. Only the doer knows why
those are relevant.'
She stood and began pacing, turning as she reached the glass screen
to look at her colleagues.
'It appears he blocked out the faces of two of his victims, and I
admit I'm struggling with the meaning, the purpose of that.' Distracted,
she removed the tortoiseshell clip from her hair, dropped it
on the table and ran a hand through the weighty dark auburn mass.

Julian approached with mugs of coffee, handing one to Kate. 'Is it
possible that the doer did what he did and then, when he'd calmed
down, looked at what he'd done and felt . . . remorseful?' He sat,
resting his face on his forearms.

Kate listened as he processed his own view further.
'But that progression doesn't fit, does it, Kate? Because he's got no
emotional commitment to the victims at all. So why would he feel
remorseful?' He looked up at her. 'He wouldn't. Would he?'

Kate smiled at him. 'Well done, Julian,' she said encouragingly.
'You interrogated your theory until it ran out on you.'
She looked to Bernie and Joe. 'Covering the face of a victim is
typically the action of a murderer wanting to protect himself From his
victim's emotions. Her anger, disappointment, pain. It also protects
him from his own shame, guilt, regret and, yes, his remorse. He covers
her face because he feels bad about what he's done to her. The reason
he feels bad is because of the emotional connection there was between
them.'

Kate walked to the glass screen, wrote two words, which she underlined, and 
turned to face them. 'And that's the problem. Because
I'm convinced that our doer is an instrumental psychopath.' She
paced some more, this time away from the screen.

'Victim-focused emotions like shame and guilt don't apply to him.
What our doer probably does feel is monumental rage towards one
person, which he is generalising towards his victims through his
behaviour. It's not about the victim in front of him. She's nothing to
him.'

A phrase heard a day or so ago slipped into her consciousness: irrelevant to me.
She sat on a nearby chair and kicked off her low heels, wriggling her
toes. 'He doesn't care about her emotions. He wants to see her fear.
Her needs to see the pain. Because she's now paying for whatever
situations, slights, insults and who knows what else he believes have 
been perpetrated against him by this one person towards whom he is
so vastly angry. Each of his victims is merely a vehicle for all of that.'
Joe watched her, listening intently. 'So why is he covering their
faces?' he asked quietly.
Kate had been down to the post-mortem suite to look again at
the face coverings. All she had seen the second time were the same
discolorations, patchy grey areas and yellowish-green to brown
decomposition stains.
She shook her head. 'I don't know, Joe.'
Bernie took a mouthful of coffee. 'Given what you've just said, any
name we got that you think we can push up to suspect?' he asked.
'Not Colley. The destroyer of these young women is capable of
enticement, with an effective con, followed by total mastery over his
victim. Colley can only achieve that with a female who is less than ten
years old.' Kate glanced at each of them in turn. 'Our doer is a master.
There's a kind of professionalism in what we know he's done. It's
practised. He has the ability to plan. He has the skills needed to carry
out his plan, and he's sufficiently personable to inveigle intelligent,
sophisticated young women into the situations he orchestrates.'
'How about he just picked 'em because they was young and that's
all there was to it?'
Kate nodded. 'You're right, Bernie. Repeaters often do choose
smaller people, women, teenagers merely because they're easier to
control. But in our cases, based on what we know of their general
appearance, his victims were special to him in some way only he
understands. It could be that there's something about them that
is . . . reminiscent of someone else?'

Kate placed both hands over her face momentarily, then let them
drop on to her lap, feeling beleaguered. 'He's a very confident killer.
He's demonstrated that by his ability to con and snare tall, healthy
young women and dominate them physically.'
Joe looked to Bernie, then back to Kate. 'Maybe he's tall. Well built.
Fit. How about somebody who works out? A bodybuilder?'
'Remember I went to see Mains? He looks as though he's been a
weightlifter in his time,' suggested Bernie.
Kate looked at each of them and shrugged. 'Possible. But he could
also be your average male. Bodybuilding isn't a necessary characteristic.
Think about it. Most men are able to take physical control of most women, 
simply on the basis of greater muscle power. In certain situations might be 
wise to fear you three as individuals -- you are very
unlikely to fear me.'
Bernie gave her a sideways glance. 'Yeah? You sure about that?'
He dropped his pen on the table and started massaging each
forearm with a heavy hand, a sure indicator of frustration.
'What I really want you to do is tell me what this doer is like, as a person-- 
say, when he's going about his normal life, if he ever has one.
You've said "psychopath" and all that's in my head is that bloke in
that film. The one where the FBI woman goes and sees him in his cell,
and he's going on to her about beans and wine and stuff.'

Kate moved to sit on the edge of the table, ordering her thoughts.
'Okay. Our doer's got the same murderously antisocial personality.
But he's no Hollywood-style Lecter. We won't identify him by visible
characteristics, such as a penchant for tight clothes, slicked hair and bon 
vivant interests.' She heard Bernie mutter as she continued. 'All
roads lead us back to his behaviour. His capacity to blend. To appear
ordinary. That's all we have to work with.'

She thought for some seconds, then stood and went to the front of
the room again.
'Okay, Bernie. Here's my best answer to your query about what
he's like as a person. He operates behind a workaday charade he's
created for himself of "Mr Normal". But psychological theory can tell
us something of his underlying personality.' Bernie sighed, looking
impatient, as Kate considered how best to convey the individual
behind the theory.

She took a deep breath. 'To understand the essential "him" behind
the normal presentation, picture the average eighteen-month- to
two-year-old child of your acquaintance or past experience.' Her
colleagues looked at her, listening keenly. 'The psychopath has that
same total self-focus, the same determination to get what he, or she,
wants. In some ways they share the same world view -- the two year old
and the psychopath -- which can be summed up as "I want! I need!
Give it to me! And I want it now! I don't care if you are tired or ill
or whatever else you might be feeling. Fill my need! Gimme what I want!"'

Bernie's frown faded as Kate continued. 'Neither the toddler nor

the psychopath has innate curbs on his behaviour. He just does what

he wants. But there's an essential difference between them. Most two

r olds already have a degree of awareness of other people as

separate entities, with emotions and needs. That's because, mercifully
for the majority of little kids, there's at least one person in their lives
who's shown them nurture, kindness and care.'
Memories of a two-year-old Maisie stole into Kate's head.
'That's why the toddler may pat your arm if you have a headache,
or hide a broken toy, due to feelings of guilt.' She stood, aware of
Joe's eyes on her. 'The adult psychopath, our doer, missed out on
that developmental stage. Right now, he's masquerading as a fully
developed individual. He's developed a false self. Because --' she
emphasised with an index finger tapping the table -- 'he has to conceal
from others that he has no empathy, he has no guilt, and therefore he
has no shame.'
In the following silence, Kate returned to her seat at the table
before continuing.
'He's an adult who has not developed beyond the "gimme it or I
hit you on the head" stage. But --' she looked at each one of them in
turn -- 'stupid he is not. He knows that to openly be what he is and do
what he wants would bring him only censure, punishment.'

Kate was aware of the common assumption, particularly within the
Force, that certain types of offenders were insane. She glanced around
the table. 'He isn't mad. Not if he can delay his antisocial behaviour in
order to avoid trouble for himself. Psychopaths can appear to follow
the rules operating around them for much of the time, say at work, or
in their relationships with others.'
'This is a guy who works pretty hard to fit in socially? He's a kind of
chameleon, right?' said Joe.
Kate nodded. 'He's grown up closely observing other people and
how they operate. The reason he's able to conceal his real self is
because he can act what he's observed. He's a good mimic.'
Julian broke into the discussion. 'So that means he could be
anywhere? Undetected? Acting and being "normal"?'
Kate smiled at him. 'Yes, though fortunately not all psychopaths
are sexually deviant. However, sexual deviant or not, they still cause problems 
wherever they are. Think about it,' she invited. 'If you're a
non-sexual psychopath, where might you choose a job in which you're
actively encouraged to be ruthless, selfish and arrogant?'
'Canary Wharf. House of Commons,' Bernie huffed.
'Wall Street,' added Joe.
Kate nodded. 'Those professional areas provide the ideal habitat for the 
regular kind of psychopath, who wants what he wants, wants it all,
and whose take on life is "I, me, myself and I", just like the toddler,
but no longer two feet tall. He favours sharp tailoring, and he has his
hands on your pension and investments. "Snakes in suits", as one
eminent researcher has named them.'
'You're saying they live their lives cheating other people and
nobody catches on to what they're up to? All this conning and
people fall for it?'

Kate shook her head. 'Not always, Bernie. The trick is to fit the con
to the person, in order to be successful.'
She looked across the table. 'Julian's right. They can be found
anywhere they can push their own agendas, bend the rules, make
everybody else's life miserable. Everyone has experienced a psychopath
at some point, most often in the work environment.'
'Furman,' murmured Joe.
Kate studied the names on the glass screen. 'The sexual psychopath
is a whole other problem,' she said softly. 'Because throughout the
time he's masquerading as normal in terms of emotions and understanding
of social rules, he's gratifying his sexual deviance. Leaving a
trail of destruction and traumatised families.'
Bernie shook his head, one thick index finger raised. 'Don't tell
us he had problems in his childhood, Doc. That's what gets right on
my ti-- nerves. Nothing's nobody's fault no more. They've all got an
"ism" or a disorder or seen something nasty in the woodshed when
they was four.'
He felt Kate's eyes on him and folded his arms, jowls reddening.
'My family never had nothing when we was growing up, with all of us
kids to look after. But we never cheated people or done cruel stuff.'
He stopped, eyebrows slammed together. 'Any road up, just don't tell
me it's not his fault, okay?'

'Wouldn't dream of it, Bernie,' said Kate gently.
Julian suddenly spoke. 'So. . . to catch him, would it help to try to
think like him, Kate?'
'Dr Hanson to you, lad! Get that kettle on again. All this theory
stuff's giving me the 'eadaches.'

Kate nodded at Julian's question. 'We could try. But, as I said
earlier, I think our best chance is to study his behaviour, what he's
actually done, really closely.'
Furman had appeared silently at the open door of UCU during this 
exchange. Ignoring him, Kate glanced at Bernie, who was now looking
downcast, and guessed that the discussion about small children
was the cause.
'How's your daughter Janice getting on, Bernie?'
'Expecting again. Number four. She's coming over with 'em this
Christmas. It'll be hard for her, being on her own, but she said she
don't care about that.'
Hearing this, Furman gave Bernie a contemptuous glance. Kate saw
it.
'Janice has done really well, hasn't she, Bernie,' she said, now
following her own agenda, an eye still on Furman.
Bernie nodded. 'Yeah. I'm very proud of her, as you know. I mean,
I never had an education really. Adderley Street Mixed, then secondary
modern. But our Janice went as far as she could.'
Kate observed more contempt from the half-listening Furman.
What she knew and he didn't was that Bernie Watts's daughter had
indeed gone as far as she could. To Oxford on a scholarship. Since
then, she'd worked at Hamburg University of Technology, her partner
also an academic there.
'Yep, she's a good girl. She liked it at Balliol. Still doing well for
herself now. A lot of that was due to her mother's influence, while she
was alive.' He fell silent.
Furman's facial expression had faltered as he tracked the exchanges
more closely. Now he flicked a searching glance at each of them,

seemed about to speak, gave a final glare and exited the room.
Watching him go, Julian turned on his senior colleagues, incensed.
'Oh great! Now he thinks we're winding him up! Man, I'm history.' 'What's up 
with you now, Devenish?'
'It's obvious! He was thinking your daughter was a real--' Julian
reddened and fell silent.
Bernie lounged against his chair, looking across the room at him.
'Yeah? What did he think about my daughter? Spit it out.'
Julian turned on Bernie, hot-faced. 'You can bet he'd got the idea
your daughter was a bit of a waste of space. Council flat, benefits and
all that. Next thing he hears, you're going on about her being at
Oxford . . . Oh, forget it!' Julian threw down his pen and subsided,
lounging sulkily on his chair.
Joe looked across the room. 'You think we should save Furmane-Idiot
from himself, Jules?'
Julian shrugged, saying nothing, clearly still annoyed.
Bernie glanced at Julian, then at Kate. 'What's up with him?' Without
waiting for a response, he asked, 'Any of our persons of interest
bear even a passing resemblance to what you've said?'
She nodded very reluctantly. `Cranham.'
'So some in-depth interviewing of him might show his real side?'
'Possibly,' said Kate, thinking of Cranham's arrogance and apparent
low empathy. 'But a problematic personality isn't sufficient evidence,
is it, no matter what he might say? I think it's best we don't make early
assumptions about anybody or target the investigation too soon. We
need to keep it wide-ranging and see if it leads us to facts that could
become solid evidence.'

Kate looked at each of them, again pushing the argument she'd
previously made. 'We need to explore the possibility of this same doer
having an offence history prior to these murders. If he has, then as Joe
said, it could be a prime source of information, which might move us
forward. Living victims are also witnesses.'

She glanced across the room. 'Julian? Would you try again to search
for unsolved rapes?'
Looking morose and clearly still nettled, Julian jabbed the keyboard.
Kate
had something else on her mind. Janine's diary. She'd had no
real opportunity to read it. Going to the security cupboard, she
unlocked and opened it, took out the diary and began the task, as
Julian moodily tapped computer keys.

Fifteen minutes later, Kate gave Joe an evaluative glance as he
studied the printouts of Julian's search, then walked to the secure
cupboard and placed the diary back inside. Regardless of what he'd
said about its potential risk, she had made up her mind. When she got
an opportunity later today, not only was she was going to read it
thoroughly, she was also taking it home. She wanted another pair of
eyes on it, and she had someone very specific in mind.

After giving ten minutes of her full attention to her copy of the
printouts, Kate knew that there were just four unsolved cases of
stranger-rape against females in the West Midlands in the five-year
period prior to the murders of Janine Walker and Molly James that
met the criteria she'd specified -- age range: seventeen to twenty-one 

years; physical characteristics: tall, blonde; plus 'educated', as defined
by college, university acceptance or actual attendance.
Joe looked to Julian and made a writing motion with his hand.
Julian went to the glass screen and picked up a marker.
'Just list the names and dates, Jules, for quick reference,' Joe
advised as he read them out. 'Four rape victims identified as Josie
Kenton-Smith, attacked in February 1995; Amelie Dijon in June
1996; Suzie Luckman in April 1997; and Tracey Thomas in December
1997. That's three potential living witnesses for us. It says here
that Tracey Thomas died in a road traffic accident in ninety-eight. Her
boyfriend was subsequently convicted for dangerous driving.'

Kate nodded absently. Suddenly her head shot up. 'Wait a minute!
I've seen a couple of those names already. Definitely the first one,
Kenton-Smith.' She thought for a few seconds, then smacked the
table with a palm. 'In the cold room. It was written on something
inside the box in which I found Janine Walker's diary.'

Kate watched Julian as he wrote up the details, thinking that
another trip to the evidence store was needed.
Why that particular box?
Surely it wasn't coincidental?
She thought about the difficulties UCU had had in locating adequate
information on the two abduction cases so far. That wasn't
usual, even allowing for one of them being more than a decade old.
Kate felt tired. She glanced at her watch and sighed, wishing she
could go home. No chance of that. She had to be at the university
later that afternoon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Dernie had UCU's phone in one massive hand, listening to the voice
in his ear. Julian's concentration was on the computer screen. Kate
quickly crossed to the secure cupboard and removed Janine's diary.
She returned to the table as Bernie said a few more words into the
phone and ended the call, and Joe appeared through the door with a
Caffe Nero carrier bag.

Kate watched Joe as he walked across the room and took the chair
next to her. She described what they'd been doing since he'd left over
an hour before. 'We've gone through as many boxes as we could for
any actual statements made by Kenton-Smith, the French student and
Suzie Luclunan. We even included Tracey Thomas. Nothing.'

Joe nodded, offering her a Danish pastry from the blue carrier bag.
She shook her head.
Bernie looked across the table at her. 'Don't worry, Doc. I couldn't
find no phone numbers either, but Julian's done some digging in
the computer files and got a couple for us. For Kenton-Smith and
Luckman.'

Julian transferred his attention from the computer. 'There's a
separate file for victims of crime that includes their private phone
numbers, so I--'
'Sounds like the type of database that's confidential and needs
clearance,' murmured Joe, passing the pastry bag to Bernie.
Grasping it, Bernie lowered his brows. 'You never told me that bit,
Devenish!'

'I got around the password because you told me to do whatever I
could to get hold of the numbers!'
Kate looked impatiently from one to the other. 'Oh, stop it, both of
you. We need that information. Sometimes rules have to be. . . put to
one side. Anyway, it's done now.'

'Careers guidance courtesy of the Doc, Devenish. Follow what she
says and your career in the Force will be over before it's started,'
muttered Bernie.
'Ignore that!' directed Kate, seeing the expression on Julian's face.
'So, what've we got?' asked Joe.
Bernie answered. 'We got two current numbers. One for Luckman's
mother. No reply so far. The other one's for this Kenton-Smith. I just
finished speaking to her sister. Kenton-Smith works in London. Comes
back to Birmingham late on Fridays and stops with her sister until the
following Tuesday morning. The sister lives in F-F-F-Far-QuaHar
Road, Edgbaston,' he enunciated in a plummy voice, eyebrows
working.
'Toney real estate,' commented Joe, recalling the occasions on
which he'd driven along that particular road, past impressively individual
homes in spacious settings.
Kate watched as Bernie slurped coffee and demolished half a Danish
with one bite, crumbs cascading onto his shirt.
'I've fixed up to have a chat with Kenton-Smith next Monday. Wish
all our witnesses was as willing,' he said indistinctly.
Kate frowned at him. 'Bernie, that needs a female interviewer.'
The bulldog-with-a-gripe face was suddenly back. 'What you on
about now? This woman's educated. Up for a chat. Her sister said
so.
'I'm coming with you,' Kate insisted. 'I ask the questions. Kenton
Smith is a victim of rape.'
Bernie looked ceilingwards. 'So what you're saying is, I can't show
no empathy to females, right?' He glared at her. 'Look, Doc, what
happened to her was how long ago? Plus, the Force has had a lot of
training over the years. I know what to say and what not to say. All
this sisters-under-the-fur PC crap gets right on my t--'
'Igo with you to see her! do the talking.'
Bernie looked seriously aggrieved. 'No change there, then.'
Kate picked up her bag and turned to Julian. 'Can I give you a lift to
the university?'
He looked up at her. 'Thanks, but I'm cycling.'
Nodding in response, she glanced briefly at Joe reading through
the information on Kenton-Smith, and left UCU for her university
tutorials.
Later, Julian was gazing around Kate's room at the university, taking
in the leaded window and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, finally
settling on the large carved desk she'd told him her PhD supervisor
had given her when he retired.
Sitting in the elderly but comfortable armchair, he nodded as Kate
held out a book, open at the reference she'd just found for him.
'I like this room,' he said, looking up as he took the book, then
bowing his head over it.
Kate smiled. In some ways the tutor--student relationship between
herself and Julian felt more natural here. At Rose Road, she often felt
distracted by issues such as a wish to protect Julian from some of the
grim realities of forensic work, alongside the need to treat him as just
another colleague.

Without looking up again, he continued, 'It's calm. Like, you can
be. . . peaceful here. You can think'
Kate crossed to her desk and sat down. She waited, knowing he had
something on his mind. She also knew that with Julian it worked best
if she let him come to her.

'Kate? Do you think I could . .. that I can . . . make it here? I
mean, get a job here in Birmingham after I graduate?'
She looked at the earnest young face. 'Julian, I think you could do
pretty much anything you put your mind to, wherever you choose to
go.'
He flushed and looked down at the book again.
A few minutes of further discussion and the tutorial was at an end.
As Kate made notes on his study plan, Julian put textbooks into
his backpack, thanked her and walked to the door, pausing before he
left.

'Maisie was in our stats class last week, with two other kids from
across the road. D'you know, one or two of the students in my year
ask her to explain stuff to them? She's really sharp, Kate.'
Kate nodded. 'Yes, she is. Academically.'
Too sharp, sometimes.
And nowhere near as grown-up as she thinks she is. 
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A

t Kate's house some hours later, Celia was well into her stride.
`. . . and the nun in the bath puts her hands to her chest and says
to the man, "How dare you! You said you couldn't see!" and the
man says, "No. I told you I was the blind man from the village . . ."
Hang on! I'm not sure I got that right. .
Half lying on the sofa, wine glass in hand, Kate erupted with
laughter as the tall, shapely woman relaxing in a nearby chair mock
frowned. She glanced at Kate with a grin. 'So what've you been up to
recently?'
Their friendship had survived for many years and still flourished,
despite their getting together monthly at the most, due to claims on
their respective time. A major claim on Kate's was staying overnight
with Chelsey, a plan Kate had agreed with Candice with some misgivings.
She hadn't yet fully explored with Maisie the small blue
tablets she'd found in her bedroom.
'Up to my armpits in deviance. Teaching the theory, dah-de-dah.
I've also just finished a report on a criminal case.'
'Spare me, please. When I phoned a few days ago, Maisie told me
you're also working at Rose Road again.'
Kate confirmed with a nod.

'How's 01' Blue Eyes?' Celia asked, raising one eyebrow.
Kate laughed again. 'He's very well.'
'I just bet he is!'
Kate shook her head. 'Gee, the only thing you missed out there was
a phivoar.'
Her friend grinned. 'Actually, he's extremely high on my f-list--' 'Gee!'

'I meant f as in phwoar,' she said innocently. Kate gave her a sideways look 
as she sipped her wine. 'Course you
did.'

'Well, he does put me in mind of Jeff Bridges the younger. And he's
back! When you were thinking he might not be.'
'There was a rumour at Rose Road that he was thinking of staying
put in Boston. Now he's back here for one more year.' Kate took a sip
of wine. 'Anyway. . .' She lapsed into silence.
'Anyway what?'
Kate shrugged her shoulders. 'Nothing. Here for another year.
We're working together again. End of story.'
'Kate, I'm three months older than you. That means I've got a lot
more sense. I'm telling you, when I met him here at your Christmas
get-together last year, I could see he was smit.'
'We're friends and colleagues, Cee, and "smit" is not a word.'
'Pedant.' Celia sipped her wine, eking out the one glass because she
was driving. She glanced briefly at Kate, gauging her receptivity. 'What?' 
demanded Kate.
Celia put down her glass and gazed at her. 'A word to the wise,
Kate. I think this work you do is too sad, too sombre for you.'
'It's what I'm trained for, Celia,' protested Kate, as she struggled to
sitting and helped herself to more wine. 'And what d'you mean, "for
me"? Nobody likes it. Actually, that's not strictly true. I do love
deviance, and -- don't look at me like that. If the expertise I have can
be helpful, I have to do it, Celia. If I don't try and nobody else does
either, it means that victims and their families never get to see an end
to what's happened to them.'

'I know, I know. But it doesn't have to be you, does it? When did
you become Ms Indispensable Crusader? Leave the police and the rest
of the justice system to get on with it. It often works out in the long
run, you know. If nobody cared, then UCU wouldn't exist, would it?
See?' she ended, pointing at Kate, triumphant. 'That proves there are
a lot of people in the system besides you who want to see justice
done.'

Kate leaned back on the sofa cushion. 'The system doesn't look out
for the victims of crimes, the families. Its initial focus is on identifying
whoever did whatever was done. Then all the energy and money is
focused on- proving it. Somewhere along the line victims and families get left 
out of the equation. You're right. There are people who care.
But, like me, they struggle against the system.'

She lay back on the sofa, then squirmed to look at her friend.
'Did you know, Bernie Watts has been regularly visiting three
families for years in his own time? The investigations he and they
were part of never got as far as an arrest. So he goes to see them, tells
them about any new developments, or just listens.' She settled back
against the cushion. 'Don't let on to him that you know.'
'I won't, but my concern right now is you. Your life. You had a
rough time with Flaky Kevin.'
Kate squirmed again, shooting a suspicious look at her friend.
'It's a quote from Blue Eyes,' confessed Celia.
'Joe spoke to you? About me?'
'Calm down. He said it at that Christmas do. He's right. Flaky is
exactly what Kevin is. About as trustworthy and reliable as a box
of foxes. Look ' Celia sat forward as Kate frowned 'I've been
wanting to say this to you for ages. Don't let one bad experience stop
you finding a new relationship. You bury yourself in work--'

'Work never let me down, Celia,' said Kate quietly.
'But parts of what you do aren't pleasant, are they? And, well, I
think it keeps another negative memory alive,' she finished quietly.
The room fell silent for a few seconds.

'We both know why you probably chose forensics crime as a line
of work.'
Kate looked at Celia, then sat up, placing her glass carefully on the
low table nearby. It had never, ever been mentioned between them in
all the years since it happened. When they were much younger, they didn't have 
the words. Since then, there hadn't been the motivation.
'It isn't because of that, Celia. I'm not sure it figures at all.'
'Oh, come off it, Kate!' Celia looked irritated. 'You're a psychologist!
It has to be a part of it. Yes, I know. You're doing what you
see as the right thing. The point I'm making is, the focus on police
work, the contact with people who are in such tragic situations, plus
the ones who've done awful things does that do you any good? Or
does it maybe subconsciously keep the old memory alive. You we
got lucky as a child. That doesn't make you anybody's protector and
avenger.'

She glanced at her friend's face, before carefully expressing her next
thought. 'Kate, you weren't to blame for what happened. You don't
have to work yourself into the ground now to prove you're a "good girl", 
because you believe you did something wrong by going to him. I don't feel 
guilty because I didn't stop you. We were six, for God's
sake.'

Kate shook her head. 'It doesn't figure in my work choice, Gee, and
I hardly ever think about it. Much. It's a back-of-the-head thing. It's
not --' she pointed a finger at her own forehead -- 'up front.'
'Okay,' sighed Celia. 'Have it your own way.'
Kate knew that what she had just said to her friend was not the
absolute truth. What had happened when they were children had
contributed to what she was.

An overachiever with a need to be in control, according to Kevin.
All those years ago, innocence had put both of them in severe
danger. The second time they saw the man's face, he was featured in
an item of television news. He'd murdered four little girls in Surrey.
Close to where Kate and Celia grew up.

Kate was on her feet, looking down at her friend.
'Celia? I've got something from UCU I need help with. Will you
take a look?'
Her friend nodded, looking resigned, and followed Kate in the
direction of the kitchen.
Reaching the table, Kate dug into her bag and brought out the
small red volume. They stood side by side, leaning against the granite,
Kate looking up at Celia, her facial expression earnest.

'This diary belonged to one of the victims in our case.'
'The case that's just been on the news? The digging near the
bypass?'
'Yes. I'd like you to look at some of the comments written in it so I
can check if my thinking is on track, or way off.'
'How does the Dynamic Duo respond to your ideas on cases?'
Joe listens to the theory I offer and considers it. Bernie struggles.
His first response is to question the sanity of people who do things like
this. He thinks they're maniacs.'
'I can almost see where he's coming from.'
They sat at the kitchen table, Celia with a small shake of her head.
'Here I am trying to advise you against the work you're doing and I
end up aiding and abetting. . .' She glanced at Kate, who was leafing
through the small volume, not listening, and sighed. 'Okay. Let's
have it.'

Kate pointed to a section in Janine Walker's diary for March. 
'See here? She's written, "There again today. V. nice. Soph." -- that must mean 
sophisticated. What do you think?'
Celia shrugged. 'Sounds plausible.'
'And she goes on: "Raised his cup to me."' Kate looked at her
friend. 'What do you think of that?' There was a small silence. 'Go on,
Cee! Give me your impressions.'

Celia frowned, studying the words in the diary, then looked at Kate.
'Impressions? Of him? The situation? It's not much to go on, is it?'
She shook her head. 'Okay, let's see. Mmm . . . this girl -- well, she's
met somebody, a man obviously, in a . . . a restaurant! Or maybe a
coffee place. And he's way older than her -- because of the cup-raising
and being sophisticated. And she doesn't know him. Did I say "met"?
No, no. He's a stranger, but they've kind of started noticing each
other.'

'That's exactly what I was thinking,' said Kate, with a vigorous nod,
flipping pages and pointing at another entry. 'Now, look at this. A
month later she's written, "Coming to Sheffield when he finishes his sec.tr. 
course. Wishes we met in Feb. So sweet."'

Celia gazed intently for some seconds at the entry to which Kate
was pointing. 'No. I don't have a clue why Sheffield is relevant.'
'Sorry, Cee. This young woman was planning to go to uni there.'
With a frown at her friend, Celia examined the diary entry some
more. 'Right. Finished his what course? He's a student as well? Rats!'
She'd recalled what she'd said about the man's age a moment earlier.
'Okay, how about he's a mature student? "Wishes . . . met . . . so
sweet" -- I don't have a clue about that. Something he wishes? What's
special about February, when they hadn't even met?' Celia paused.
'Hang on. She's young, you said? February . . . what goes on in
February . . . nothing. A lull after Christmas . . . Hang on! How
about she's referring to Valentine's Day? No, no. He was the one
doing the wishing.' Another pause. `Ah-ha! How about he took a trip
that month, and once they actually began the social stuff, he was
telling her about it, and said something like, "Oh, it would've been
great if we had gone together, the view from my room was lovely",
you know how men do -- a chat-up line, to get sex into the conversation.
What else?'

Kate flipped a few pages. To the end of July. 'See here? She says,
"I'm glad he told me about seeing me."' She pointed out the line to
Celia.




Celia gazed at it, chin on hand. `Mmm. He's told her he saw
her. . . So what?'
A couple of seconds slipped by, then Celia looked at Kate, suddenly
excited.
'Hey! At the beginning he saw her way before she saw him? He
was fancying her from afar. Maybe he thought he had no chance?
Because he was older! Yes, that would do it. He's about . . . say, in
his forties, and he's seen her somewhere before, in this restaurant or
coffee place, and he thinks, "Oh, she's good-looking but she won't
look at me, be interested in me. I'm old enough to be her father--" Damn it!'

'What?'

'I've already said he's a student. .
'Mature?' prompted Kate.
Celia lightly tapped her own forehead with a finger, glancing at
Kate.

'You do this kind of thing very often? It's driving me nuts already.' She took 
the diary from Kate and leafed pages. After a few more
seconds' consideration, `Nope. That's the best I can do. He's older.
Sophisticated. A man of the world and a student. He saw her before
she saw him, fancied her from a distance and then they met and she
likes him. A lot. And he wishes they'd met before February. He
wanted to get into her pants, if you ask me.'
'Thanks, Cee. You've confirmed what I was thinking about a lot of
it. Other bits I'm not certain about either.'
Kate took the diary from Celia and held it, running the fingers of
one hand lightly over the smooth cover. 'I know it's all relevant, but
I'm not sure how. . .' she said quietly.

After a moment's silence, she opened the diary again. 'Any ideas
about the sec.tr. course?' She pointed to a place in the written text.
Her friend looked at her, shaking her head. 'You just never give up,
do you?'
'No,' said Kate seriously.
Sighing, Celia looked at the words in the diary. 'It could mean
anything! Secretarial. . . no, that's stupid. . .' She suddenly looked
up at Kate, face animated. `Hey-hey! Secret? How about he told her he
was doing some kind of secret training! Ha! Now then!' She rubbed
her hands together, grinning. 'Ho, yes! That would keep her from
mentioning him to Mummy and Daddy. Or anybody else.' 
It was almost eleven o'clock. Celia had gone home. Kate stared out of
the kitchen's extensive windows into the dark garden beyond. If
Janine Walker had been the kind of young woman Kate thought she
was, the doer would have needed to convey significant credibility to
convince her of anything Especially anything about 'secret training'.
An older male, or even one who merely presented as mature, would
probably have the ability to do that, Kate mused.

Especially if he was an educated, professional person. . .
She glanced at the diary lying on the table, then out to the garden
again. She recalled the books in the chest in Janine's room. What had
Mrs Walker said Janine wanted to do? Work for the UN. Janine was
a savvy young woman with an interest in international politics. And
this man she'd met told her he was engaged in some kind of secret
training?

Tell someone something that's unbelievable and they don't believe

Tell someone something unbelievable about something they're
already interested in. . .
Like the financial con man in America who told wealthy, intelligent
people he could multiply many times the significant money they
already had. A too-good-to-be true pledge that sent some of them to
penury.

All part of the con.
Kate walked across the kitchen, turning out lights. She continued
into the hall and upstairs, deep in thought.
What did Janine want? A boyfriend with political affiliations and
involvement?
What about Molly?
She reached her bathroom, deciding on a bath. Quicker. No hair
drying. She looked into the large wall mirror at her own reflection.
She knew what Molly wanted.
To earn a little money.
182.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

T

he car sped smoothly through the darkness along the dual carriageway,
heading out of the city. Pushing to seventy, he overtook a
clutch of vehicles, then remembered that the stretch of road was a

hotspot for cameras. He slowed to forty. Impossible to move these

days without coming up against rules, regulations and officious police.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror, briefly looking at his own eyes.
They felt bad and looked worse. Like he hadn't slept in days, which
was true. Anger heated his face. Until the last couple of weeks, his had
been an orderly existence, centred around his work. Mostly. There
had been some unorthodox actions, but only very occasionally. When
the need wouldn't be denied. It was how he'd stayed under the radar.
By being patient, avoiding regularity. Resisting the need. Until he
could contain it no longer. That was control.

During these last few days, he'd begun to feel his control over the
situation slipping. Yes, he'd had this one in his sights, and another,
whom he'd named `Latte Girl'. Each progressing nicely and at a pace
that suited him.

A surge of anger made his face tighten and his jaw muscles bunch as
he thought of the constant voices that had recently started up. Despite
the inane chatter, he'd held it together at work, although he didn't
know how he'd managed it. He seethed. It was their fault that he was
here now. Had to be here. When the stupid, prattling, vapid voices
had first started up, he'd ignored them. But they'd persisted. Forcing
him to relive what he'd done years ago, making him run the action
in his head, plummeting him into a vortex. Memories. Hunger. Now
they were forcing this urgency on to him. This wasn't his choice. It
was their responsibility that he was here.

Cooling his internal raging, he purposely relaxed his grip on the
steering wheel, the passing lights reflecting from the ring on the third 
finger of his left hand. He breathed deeply, eyes on the road. He had
to calm down. Angst and compulsion led to mistakes. Anyone who'd
read anything knew that. He began to reason with himself. Maybe it was time? He 
knew her quite well already. He frowned. But it should
be his decision when to act.

His thoughts drifted to the previous evening, when he'd got the
things out of the backpack, buried his face in the clothes. Then he'd
traced his fingers gently across smooth leather, feeling the little bumps
made by the coins still inside. Maybe it was his decision. He was ready
for her. He knew her well enough.

The car sped on, and the uneven tarmac started up a quickening
rhythm in his head, too-soon, too-soon, t'soon-t'soon-t'soon, sending his
anxiety spiralling once more, causing his jaw muscles to ache. Summoning
control, he reduced his speed and the car went smoothly
onwards along the wide road.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a space near an unlit building.
Switching off the ignition, he glanced around, careful to keep his face
in shadow. Still quiet. He peered at his watch. Nearly midnight.
Opening the glove compartment, he took out two items. One he
tossed on to the dashboard. The other he unscrewed, then tilted back
his head and blinked. Better. His eyes had felt like coals all day. He
checked in the mirror again, then threw the little bottle into the glove
compartment, slammed it shut and settled to wait.
Within half an hour, the wide rear exit door of the club swung
open. After a minute or two he saw her, with a gaggle of other young
females. Her Thursday night out with her work colleagues. He'd
learned this from the information he'd gathered about her during
the last two weeks. They went clubbing on a Thursday night because
some of the gaggle had dim boyfriends whom they saw on Fridays.
See? He did know her.
He smiled slightly, sitting well back in the driving seat, watching,
head on one side, as the young women kissed and hugged each other.
What was that about? He'd learned to do stuff like that over the years.
By copying. Watching himself in the mirror: Oh, how terrible! Oh, I
am so sorry. Of course I love you, you bitch. He was good at it now. But
it was still a mystery. His lips curled again as he watched. Probably
loathed each other in reality. Probably trying to get one over on each
other any way they could.
He watched as she separated from the crowd and approached the
kerb. Now she was scanning the street. He cautioned himself not
to move too soon. After a minute of scanning during which he'd
observed that she was becoming anxious, he edged the car forward
slightly, although he knew there were no CCTV cameras at the rear of
the building.
Here, kitty-kitty. . .
She'd noticed the movement of his car and began walking uncertainly
in his direction. He activated the passenger window and waited
as she bent slightly to look at him. He pressed his head back into
shadow as the young, diffident voice floated inside.
'Excuse me. Are you a taxi?'
He hadn't had to work for it. He was almost disappointed. She had
given him his role and he was more than happy to take it.
'Where d'you want to go?' he asked, adjusting his voice, adding
'love' to give his words authenticity.
'The train station. How much?'

He watched her face keenly as he suggested a very modest sum.
She looked pleased and turned to her friends some distance away, to
wave and call good night and see-you-in-the-morning. None of them
appeared to take any interest in him or his car. It wouldn't have
troubled him if they had. He doubted their ability to give a useful
description in the poor light.

The girl climbed into the back of his car and he pulled smoothly
into the flow of late-night traffic, watching her in the rear-view
mirror. She looked in the mirror and their eyes met. She looked
away. Silence. He resumed his covert watching. He was now confident
in his decision to bring it forward to tonight. He'd never attracted any
suspicion. There'd never been a useful witness, and as for the police
halfwits, most of them.

He checked the road in front, then glanced at her again. She'd put
herself where she was now. In his car. She was responsible for what
was going to happen to her. She had created the situation. Irrefutable
logic. Her fault.
The girl leaned back in the rear seat, tired from her evening of
dancing and drinking. Not too much drinking. A lot of dancing. She
knew she couldn't have walked to the station in these shoes. She
turned her head to one side and stroked the seat's smooth surface.
Leather. A bit special for a


'Nice evening?' His voice startled her and she lifted her head.
`VVhat?'
He experienced a quick stab of irritation. He'd expected her to
be different. Didn't any of them have even basic social graces? 'I was
asking if you had had a pleasant evening's entertainment.' He enunciated
each of the words, but she didn't pick up the sarcasm.

'Oh, yeah . . . thanks.'
Again she met his eyes in the mirror and immediately glanced away,
gazing uneasily at the shops, restaurants and pubs speeding past.
'Have you been busy tonight?' she asked, wanting to fill the silence,
her voice small inside the car. Her glance drifted around its interior
again.
'Not so bad. Not half as busy as I will be later on, hopefully.' He
was warming to his role. 'Then it's home to. . . the wife. . . and kids,
cup of tea and bed.' He watched her in the mirror to see the impact of
what he'd said. He saw her face relax.

'I thought you had children,' she responded with a small nod.
He looked at her with feigned surprise. 'You clairvoyant, love?' He
smiled into the mirror. Nice touch! He was good at this.
'Oh, no,' she said seriously. 'The little toy you've got there.'
His gaze shifted to the dashboard. She saw his eyes crease at the
corners as she settled back, relaxing into the soft leather. The car
rolled forward almost silently into the darkness, towards its destination.
He glanced at his watch, then down, to the holdall in the
footwell of the passenger seat. His 'apparatus'.

'Clever girl,' he murmured.
Out of her line of vision, the corners of his mouth curled downwards
as he continued to look at her, softly breathing a single word,
his lips barely moving:
Gotchaaahhh.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

J oe arrived at Kate's house on Friday morning, casual in white short
sleeves and black jeans, biker-style boots replacing the brown Fryes.
After being allowed inside by a silently judgemental Phyllis, he found
Kate in the kitchen with Maisie. They were both still in pyjamas.
Maisie was at the table, frowning into her cereal bowl. Joe looked
from her to Kate, omitting his usual greetings. Pushing the bowl
away, Maisie left the table and the kitchen without a word.
Joe waited. Kate sighed, eyes on Maisie as she disappeared upstairs.
'Kevin had offered to have her for a sleepover this weekend. He called
half an hour ago to say he can't.'
- `Ah,' said Joe quietly.
She sat, leaning on her forearms, still looking in the direction in
which Maisie had disappeared. Compassion for her daughter was
part of how Kate felt. The other part was sharp disappointment with
Kevin, even after years of experiencing his self-interest and mercurial
commitment. She bowed her head, running her fingers through her
hair. When Joe didn't comment, she glanced up at his face.
'What's wrong?'
He sat opposite her. 'Rose Road's received a report. A young
woman is missing,' he said.
Kate stared at him. 'What? You mean, a local girl like. . . our cases?'
He nodded briefly, looking directly at her. 'She bears similarities to Molly 
and Janine. Her age . . . hair colour. Her name's Jody
1tVestbrooke.'

Kate was bolt upright. 'When?' she asked, eyes rounded.
'Her mother reported her missing in the early hours of this morng.
She'd waited up for her. She didn't return home from a night
t.'

Kate stared at him, hand pressed to her mouth. Then, 'So what's
happening at Rose Road? Who's involved? Do we--'
'Gander's asked me to brief Upstairs about our cases, because of the
similar physical characteristics. He wants them on to it from the start
if there is a connection. But Jody Westbrooke isn't ours; it's an
Upstairs case. When I do meet with them, I'll hear what they have to
say about her disappearance and we can discuss it in UCU. Now, go
get dressed and I'll give you and Maisie a lift. You can tell me what
you found in Janine Walker's diary after you brought it home last
night.'

She glanced at him as she walked to the door. 'How did you know?'
He smiled briefly at her. 'I know you, Hanson.'
'Give me ten minutes to organise Maisie. Help yourself to coffee.'

Following Maisie being dropped at school, Kate forced her thoughts
away from domestic worries. She briefly outlined what the diary had
yielded, then looked at the changing scene beyond the car's window.
'Why are we taking the back way into Rose Road?'
'To avoid the media. It's now a scrum.'

The media. Kate bit her lip. Local and national attention. She
thought of the prior rape cases they'd identified and which she
suspected were a precursor to the abductions. Incidents separated by
months and years. She went back to biting her lip. And now this
young woman. Was it him? Was he back?
Inside UCU, Bernie and Julian were drinking coffee. The blinds
were drawn.
'A bit early in the day to block out the sun,' Kate pointed out.
'Some smart-arse has told 'em this is UCU. We've had one joker
put a camera to the window, just as I was lookin' out.'
'What a photograph that'll be,' murmured Kate as she helped
herself to tea, then opened each of the rape evidence boxes, glancing
at Julian, who was listlessly tapping computer keys.
'How's it going, Jules?' Joe asked as he passed him.
Julian shrugged a thin shoulder. Joe backed up, giving the youth a
closer look.

'Hey, buddy, you okay? Work not getting too much?'
Julian shook his head. 'I still need more notes on visits made and
interviews done so I can enter the information and analyse it for anomalies. 
Furman keeps asking me for it. He forgets I'm only here
part--'

The door of UCU opened and Harry appeared, Matt Prentiss
behind him.

'Julian, I'm on leave from midday, so you're with Matt this afternoon.
He's going to demo grid-laying of a site, okay?'
Prentiss looked at Julian. 'Three o'clock. Don't be late. I'm gone at
four.'
Julian nodded, and Harry and Prentiss disappeared as the door
closed.

Kate studied Julian over her cup. Was his recent moodiness connected
to Matt Prentiss? She felt defeated. Problems at home, problems
with their cases, and she still hadn't tackled Julian on the issue of his
experience of Prentiss. Some supervisor you're turning out to be, Hanson. She 
massaged her face with both hands. Why were the young always a
concern? Even when they didn't belong to you.
The phone rang and Bernie snatched it up. 'Yes. Oh. . . hello.'
Kate caught the change in tone and eyed him as he smoothed his
hair. Dollars to doughnuts it was Connie calling. She listened.
`Mmm . . You don't say. Bl-- Well, well. Has he now!' After a
final pleasantry, Bernie replaced the phone.

'What's Connie have to say?' asked Kate. He gave her a sideways
look as he and Joe headed for the window.
`Media's here with reinforcements. They've heard about the latest
girl. Connie says Igor's just told her that Furman's outside, giving
them the benefit of his views.'
'Which are?' asked Kate, getting up.
'According to Igor, despite last night's development, he's all but
denying there's a repeater, but if it turns out to be one, although he
doubts it, he can reassure the public, blah, everything will be done, et 
cetera, et cetera, until the person responsible is arrested as quickly as
possible. Furman, as usual, hedging his bets.'
Kate joined them at the window. 'And fortunately for him, the
public will have forgotten his reassurances by the time the worst, as he
sees it, comes to pass.'
'What's that? More victims?' asked Julian.
'No, lad. To Furman, the worst always involvesfinance. More money having to be 
spent. Longer he waits, holds off from acknowledging the 

true situation and avoids launching a full-scale investigation, the more
money he saves. That's the way the Arse thinks and operates.'
They watched from between the blinds as Furman, in a pale grey
suit none of them had seen before, faced the cameras, head nodding.
Kate frowned. 'I'll didn't know any better, I'd say--'
Bernie interrupted. 'The bastard's had his hair blow-dried!'
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

H

e was sitting on the floor in the day's failing light, eyes riveted,
hand against his mouth, willing his breathing to settle. She was
lying senseless on the other side of the workshop.
When he'd first seen it he'd lost all control. She was still in his car
at that stage, gabbling, wanting her mother, wanting her dad, her
sister, her best friend, oh boo-bloody-hoo! There she'd been, scrabbling
for her phone, and as he tried to drag her out of the car, she'd kicked
him. That was when he saw them.

The shoes.
To match the streetwalker's bag.
He hadn't noticed them in the artificial light outside the club. How
could she do it? How could she ruin it?

What was worse, without the high heels, she was--

He'd felt as though he was suffocating, his chest gripped in iron
bands, worried for just a second that he was having a heart attack.
He'd told her, his face apoplectic, eyes congested, mouth wide, lips
drawn back in a feral scream of rage an inch from hers, how disgusting
she was.

She'd become hysterical as he raged. Then she'd fought him.
Like an alley cat. Until he grabbed her by the neck and smashed her
face with his fist. She hadn't marked him, though. Just as well. He
wouldn't have been able to go to work.
He gazed at her some more, his voice a hoarse whisper.
'Hey. Hey, you. Slut. What's the matter with you? Wake up. I've
got a surprise for you.'
Filled with resentment, he glared at the unconscious figure. This
was a lesson. For him. He'd learned the hard way. Because he'd
rushed it. Allowed the pressure he was under to put him in that place
where he had to do it. The incessant voices had kept reminding him,



reminding him, so he couldn't think straight until he did it again.
Well, here endeth the lesson. He needed to watch for as long as it
took, to make sure they measured up. That they really were. . . her.
As he stared at her, at the soiled, torn trousers, the matted hair,
his thoughts drifted. To a film he'd watched years before. Not a film.
The film. When was that? He gazed upwards, calculating the years.
Nineteen eighty-one. He was ten years old. He'd watched it with her, squashed 
against her in the semi-darkness, her heavy scent filling his
head. The film was called. . . Get it right. Ah, yes. The Collector.
It was an old film then. About this man who collected butterflies.
He tutted to himself. How stupid was that? Why collect stuff most
people stamp on? But that was what the man did. And then he
captured this woman -- she had red hair -- and he put her in his cellar.
Not for sex. No, no. To own and explore her beauty. But then,
gradually, he noticed that she didn't look so good, because of being
locked in the cellar. So he had to get another one that looked as good
as she once did.
He gazed across the room, shaking his head at the senseless girl
lying on the concrete. That man was the only person in his entire life
he had ever truly understood. Except for the butterflies.
He looked at her again. This one wasn't looking so good now.
He needed another.




CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT



I oe was gone, to give firearms training. Julian was busy with visit
and interview notes he'd been given by Bernie. Kate had had to
translate the shorthand in her notebook for him so he could include
the information she'd amassed.
All was outwardly quiet in UCU when Whittaker entered and
smacked down some internal post. Without a word he powered back
whence he came.
Bernie watched him go with a shake of his head. 'He'll never stay
the course, that one, y'know. Too keen by half. Hyper. He'll selfdestruct. 
What's he brought us?'
He reached for the envelope and there followed a few seconds of
silence.
'Would you bloody credit it! Human bleeding Resources. They're
fixing for me to have some health tests. What the-- Blood pressure?
Cholesterol? Weight check?' He looked at Kate. 'I get it. You know
who's behind this, don't you?' Kate knew she wasn't expected to
respond. 'Right! I'm going up there to tell 'em what they can do with
their--'

The door hit the wall.

Kate absently watched him go. She had examined the meagre
details relating to the rape victims, but her mind kept returning to
Jody Westbrooke, the missing girl.
To distract herself, she went back to the rapes. UCU needed to talk
to each of the victims if possible. But for Kate, mindful of the remains
yielded by the bypass site, one of them stood out.
Suzie Luckman. Blonde hair, blue eyes, five foot ten. Connie had
told them that the femur found near Janine's skeleton was from a tall
female. Kate's thoughts drifted to the three missing young women
the PNC search had yielded. None of them was described as so tall. 
The pathologist had also said she would take a DNA sample from the
femur, but in the absence of any pre-existing indicators to its identity
there was little more that could be done at this stage.
Kate studied Suzie's details, which indicated that she had moved
to London several years ago. Where was she now? How could they
establish if she was still alive? A treacherous idea sidled into her head
about personal privacy. But it was the only way she could think of to
determine Suzie Luckman's current whereabouts.
She massaged her temples with her fingers, then sat, hand against
her mouth, heartbeat up. As she often did when faced with the
clamour of opposing plans, she began playing devil's advocate.
One of the reasons Julian was in UCU at all was because of his past
form. The hacking. He was currently under Kate's direct supervision.
And now you're contemplating asking him to do something he
shouldn't.
It has to be done.
But it's something similar to what he's done before, and for which he's
already been in trouble.
There's no other way to get the information. We need it. Now.
If you ask him to do this, you're absolutely in the wrong -- as his
supervisor, colleague. . . friend.
Three young women have already died.
This could jeopardise Julian's whole future.
There are three young women who don't have futures at all.
You might be wrong. Suzie Luckman is probably alive and well. In
London.
What if she isn't? What if he's still operating?
Jody Westbrooke?
Kate shook her head at the implications of what she was considering.
'Kate
. . . ?'
Julian's troubled voice slipped into her consciousness and she realised
she'd been gazing at him. She refocused, taking in the anxious
young face, the thin shoulders.
Needs must. A case of 'the greater good'.
According to you.
The voice inside Kate's head was oddly reminiscent of her ex
husband.

'Julian? Are you busy?'
He stopped word-processing and glanced back at her. 'I've got half
an hour before I go and see Matt.'
Kate phrased her query carefully. 'If I wanted to establish the
whereabouts of a person living, say, in London, how would I go
about it?'
He gazed moodily at her, but said nothing.
She paused. 'I was wondering about, for example, credit-card
activity. People who are alive have to spend money, yes? That kind of
information could help us to establish their location.'
And prove Suzie Luckman is alive. Or dead.
She watched as a deep frown settled on the youthful face. She stood
and walked over to sit beside him.
'Julian, I'd like you show me how to get into the database for
credit-card activity with just a name and a date of birth.'
He looked nervous. 'That's way beyond my clearance level.'
Kate was reluctant to use any persuasion that might appear manipulative.
Her internal argument continued.
What I'm about to say to him is what I truly believe.
Enough.
Kate gave him a level look, ready to deliver facts. 'Julian, we already
have three murdered young women. There are probably more waiting
to be found. He has to be stopped. To do that we have to move
UCU's investigation forward. I want you to tell me how to do what
I've suggested. It will be my responsibility. Nobody will ever know
from me that you had any involvement at all.'

After a brief pause he pointed to the relevant keys, giving simple
instructions for Kate to follow.
Twenty minutes later, she was considering the information she'd
found. Details of numerous credit-card transactions for one particular
young woman in London in the late nineties, involving supermarkets
and other providers of basic needs. And lastly, two for 2003, including
a shop where a purchase of clothing was made. Nothing since.
Waiting until Bernie and then Joe returned, she spoke to both of
them.
'Are you two ready for some news?'
Catching her tone, they stood looking at her.
'Connie told us that the femur belonged to a tall female, five-ten,

s?' Kate said. 'Guess who used her credit card in September 2003 at 
the Oxford Street branch of Long Tall Sally but never again, anywhere,
ever?'
Without waiting for a response, she answered her own question.
'One of the young women on our list of rape victims. Suzie
Luckman.'

There was an air of tension inside UCU. The kind that comes from
the beginnings of progress. All four colleagues were aware of it.
Sitting on the table was a pile of emails and their attachments.
Information from the investigation of the 2003 disappearance of
Suzanne Rachel Luclunan, investigated by the Metropolitan Police at
the time.

Joe looked up from what he was reading. 'According to this, she
was in Birmingham the weekend before she was reported missing.
Visiting her mom.'
Julian looked a question at Kate. 'So she went back to London and
was then abducted and murdered, like these other girls?'
'Think about it, lad. The bypass remains,' said Bernie.
Kate nodded. `Suzie was buried less than six miles from here. She
never returned to London.'

Joe leaned towards Kate, pointing at one of the email attachments.
'Yet according to this, officers from the Met visited her London flat
on the Wednesday following her being reported missing by her
employer the previous Monday. Suzie's weekend case was found
inside, which was taken as proof that she had returned. Plus, the
neighbour in the flat beneath Suzie's said she heard her moving
around in the late evening of the Sunday and early hours of Monday.'
Kate took the email from Joe. 'It doesn't make any sense that he
would follow her to London, kill her, then transport her body back
here. To the bypass.'
Julian's brows climbed. 'So what about her stuff? In the flat? Maybe
the femur isn't hers?'
'So. . . where is Suzie Lucicman?'

The ensuing silence was broken by Joe. 'How about this, Kate?'
She looked at the email paragraph to which he was pointing. 'Says
here, the same neighbour told Met officers she saw Suzie that Monday
morning.'
They sat in silence as Julian quickly gathered his belongings.
Kate was busy thinking. 'How soon after the investigation into Suzie's 
disappearance began were the neighbours talked to by the
police?' she asked.
Joe read through the email. 'Wednesday was the day of their first
visit to her flat. . . Friday they talked to the neighbours.'
Kate stood suddenly and began pulling together the emailed
information. 'There's the answer. The neighbour was mistaken.'
Bernie stared at her. 'How can you be confident of that?'
'Because of the way memory works. Specific events in a life are
encoded firmly in our memories because they are special. Daily events
aren't -- that neighbour had probably seen Suzie countless times prior
to that weekend. That's the problem with autobiographical recall.
We're not efficient at separating one memory of an often-occurring
general event from another. It's likely that the neighbour was confusing
her stated sighting of Suzie that weekend with another.'
'That's disposed of that witness, then,' said Bernie drily. 'You ever
stop to think you might be wrong, Doc?'
'Only very occasionally,' said Kate truthfully, sliding the emails into
their folder. 'I think the rapes, including that of Suzie Luckman, were
perpetrated by our doer prior to his turning to murder.' She walked to
the glass screen and picked up the marker.
`Suzie Ludo-I-Ian's path crossed that of her rapist twice. Here. In
Birmingham.' She wrote on the glass, then stopped. 'How unlucky
can one person be?' she mused quietly, shaking her head. 'But, if my
thinking is right, how did he know whereabouts in London Suzie
lived?' She moved away from the screen to sit on the edge of the table.
'By the time of that second encounter. .
'He'd graduated,' finished Joe.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
J osie Kenton-Smith, one of UCU's identified rape victims, was sitting
on a comfortable sofa in the parquet-floored sitting room, sorting
paperwork, when her sister showed Kate and Bernie into the room.
She put the sheets to one side and stood as they entered, looking
eagerly from one to the other as they shook hands.
'I can't tell you how pleased I am that the police are taking a second
look at my case. Please, sit down. Ask me anything.'
Kate took a quick once-over glance at Josie. Well into her thirties
now, with smooth blonde hair bobbed to shoulder-length, casually
but expensively dressed. Cashmere. Fine gold necklace. Very subtle.
She looked what she probably was. A woman of some substance. A
professional woman. And no one's victim. Kate wondered if this was
how Molly and Janine would look now. If they'd lived.
Bernie was nodding at Josie's words, a 'told you' look on his face
as he glanced at Kate. She ignored him, her attention on the other
woman.
'I can remember some details, but there's lots of gaps. Mostly gaps,
I'm afraid.'
Bernie smiled at her. 'Don't worry about it, love. You just tell us
whatever you can. All of us can only do our best, can't we?'
Kate was already on a slow simmer. At least it wasn't `bab'. She
smiled encouragingly at Josie. 'We're grateful for any details you can
remember.'

'He drugged me,' she said.
Kate's mood nose-dived. 'Just tell us whatever you do recall.'
Josie straightened and looked away from them, tugging the
expensive-looking cream cardigan closer to her body.
'Okay. . . It was a cold night, about nine p.m. I'd worked late and I
was waiting for a taxi outside my office in Bennett's Hill. That's where I was 
working at the time. It was a Tuesday. Not too many people
about. I suppose whoever was in town for the evening would already
have been in a pub or restaurant by then. Anyway, while I was waiting, a 
light-coloured car pulled up and double-parked. I remember thinking
he would get into trouble. The next thing is I'm inside a car
and it's moving. I must have been in shock. I don't know that it was
the same car but I believe it was. Because the two things happened so
quickly.'
She shook her head, lost in the time she was describing. Kate
noticed that as she refocused, she sought eye contact with Bernie, as
she did whenever she became hesitant.
'Take your time, bab,' he encouraged.
'What happened then? Do you remember anything about him,
any details about the inside of the car?' Kate prompted, annoyed with
herself for asking several questions at once and silently blaming
Bernie.

The other woman nodded.

'I'd say it was an expensive car, you know; the engine was quiet,
the doors made that solid sound when they closed . . . and the seat
felt cold. I'm sure it was leather . . . That's all I can tell you about it.
I don't really have a clue how long he drove. I can't tell you much
about him. He'd already put something over my face, so I couldn't
see. I was so frightened.'
Kate glanced at Bernie as Josie fell silent. She looked back at the
woman, noticing that her fingers were laced tightly together, just
beyond the long sleeves of the cardigan.
Bernie spoke again, quietly. 'It's okay. In your time. This is really
important.'
Josie rewarded him with a grateful smile. 'You're very kind. I'm
grateful for your sensitivity.'
Sensitivity. Kate's eyes flicked sideways, to check that it was Detective
Sergeant Nightmare sitting beside her.
'I'm not even certain of the progression of events. I know that at
some point he grabbed hold of me from behind. He pulled my head
back by the hair and this cold liquid -- they said at the hospital that it
was juice -- just poured into my mouth. I couldn't do anything to
avoid it. I had to swallow. I remember his hands. Very smooth. Very
warm.' She stopped speaking for a few seconds, then, 'They said at the
hospital that I'd been drugged.'

Silence for some seconds as Josie searched among the sheets on the
sofa, then reached for a piece of folded paper on the small table next

to her.
'This is what the hospital gave me,' she said. 'I kept it, just in case
the police looked at my case again some day. It shows what was in the

juice. I was told to take it to the police -- when I went to make my

statement.'
Glancing at Bernie, Kate took the folded sheet the other woman
was offering and read the information on it. Flunitrazepam. More
commonly known as Rohypnol. The known side effect for anyone
ingesting it was that they would remember little, if anything, of what
had occurred while they were under its influence.
Kate listened as Josie continued.
'My impression is that he was a very angry person. I could hear him
talking to himself-- that's how he sounded.'
'What did he say?' asked Kate.
Josie shook her head. 'I don't know. It was just a blur of words but
the sound of them -- I think he said something about "your mother",
and all could think was, "You don't know my mother." Sorry, that's
it. I was really out of it.'
She clasped her hands together tightly, only the knuckles showing,
pink and white, beyond the soft cream sleeves. 'I don't even know
what he did to me physically, but I opted for regular AIDS tests after

wards.'
Kate looked sympathetically at the woman. 'You've no idea at all
what happened to you after you were drugged?'
Josie shook her head, lips pressed together. 'I was examined at the

hospital. Rape was. . . confirmed. They took my clothes for testing

and told me afterwards that they didn't get any evidence off them.

They thought it might have been rape with. . . something, an object.'

Kate felt the other woman sizing her up, and gave her an encourag

ing
look.
'I can't describe how unnerving it is to know that something so . . .
invasive might have happened to you and yet you can't remember

anything about it. All I remember is this -- thing on my face. Then,
nothing.'
Kate glanced briefly at Bernie, then back to Josie Kenton-Smith.
'Did you go to hospital immediately afterwards?'
Josie nodded. 'I was left in one of the side roads near the cricket 
ground. Edgbaston. I . . . I had no clothes on from my waist down. I
was told they were folded nearby.'
'Someone found you?'
Josie gave a small smile. 'A woman and her husband. They'd been
to the MAC to see a film and then they'd come out again to walk their
dog. It was very late. . . quiet. They put their coats round me, made
the calls, and waited for the police and ambulance to come.'
'This thing over your face, love. What was it?' Bernie asked.
'Sorry. I don't know. The hospital didn't mention it. Maybe he
took it with him.'
Kate looked from Bernie to Josie Kenton-Smith. 'Did you make a
statement to the police?'
'Of course. But not straight away. I was in no fit state for about
two days. The doctors wouldn't let the police in to see me. I went
to the police station when I got out of hospital. That was about five
days later. I took this drug report with me. Even then, I couldn't do it
properly. I was too upset. I had to go back again, about three days
afterwards, and finish it.'
'Which police station did you go to?' asked Kate.
'The big one. Rose Road. In Harbome.'


CHAPTER FORTY

B

ack in UCU, Kate had two questions.
'Where is Josie Kenton-Smith's statement?'--

Bernie pointed. 'I've looked through the box again. There isn't one.'
Kate continued: 'Do we take photographs of rape victims?'
Julian had been listening to the exchange. He nodded. 'Forensics
take them if the victim has injuries. Jake Brown has a female colleague
who takes photos of the victim's facial and body injuries. Want me to

ask?'
Kate noticed that Julian looked slightly more upbeat. 'Could you
go down now, Julian? Ask him to let us have whatever photographs
are available for all four rapes?'
Half an hour later, Harry and Jake arrived in UCU with what had
been found. Harry did the talking, placing a small stack of photographs
on the table as Julian sat watching.
'Here's what we've got for the rapes that Julian's mentioned. I'm
finishing in half an hour, but when I get some spare time tomorrow

I'll have another look.'
He winked at Kate and rubbed his hands together. 'I'm off early.

Going to the Rep tonight.'
'What's on?'
'Noel Coward play. My favourite. Present Laughter.'
Kate nodded. 'I saw that a couple of years ago.'
Glowering, Bernie turned his attention to Jake, who was laying the
photographs side by side on the table. 'Let's get on with it.'
Jake looked at Bernie as he spoke. 'A colleague of mine took these.
Harty will go through them with you. There's printed details on the
back summarising the content of each photograph. I'll leave you to it.
I'd like them back some time. For the records.' 
He got up and headed for the door. Kate watched him go. He
hadn't looked at her once in the few minutes he was in UCU.
She went and stood next to Harry at the table, listening alongside
Julian as Harry picked up each photograph in turn to read details from
the labels on the reverse side.
'This one is Josie Kenton-Smith, the one Julian specifically mentioned.
It says, "Contusions to shoulders". So, nothing too bad.
Mmm . . . bit of bruising. They hardly show up at all on this frontal
shot, see? And see that? Labelled "I of 1". That means no other
photographs were taken. So that's it. Just bruising. End of story.'

Kate studied the photograph. A younger version of the woman she
and Bernie had met earlier. She could just make out a bruise to the left
of Josie's chin. She sighed. The experience still hadn't ended for that
poor woman.

Harry picked up another photograph and studied it for some
seconds, then turned it over to read the details.
'This is of the French girl, Dijon. Again, nothing very problematic
in terms of the face, apart from a bit of a bruise on her jaw, here. See?'
Kate took a look. Dijon's lower lip looked as if it was split and her
jaw was swollen. She retuned to what Harry was saying.
'Seems doubtful either she or Kenton-Smith were injured elsewhere
on their bodies, given the absence of other photographs. Now, Suzie
Luckman. We couldn't find any photos at all in that name.'

Kate felt her mood slide as Harry continued.
'And this one--'
'Doesn't it bother you, Harry, the lack of photographs for Luckman?
Surely that suggests that the forensic records are incomplete?'
He shook his head. 'Not really, Kate. What often happens is that a file is made 
up and sent to the GPS for evaluation. The files don't
always find their way back.'
'But there's no indication that there was ever a suspect in the rape
of Suzie Luckman. Why would it go--'
'I don't know, Kate. Now, this one is . . .' He looked at the back of
the photograph, then returned to the front. 'Tracey Thomas. Bloody
hell! She looks a bit rough, doesn't she? Mind you, it's probably the
make-up. No body photographs for her either.'
Kate took the photograph of Tracey Thomas from Harry and
studied it closely. A young woman with ragged blonde hair, eyes
heavily outlined with black liner and mascara. She looked again, feeling 
sudden sympathy for the girl, killed in a subsequent car accident. Harry
had moved on to another photograph.
'This last one was in Thomas's file but it isn't your rape victim.
See? Same surname, but different first name. Don't know why Jake
included it.'
Kate looked at it, curious. 'What happened to her?' she asked.
Harry turned the photograph over, read the details and shrugged.
'Nothing. It was just a domestic.'
Kate took the photograph from him. 'I wouldn't describe it as
nothing, Harry,' she mused, frowning at it.
The woman's face was a mass of swellings and contusions and, if
Kate was not mistaken, her nose was broken.
'I meant nothing in the sense that she isn't one of your rape victims,

Kate.'
Harry took the photograph back from her and considered it again,
briefly.
'Now I look at it properly, you're right. She's taken a beating.
That's what years of forensic work does for you, Kate. We see so much
damage, it blunts us, yeah?'
Kate gave a small nod. 'Harry, when you're next in, could you and
Jake search again for anything relating to Suzie Luckman? Somewhere
here we've got the date of her rape.'
'Don't worry. I've got the details from Julian. It'll be top of my

list.'
He looked around the room. 'Okay, people, I'm offl Anything else
you need, let me know or tell Julian and he'll pass it on. Jules, my
man, see you for the forensic testing module next week, yes?'
He raised a hand and Julian, flushed, smacked it with one of his
own. Harry reached the door, passing Joe coming through it.
Bernie slowly shook his head, catching sight of Kate glaring at him.
'at! It ain't my fault if he walks with a lisp.'
'Don't "what" me!' snapped Kate. 'I've been "whatted" by the best.
You don't even come close. Comments like that are homophobic, and
it's also--'
'All right, all right! What's getting up your frock all of a sudden?
And what's up with him?' He pointed to Julian, who was looking
sulky again.
Kate glanced at Julian and frowned.


Shaking his head again, Bernie sat down at the table. 'Let's have a
proper look at what they brought us.'
Kate closed her eyes for a few seconds, then resumed her scanning
of the photographs.
They had nothing for Luckman. Nothing at all.
Now that they had some of the rape-related photographs, an idea
was taking shape in Kate's mind relating to one of their persons of
interest. She looked cautiously at her colleagues. This was going to be
like asking turkeys to vote for Christmas. Or Thanksgiving.

She glanced from Bernie to Joe. 'Okay. What I'm going to suggest
-- and I will truly understand if you say no after Furman's ranting -- is
that we make one more visit to John Cranham.' Julian's head shot up,
eyes round, face worried. Kate continued. 'And we take these photographs
for him to look at.'

Joe gave her a long look. 'What makes you think Cranham will even agree? He's 
lawyered up.'
'You got a death wish or what?' muttered Bernie. `Furman'd have
your suspenders just for suggesting it.'
Kate lifted the phone receiver. 'I'm happy to go alone,' she said
quietly.
Within the next five minutes, Cranham had listened to Kate's
persuasive pitch then agreed very civilly to meet with her at his firm's
showroom later that afternoon, on one condition. No Bernie.
'Yes, well . . . he's not one of my favourites, neither,' said Bernie
when told this. 'I've got an appointment anyway. Fitness test.'


CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

J oe drove through Birmingham's urban sprawl and on, as it gradually
gave way to lower-densitY suburbia, and then to spacious roads of
large homes surrounded by extensive well-tended gardens. They had
reached Solihull.
During the journey Kate asked Joe about his visit Upstairs and what
he'd learned about the abduction of Jody Westbrooke.
'Where did it take place?'
'From outside a club called Running Wild, in Wolverhampton.'
'Any witnesses? Anybody see it happen? See anything?'
`Nope. One of her pals mentioned a car but couldn't give any
'So . . . she got in a stranger's car?' Kate asked, noting the first
detail.'
commercial buildings of Solihull's centre coming into view. It fits, Joe. It 
fits with Janine and Molly. They look similar. It's likely they
were abducted efficiently, quietly, then transported--'
'Need to wait and see, Red,' he said quietly, eyes on the road. 'Wait
for more details.'
Kate gave him a sideways look, then subsided.
Arriving outside Cranham's place of business, Joe parked and
remained behind the wheel for a few seconds, looking at the building,
then at Kate.
'Do you think he's involved at all? I'd like to know what we're
doing here, Kate.'
Kate's eyes were also on the showroom. 'It'll work best if I don't
tell you right now, Joe.'
Joe slowly nodded. 'Whatever you say.'
They left the car and walked into the showroom to find Cranham
already downstairs waiting for them. He greeted Kate cordially and
nodded at Joe. He led them not to his office, but past it, to a formal 

meeting room. A man was already waiting inside. He stood as they
entered. Tall and elegant, wearing a dark navy suit with a fine pinstripe,
he spoke directly to Kate without any preamble as he handed
her and Joe tea in bone-china cups.

'Sheridan Granville of Rutgers. I shall remain throughout your
visit.' He smiled at Kate without her noting any change to his eyes.
'And prior to the meeting I want to look at any notes or questions you
have brought with you.'

Kate silently thanked the barrister who had hectored her in court
some years before, physically taking her court file from her whilst she
was in the witness box. Although he was roundly criticised by the
judge and Kate had included nothing in the notes that was negative,
inflammatory or directly useful to the barrister, she knew that she
could easily have done so. Good training. As Joe had remarked during
the two earlier murder cases they'd worked on together in UCU, both
of which had involved a wealth of documentary detail that they'd had
to absorb, Kate was a 'quick study'.

She opened her bag, took out the few written questions and the
photographs she had brought with her and handed them to Granville,
not entirely with good grace but feeling that she had no choice.
Granville looked at the questions then the photographs, handing
them back to her in the same order they were offered, with the same
mouth-only smile.
At a nod from him, they all took seats around the formal table. John
Cranham began the meeting.

'How do you think I can help you, Dr Hanson? I've got another
meeting in ten minutes and--'
, 'That's fine, Mr Cranham. Thank you for agreeing to see us again.
I need you to look at some photographs, if you will. They're of young
t women who we believe were victimised by the same man who
" abducted Molly James.'

Cranham nodded at Kate, glanced at Granville, then looked at each
Iphotograph as she placed it in front of him. Her eyes never moved
from his face as he did so. When the last one had been placed and he'd
xamined the array, Cranham looked at her questioningly.

, Kate kept her attention on his face. 'To your knowledge have you
,ever met any of these women?'
He looked at them then back to Kate. 'No. Never.'


Kate nodded. 'Tell me what you think of these women, Mr
He looked at her for a few seconds, then at Granville, and finally
Cranham.'

down to the photographs again. She watched as he frowned, shaking
'They're young women . . . probably attractive . . . but I can see
his head.
that they've been badly used, shall we say? Clearly something . . .' His
frown deepened. 'I'd guess it was criminal happened to them. It's
obvious that someone has treated them very badly. . . shocking. But
not this one. She doesn't look as though she's been harmed.' He
tapped the last photograph Kate had included in the array and his eyes
came up to meet hers. He looked puzzled and only slightly impatient.
'What do you want from me, Dr Hanson? I don't recognise a single
'Thank you, Mr Cranham.' She turned to his lawyer, adding, 'I
one of them.'
think we're finished here. Thank you for your cooperation.'
Taking her cue, Joe moved towards the door, opened it for Kate
and followed her out of the room. Perplexed, Cranham and Granville
watched them leave.
On the journey back to UCU, Kate glanced at Joe, who had said
nothing for some minutes.
'Thanks for coming with me, Joe. I had doubts that Cranham was
involved in Molly's murder. I just needed to check.' When Joe didn't
answer, she added, 'I wasn't expecting him to recognise any of the
photographs, not even the one of Molly, but I didn't tell you what I
was doing because I didn't want you to inadvertently communicate
anything to him. He showed the anticipated mix of minimal tension
and curiosity that anyone would who was being shown data linked to
a crime, but no more. He recognised physical abuse in some of the
photographs and his comments about it were appropriate.'

'How come you're so sure about him?'
'Because people with guilty knowledge mostly can't avoid showing
their cognitive processes in their faces and the rest of their physical
presentation. Because they're working hard inside their heads, it isn't
unusual for them to show a reduction in physical response as a way
of offsetting the effort they're putting into thinking. There was no
suggestion of frenetic mental wheels turning behind Cranham's face.
No signs of hard thinking going on, which would have been present if 


he had guilty knowledge of the women in the photographs. There was
no indication of his having to conceal anything. Nothing to suggest
he was thinking ahead, to what we might know and how he was going
to deal with that if we asked him questions.' Kate lifted her shoulders.
'He merely gave the photographs close consideration. Nothing more.'

'You sound confident.'
'I am.'

A few minutes of silence slid by.
'Do you have something on your mind, Joe?'
Joe finally spoke. 'Where'd you get that last photograph?'
Kate glanced at him, then out of the window at the scene racing by.
'I went Upstairs earlier and asked for a copy of the one Jody
Westbrooke's parents have provided. As with the other photographs,
it had no significance for John Cranham.'
She turned to him. 'You think I should have told you what I was
going to do?'

Joe appraised her with a glance, then gave his attention to the road,
speaking quietly. 'You are one risk-taking broad, Red.' He shook his
head. 'When you went into that meeting, you didn't actually know
that Cranham would demonstrate he wasn't involved.'

'Yes I did,' said Kate.
Joe gave her another look. 'Anybody ever tell you that a person can
come across as too smart? Too sure?'
'A few,' she replied.
'And?'

'I didn't listen to them.'
He looked at her, then back to the road, shaking his head, mouth
open in a silent laugh.
'In that case, I'll be your psychology confederate any time.'

They arrived in UCU to find Bernie there, alone in the subdued light,
i.blinds half-closed. Kate could hear muted activity elsewhere inside the
)age building. She dropped her bag on the floor and sat, feeling hot
and jaded.

'How'd it go with Posh Git?'
r Kate nodded. 'Fine, even though he had his solicitor with him.
Sheridan Granville.'
Kate felt irritation rising as Bernie's forehead creased. Why had she


mentioned the damned name? Bernie was so predictable. And you're
tired and edgy.
Bernie tutted. 'Don't tell me. Tall, blonde, big chest and a snotty
'He was tall, grey-haired and I'm assuming had all the usual complement
of male bits,' snapped Kate.
Joe laughed quietly on his way to the Refreshment Lounge.
Ignoring both of them, Kate kicked off her shoes. 'We can rule
out John Cranham. He never faltered when he saw any of the photographs.
Including the one of the domestic -violence victim. If he were
the rapist, it would have registered on his face to some degree that she
didn't belong in the series. Believe me, I was watching him very closely
the whole time.'
'What about this recent girl, this Jody? He might not have done the
others but he could've jumped on her.'
'I included her picture too,' said Kate, massaging her lower legs,
then stretching them.
Need some exercise.
Bernie gave her a brows-down scowl. 'In that case, it's a bloody
good job he's not involved, according to you. If he had've been,
showing him her photo like that would've warned him that she'd been
found and. . . You listening?'
'Yes, and he wasn't.'
'Anybody ever tell you that you carry on like you got an answer
for everything? Smart alecs ain't the most popular of types, Doc,
particularly with the Job.'
Giving Kate a sideways glare, Bernie left the table, went to the glass
screen, picked up a cloth and erased Cranham's name.
'You did that with uncharacteristic calmness,' said Kate, eyeing

'Yeah, well, I'm trying to keep my stress levels down. I'm not giving
him.
Furman no ammunition in terms of health.'
Kate leaned back against her chair. 'No tea for me, thanks, Joe. I'm
done in. I'm going home. For a glass of white and a cool shower.'
She glanced at both her colleagues. They looked as tired as she felt.
Too tired even to engage in the usual banter in response to what she'd
just said.
Kate had made dinner for Maisie and herself. Now it was ten p.m. and
the old house was silent. Maisie had gone to bed early.
Kate slid open the kitchen doors and walked out into the still-warm
garden. She hadn't spent much time out here since the case began.
Maybe Celia was right. Perhaps it was too much. She sighed, thinking
of the things she didn't get around to doing while she was involved with UCU. 
She felt a quick surge of tension. She was keeping up with
her two tutorial groups, but only because they were willing to fit in
with her availability.

Sighing, glass in hand, she walked slowly away from the house. A
faint tinkling sound started up from somewhere nearby and a small
black-and-white shape leapt from among thick bushes.
'Hi, Ii'! cat! Where've you been? Had a date?'
Mugger wove himself around Kate's legs.
'Nice of you to check in. Come on, let's go inside.' She walked
towards the house, then turned. The cat was now sitting on the grass.
Sighing, dead on her feet, Kate waved a hand. 'Come on now. No
messing around.' Mugger stayed exactly where he was; only the
yellow eyes moved, from Kate to the house and back again.
Kate frowned at the small animal, steadfast on the grass. What was the matter 
with him? 'Okay. Suit yourself. But don't come crying to
me at one o'clock in the morning.' She walked a few paces away from
him, stepped inside and slid the doors closed, locking them. Then she
hecked on him again. He still hadn't moved. She shook her head.
Crazy cat.

As she turned back into the kitchen, there was a sudden whirring
sound, causing Kate to throw wine on to the ceramic tiles as her heart
went into free-fall. 'For God's sake,' she muttered, fetching kitchen
paper to blot the floor, glaring at the bean-to-cup coffee-maker she
used only occasionally. It reciprocated with another whir.
Kate left the kitchen in darkness and made her way to the hall and
pstairs, turning out lights as she went. As she reached the landing she heard a 
low creaking sound and saw Maisie's door slowly drifting
osed.

Damn the doors in this old place.
She quietly opened her daughter's bedroom door and looked
side. Because of Maisie's current upset, caused by Kevin's reneging
n the sleepover arrangement, Kate hadn't asked any further quesns
about what she'd found in her room the other day. She still 
needed to establish who the tablets belonged to, but she was con
fident
they weren't Maisie's.
She walked to the bed and looked down on her sleeping daughter,
at the profusion of curls spread over the pillow. Despite the warmth of
the late evening, she crossed the room and closed both window and
curtains. She stood listening to Maisie's rhythmic breathing, then
walked quietly back to the bed to look again at her sleeping child.
Soon-to-be teenager. Soon-to-be young woman. She smoothed the

thick hair.
Don't be in too much of a hurry. Take your time.
She swallowed.
One glass of wine is enough for you, my girl.
Propping Maisie's door half-open with a book to give her some air,
Kate quietly left the room en route to the main bathroom. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

At eight o'clock on Tuesday morning, Kate flew into the kitchen,
silky yellow robe billowing, switched on the kettle, then returned
to the hall.

'Maisie? Maisie! Get up. We're late!'
She returned to the kitchen, organising tea, juice and the making of
toast. Catching sight of Mugger outside, his forepaws on the window,
she slid open the doors and he rocketed into the kitchen.
'What's got into you now?'
Maisie sauntered through the door, half-asleep. 'Don't talk to the
cat, Mom. It makes you sound like an old person.'
'Morning, light of my life.'
Within half an hour of eating a quick breakfast with Maisie, Kate
was showered, moisturised and dressed in a deep blue silk shirt and
slim black linen trousers. Feet thrust into black suede wedge sandals,
she began securing her hair in a band. Still damp.

'Oh, for God's sake!' Dragging the band from her hair and bending
rward from the waist, she applied the hairdryer again. The phone in
r pocket vibrated. It was Bernie.

'Hey, Doc. Just a reminder that if you're planning to come in by the

nt entrance, forget it. You should see it. Keep to the back way.

oks like they never bought the rubbish Furman spouted at 'em after

Thirty minutes later, Kate had dropped Maisie at school and was
proaching the back entrance to Rose Road. She slowed, looking
ead beyond the parked cars. The press were there too. A beeping
und came from behind her. Too late. She couldn't reverse. She we on slowly and 
began turning in to the rear gateway.
Immediately, four or five people appeared in front of her car, two th cameras 
pointed at her. Kate was horrified. She stood on her 
brakes, fearful of injuring somebody, pressed the car horn a few times
and inched forward. They parted and she drove inside at speed,
parking out of sight.
Inside UCU, Kate found her two colleagues in dim light, the blinds
drawn.
'I got caught! Out the back. I think they took photographs. Is
anything being done about it? Them?'
Joe passed her a mug of tea. 'No word from on high. They're
feeling pissed out there because they know Furman was giving them
the runaround on Friday. Nobody's supplying them with any solid
information so they're falling back on what they can add together
then multiply.' He nodded at a heap of dailies on the desk.
Kate looked across at Bernie, who was reading the Sun, his mouth a
'According to this, I'm a "sixty-year-old veteran". Bloody cheek.'
seam.
Kate went to where Joe was sitting, to peer over his shoulder at the
local newspaper. No need to search for the story. It was there. On the
front page.
`11Imm . . they obviously weren't impressed with Furman's denial.
This is all so inaccurate. Oh, for God's sake! "Bypass Killer on the
Loose." Idiotic, misleading, cliched rubbish,' Kate muttered, then fell
silent, reading to the did of the article. 'They haven't specifically
mentioned the Westbrooke disappearance in the story.'
Joe looked up at her. 'No one knows yet if it's connected.'
Kate straightened. 'It is.' She looked at her two colleagues in silence
for a few seconds, then decided to go with what was in her mind.
'Given all this inaccuracy, how about if we talked to the press, gave
them some basic, limited information?'
'You mean, get them on side?'
Kate looked from Joe to Bernie. 'At least two murders and four
prior rapes that we suspect are connected. I think there's a need to get
an accurate story out there but carefully edited in terms of what we
know so far. But there's another reason why we should do it. Women
need to be alerted to what we believe is a risk. If our doer stopped
for a while but now he's active again, they must be warned.' She
hesitated. 'It might even produce some leads for us.'
'From?' asked Bernie.
'Who knows?' Kate raised her hands. 'Associates of the doer in
the nineties, who read the information, think back, and make a connection to 
him. Or a family that's missing someone, or a young
woman who was raped and something jogs her memory.' She paused,
pushing a stray curl from her face. 'Where's Furman?'
'In London, at some Home Office shindig,' Bernie said.
Kate eyed Joe. 'What d'you think?'
He stood. 'I'll set it up.'
He returned in ten minutes.
'I've arranged for two journos to come in here tomorrow. We need
some breathing space because it has to be on our terms, Kate. That
means having a plan for the interview.'
She nodded agreement, then glanced at her two colleagues in turn.
'I've been thinking. I've got an idea.' She waited, eyes on her notebook.
When she glanced up, they were looking back at her, waiting.
No joshing from Joe or attitude from Bernie.

`Suzie Luckman,' she began. 'You know that I don't believe she
reached London after her weekend visit home. It doesn't make sense
for the doer to go to London, kill her there and then bring her back
here.'

She leaned on her forearms, silent for a couple of seconds, then,
f we're right, and the rapes are connected to the murders, then that
dicates that she was victimised twice by the same doer. That wasn't
y chance. Nobody's that unlucky.'
She shook her head. 'If he'd stalked Suzie before he raped her,
he would have learned her routines while she was still living here in
irmingham: where she lived, where she worked. And then, when she
located to London after the rape, he must have resumed his stalking
the times she was visiting her family. That's how he knew where to
d her, once he'd graduated. . . and then he killed her.'

Bernie got up from the table. 'You're now about to tell us you want
to look for stalkers as well as rapists?'
Kate frowned, looking downwards, thinking of the information in
e Walker's diary. Tectonic plates slid together.
Her eyes widened. 'How could I have been so obtuse?' she said
'etly. 'Janine Walker's mystery man. Telling her he'd seen her
ore . .
'Thought you said they don't approach the victim, Red?'
Kate stared at the information on the glass screen. `. . . Maybe she
an exception.. . although we don't know what he routinely did
any other victim. All I can be certain of right now is that Janine 
didn't regard him as a stalker, and the reason for that is probably that
he took his time, learned all he could about her indirectly, and then
began to present himself as disarmingly normal and honest.'
She seized her notebook from her bag and thpped pages, looking
up at her two colleagues, face pink.
'That's it. He stalked Janine,' she whispered. 'Just like he did

Suzie.'
'And then there's Molly,' Joe said quietly. 'The references to her
often seeing a specific male in the mall coffee shop?'
The words hung on the still air.
Kate got up from the table and walked quickly to the file on Julian's
computer desk. Finding what she was looking for, as Bernie jiggled
keys in his pocket, she returned to the table, sat down and studied
the data. After a couple of minutes she took a red Sharpie highlighter
from her bag, looking from Joe to Bernie.
'Got an A to Z?'
Bernie looked at his watch, then stretched to shelving near Julian's
workstation, handing her a large spiral-bound book. 'You still coming
with me to see Mrs Luckman?'
Kate nodded, as she looked at the map of the Greater Birmingham
area, making faint red marks on it. After a couple of minutes, she sat
back and studied her handiwork, eyes to one side, unfocused.
Not a perfect pattern. One or two outliers.
She looked again at the marks she'd made.
If you thought of the pattern of rapes and murders as a wheel(the
centre of it was clear.
It was Birmingham. Specifically the south-west suburbs of Edgbaston
and Harborne.
He was operating in his comfort zone. At its centre the place he was
most at ease.
Home? Work?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

F

orty-five minutes later, Kate and Bernie were sitting in the front
room of a small semi-detached house in Moor Green, a suburb of
Birmingham scarcely three miles from Rose Road. Kate peered out of
the window, at similar houses surrounded by tidy green lawns and
bright flower beds.
Bernie had done the talking this time, but released few details to the
older woman sitting opposite, beyond that they were investigating
some unsolved assaults in the Birmingham area.
Mrs Luckman, widowed mother of Suzie, had then gone to make
tea.

'What d'you think?' asked Bernie quietly.
'About what?'
Bernie nodded in the direction Mrs Luckman had disappeared.
Kate looked towards the door. 'A bit vague?'
Bernie nodded as Mrs Luckman quietly reappeared at the door of
e sitting room. 'I wonder -- would you mind helping me with the
ay? It's a bit hard for me to manage.'
Moving surprisingly quickly, Bernie followed her to the back of the
ouse, returning with a tea tray.
Within ten minutes they had confirmation of the attack on Suzie,
.ch had taken place not far from the house, on a Thursday night
April 1997. Conversation stalled after Kate asked Mrs Luclunan tell them what 
happened subsequently: whether Suzie had given
statement to the police or not. It was slow work to get even a

nological account of anything relating to Suzie in the 1990s.
bout the only thing of which Mrs Luckman appeared sure was that
police officers had visited the house immediately after the attack
her daughter. She appeared not to recall anything of the subuently
reported disappearance of Suzie in London and the ensuing 
investigation there, initiated by Suzie's employer when she didn't

arrive for work. Julian had been unable to find any confirmation that

Mrs Luckman or anyone else in Birmingham had ever reported Suzie

missing.
Kate studied the elderly woman, sadly recognising the chaos and
inconsistency about her daughter for what it truly was.
Mrs Luckman gazed back at them uncertainly. 'Well, the last I
heard. . . she's working in London. .
Bernie glanced at Kate, clearly uncomfortable.
Kate spoke to Mrs Luckman gently, making her words as specific as
possible. 'What did Suzie do after the attack?'
The old lady sat silent and still. After a long pause she looked at

Kate.
'You think Suzie's dead,' she said, tone suddenly accusatory.
They waited, Kate becoming concerned that the conversational
direction was causing the woman upset. Mrs Luckman stirred, refocused,
and she seemed more aware of her surroundings. Her eyes
went to the clock on the mantelpiece: 11.45 a.m.
'Would either of you like a sweet sherry? Maybe. . . a tiny one?'
Both declined. More silence.
Then: 'A nice man has been here. . . Henry, I think his name was.
He took Suzie's hairbrush.'
Kate knew of Connie's request to the Forensic Service that material
be gathered from Suzie Luckman's family, after the pathologist had

been told about UCU's theory that she might be connected to the

femur recently found.
Mrs Luckman's eyes suddenly lost their vagueness. 'I know what
you're thinking about Suzie. Sometimes I think it too. Something's
happened to her. Something really bad. It's been so long, but. . . it's
so hard to keep things straight.' She made a frustrated gesture towards

her own head.
Kate and Bernie watched, disconcerted, as she suddenly dissolved
before them, tears flowing. Then, in seconds, her mood changed
again. 'Now I remember.' She beamed. `Suzie's in London, having a
lovely life.' She frowned. 'Maybe its a little game I play . .
Kate felt pressure forming in her own head. She could understand
the self-deception, although she recognised that Mrs Luckman had a
much more fundamental problem. She mentally calculated the other 
woman's likely age. Probably mid-sixties. The onset had clearly
occurred somewhat early.
'Mrs Luckman. Can you talk to us about Suzie, because we never
knew her.' Mrs Luckman's face softened. 'She's a bright girl. A clever
girl.'
Bernie spoke next. 'Did she have a boyfriend, Mrs Luckman? At the
time she was attacked?'
`No. She wasn't very settled living here. That's why she decided
to move to London.' She looked at each of them. 'She did go. To
London. She did go!'
Seeing Mrs Luckman's face about to disintegrate again, Kate hurriedly
reassured her. 'We know she did,' she said softly, a hand on the
older woman's arm.
No way would Kate divulge the result of the credit-card search. Or
the reason for Harry collecting an item of Suzie's personal belongings.
The poor woman appeared to have only a transient awareness that her
daughter was almost certainly dead. Perhaps the kindest aspect of her
condition was that it protected her from that reality.
Kate wanted to leave. Let the poor woman alone. But they had a
pressing need to establish certain facts if at all possible.
'During the time Suzie was still in Birmingham, did she live here? With you?' 
Kate asked.
A quick nod of confirmation. 'Oh yes. Even though she was twenty
one, she hadn't sorted out her life. She didn't know what she wanted
to do. Or be.'
'Had she any ideas?'
' Mrs Luckman smiled. 'Funny you should ask. She was thinking of 40ining the 
police force. She was a tall girl, you know, but she told me,
'..tMom, they don't care about that any more." '
r
. Kate made very brief notes. 'Before she left Birmingham to live in
ndon, was Suzie working?'
') 'Yes. Sales assistant in Rackhams,' said Mrs Luclunan, using the old
,
e for the department store. 'She didn't want to carry on with
at.' Her attention drifted as she gazed towards the window.
Bernie leaned forward. 'Listen, love, do you know if your daughter
any problems? You know -- with men?'
)Mrs Luckman shook her head. `No. Suzie would have told me.
was a pretty girl. Could have had any number of boyfriends. She 
wanted to do something with her life before she met somebody and
settled down. The only thing she ever really talked about was the
customers she had at the department store. Her "regulars", she called
them. Women, all ages. And a few men.'
Kate looked slowly upwards, her eyes meeting Bernie's.
'What did she say about the men, love?' Bernie's question seemed
to have no impact on Mrs Luckman. Her eyes were vague. He leaned
forward again, voice low, words careful. 'Did Suzie mention any man
by name?'
Mrs Luckman's eyes had an unfocused quality. 'No. I don't think
so. She met a lot of people in a day. She said they bought things for
their wives. The men.'
'Did she mention anybody in particular?' prompted Bernie again.
A shake of the head, followed by encroaching vagueness. 'What
about? What for?' her voice querulous.
Kate's gaze drifted round the small sitting room, the film of dust,
the knick-knacks and photographs in frames. There was a photo of a
young female on the sideboard.
'Is that a picture of Suzie, Mrs Luckman?'
The elderly woman turned to where Kate was pointing. 'Yes, that's
Suzie.'
She got up to fetch it and handed it to Kate. Kate took a close
look at the attractive young woman, at the perfect oval face framed
by shoulder-length blonde hair, secured by what looked to be a
black velvet band. She also saw the cream-coloured shirt and the fine
gold necklace. She felt Bernie's tension as he absorbed the same
detail.
'Mrs Luckman, would you mind if we took that photo with us?'
he asked. When she didn't reply, he added: 'We'll be sure to bring it
back.'
After a pause, the elderly lady nodded.
Kate looked from the photograph to Suzie's mother, doubting that
she would get a clear response to her next question but knowing she
had to try.
'When Suzie was settled in London, did she come home on a
regular basis?'
'No. She would just ring me and say she was coming at the end of
the week. Other times she would just arrive. She had her key.' As they 
prepared to leave, Bernie turned to Mrs Luclunan. 'Nice
area, this. You got some good neighbours, Mrs L?'
The elderly woman shook her head slightly. 'Nice enough, but
they're all young. At work all day.'
Now Kate didn't want to let the questioning go. 'Mrs Luckman?
Can you remember Suzie ever going to a police station in Harbome?'
She felt a look of disapproval from Bernie. He probably thought she
was pushing too hard.
The old lady nodded, seemingly a little more alert. 'I do. She went
to the big one. She said she wanted to help other women who had
had the same experience as she had, when she was . . . raped. She
wanted to do some good. And she went to get information about
joining the police.'

They left the house and returned to Bernie's vehicle.
'So there you are, Doc. She never made a formal statement.'
Kate shook her head. 'Given Mrs Luclunan's vagueness, we can't
be sure of that, although there's an indication Suzie did go to Rose
Road.'

Without saying anything, Bernie dialled a number on his phone and
waited for a response.
'Who're you calling?'
'Social Services' Emergency Duty Team. To ask if they know
about Mrs L. I want somebody from the Access Service out to see
her, pronto. The way things are going with the investigation, she's
going to need some support anyway. And I'll phone 'em in a few days
to check what they've done.'

Kate watched the suburban scene of neat semis, local shops and
people flow past as they returned to Rose Road. Although Mrs
Luckman had seemed sure that Suzie had visited Rose Road, they
needed to keep in mind that she was not a reliable source of information.
Kate frowned. SuZie wanted to help other young women,
according to her mother. Surely she would have made an official
complaint about what had happened to her? Kate had another worry.
What about the irregularity of her visits home?

How does a stalker stalk when his quarry's availability is totally
variable?
She sat back and stared through the window, thinking of Mrs
Luckman, now alone in her house. How vulnerable we all are.


She glanced towards Bernie, who was occupied with driving. For
all the irritation he caused her at times, for all his politically incorrect
attitudes, it was Sergeant Nightmare who'd thought to make the call

to Social Services.




CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
B
at UCU Kate picked up a message left on the table. It was
U from Connie. She quickly read it, then showed it to Bernie: Femur
confirmed as belonging to Suzanne Rachel Luckman.
Although it was what she'd anticipated, Kate felt suddenly weary.
She leant against the edge of the table, thinking of Mrs Luckman,
already in a difficult situation; now she would have this news to
contend with.
Suddenly Bernie's voice was low in her ear. 'Come on, Doc. Buck
itp. We're on the move now. We've got a job to finish.'
As Kate contemplated this, the door opened and Joe walked into
IJCU.

He looked at them both. 'You've seen the note?'
Kate straightened, pushing back her hair. 'Yes. We need to get on
Pith what we have to do,' she said quietly.

ate and Joe had completed their plan for meeting with the media.
hey'd decided not to refer to the rape cases specifically, but would
knowledge three murder victims and their belief that the same
trson was responsible for all of them. Kate would give them her
reory of the doer's likely background and personality. Joe, a more
asoned media communicator back in the US, indicated that he was
wnfortable to add anything else he thought relevant. Lastly, they'd
ake a specific appeal for the public's help. They'd decided that they
ould deal with Furman's response as and when he got to know
rout the interview.

An hour later they were still in UCU, but now facing two repsentatives
of the press: the crime correspondent for The Times, Mark
tiding, a tall, thin man with a lugubrious facial expression and a bop; and an 
overweight, smiling antithesis to Belding named Colin 
West, from the Birmingham Mail. Kate had borrowed a large sheet
from the post-mortem suite and this now covered the glass screen.
Joe had outlined their investigation of the cold cases for the two
journalists, giving limited details. Belding had scribbled during this,
while West sat eyeing them, nodding occasionally, arms folded, the
small audio recorder he'd earlier pulled from his pocket absorbing
Joe's words. Kate felt disconcerted by the recorder and the fact that
it was the jovial West who'd produced it, rather than the mournful
Belding.
West looked at Kate, his plump face smiling and curiously inviting.
'So what's been your contribution so far, Dr Hanson?'
Sticking to the plan, Kate outlined her analysis of the nature of the
abduction-murders and the kind of person they were seeking.
'We know a little about him,' she said. 'The nature of the information
we have is delicate, and we're appealing to anyone who can link it
to someone they know or have known, perhaps even intimately.'
She was quiet for a few seconds as Belding's pencil flew across his
notepad. He stopped and nodded, waiting for her to continue. West
looked encouragingly at her and she took a deep breath, still wary
despite the planning she and Joe had done.
'We believe that the man responsible for the murders of these
young women has very specific needs within his intimate relationships.
He requires his sexual partners to be compliant. He would be the one
to direct sexual activity. A wife or girlfriend would experience him in
that context as demanding and controlling, even violent. Sexual
activity is likely to involve tying up and possibly the covering of his
partner's face. He's almost certainly a keen user of pornography.'
The two journalists stared at Kate, waiting as she thought about
what she'd said so far, and what she was about to say.
'We're asking anyone who has experienced or recognises those
kinds of behaviours and can link them to a man who was around
the Midlands area in the mid to late nineteen nineties to contact us.'
She paused. 'We would like to extend our request for help to any
associates or work colleagues he might have had during that time,
anyone who became aware of this man's attitude towards women. Can
anyone make a link from the details I've just given to someone they've
known during the past, say, fifteen years?'
She glanced at Belding as the pencil which had been rapidly covering paper, 
stopped. He looked up at her. 'A lot of what you've
described might be viewed by many people as normal.'
Kate was nonplussed for a few seconds. 'I did say violent, and if you think 
about it--'
She stopped, aware that Belding's pencil was still poised. Clever. He
wanted her talking off-plan. This was harder than she'd anticipated.
She glanced at Joe, who raised one eyebrow and gave an almost
imperceptible nod, which she interpreted as encouragement.

'The behaviour I've described would be experienced by a sexual
partner as oppressive. It would not be consensual activity.'
West nodded genially. 'Care to say a few words about his background,
Doctor? Abused as a child, that kind of thine
'Not necessarily,' said Kate, still wary. 'But his upbringing would
have had its difficulties. His behaviour indicates that he feels entitled
to treat females extremely badly. I suspect that he experienced significant
confusion in his relationship with females in his family. He may
have felt overshadowed by siblings, for example, believing them more
physically attractive or intelligent than he. These are possibilities, you
understand. Some may apply and some may not--'

Belding cut in. 'What if someone reading what you've told us thinks
he or she has information but they feel uncomfortable about contacting
the police? What would you say to that person, Dr Hanson?'
'Please do it. Please call us. We can reassure anyone who contacts
the Unsolved Crime Unit that the source of the information would be
ept confidential.' Kate hesitated. 'At the moment we're doing all we ;can, but 
we need the public's help. We're appealing to anyone who ,thinks they may have 
information to contact us.'
Belding again. 'Why the gap from the early 2000s to now? Where's e been?'
Joe responded to this. 'First, we don't know that there is a gap. 's possible 
he has continued. He could have relocated his criminal
tivities. We've initiated searches of abduction-murder cases with
'milar behaviours--'

West jumped in quickly. 'What kinds of behaviours?'
'Sorry, we're not able to divulge that information,' responded Joe, ily. 'The 
apparent halt to his offending that you just referred to
may have been in prison. Moved elsewhere in the UK, even left the
untry. We don't know. To cover all possibilities, we want to extend
appeal to law enforcement workers, prison staff or probation


officers -- if the information we've made available today is reminiscent

of anyone they've worked with or come into contact with over the last

few years, give us a call.'
Both reporters looked to Kate and she restated her main message.
'If anyone reading the description I've given of this man's intimate
behaviour thinks that it fits someone in their family or someone
they've known in the past, we're asking that they please inform the
police. We appreciate that it might be hard to do that. But he's already
murdered three young women.'
Both reporters stared at her. 'Could be he's just stopped,' said
West.
'We think it very unlikely that this man would have simply stopped
his victimisation of young females. We just don't know what he's done
since 2003.'
'Can you say anything about the victims, Dr Hanson?' asked
Belding.
'The three young women shared some similar physical character
istics.
All in their late teens to early twenties, long blonde hair. Tall,
slim. Educated. Tastefully dressed.'
'Given that you think he might be a risk currently, do you have any
advice for young women of that description?' asked West, with his
deceptively encouraging smile.
'All women need to live cautiously,' said Kate simply.
'Any plans to talk directly to the media in general? News channels,
for instance?'
`No. None,' said Kate flatly.
The journalists took their notebooks and recording equipment and
left, Bernie giving them a wide berth as he passed them at the door of
UCU.
'How'd you think it went?' asked Kate, head resting on one hand,
feeling spent.
'We'll know when we see the papers tomorrow,' said Joe.
Bernie massaged his jowls. 'And then the doo-doo will really hit the
fan. Let's hope it gets us some leads.'
Joe lifted his long legs on to the table, crossing them at the ankle.
'It could be a spur to the doer to communicate with us directly.'
Kate eyes widened. 'What makes you say that?'
'There was this big case back home. Publicised coast to coast. This guy killed 
a lot of people. About ten, far as I remember. Then he
stopped and--'
`Accordin' to the Doc, what they never do is stop.'
Kate said nothing, and Joe continued.
'He stopped. After he got a job as a kind of warden in his
neighbourhood. A bit like your Neighbourhood Watch here, but
waged and more official. He'd actually wanted to be a cop but they
wouldn't have him. Seems the warden job gave him what he wanted,
or needed. A uniform and a licence to shove people around. He got
on television a couple of times, describing his work as a warden.'

Bernie looked at Joe. 'Right. So he stopped because he got a job he
liked. Then what happened?'
'A reporter on Wichita's main newspaper knew about the murders
this is when the doer had stopped so he gets hold of the details of the cases 
from press records and . . .' Joe paused, looking at each of,
them. 'This reporter, he wrote a book. It got published. Suddenly, the
reporter's top dollar. Featured on newscasts and on talk shows. That's when the 
killer started communicating.'

Kate looked from Joe to Bernie and back, suddenly fearful. 'Don't say it. Don't 
say he killed again.'
`Nope. Like I said, he started communicating.'

'Who with? How?' asked Kate.
Joe stretched his long arms, lacing his fingers behind his head. 'He
started sending letters to the newspaper, addressed to the guy who
:Wrote the book. About his murders because that's how he viewed

em.'
'Yeah, so. . . why'd he do that?' Bernie asked.
'Because he was pretty damn mad with the reporter. Regarded
mself as the expert on "his" murders. And he wanted to put the
porter straight on a few aspects. So he started sending him informam
about what he'd done. Stuff no one knew about, except maybe e cops. He also 
started leaving all kinds of spooky stuff around the eas where the murders were 
committed. Not too far from where he red, as it happens.'
-Bernie perked up. 'Spooky, as in?'
=4Barbie dolls with their heads chopped off, that kind of stuff.
ssages inside cereal boxes. Yeah? Cerealserial. Get it?'
Bernie's eyes narrowed under lowered brows. 'You're having us


Joe leaned back, raising his arms behind his head, lacing his fingers
together. `Nope.'
Kate gazed at Joe intently, a small frown above her nose.
Bernie waited. `So? And! Then what happened?'
'He got caught.'
'How? I still don't get why he did all the barmy stuff.'
'I do,' said Kate.
Joe grinned across at her. 'He did it because he didn't like the fact
that the guy who wrote the book was getting all the attention. He
thought he should be getting the attention. .
'Now I know you're having us on!' Bernie looked from Joe to Kate,
monobrowed, as Joe continued.
. . . and he got caught because he sent a floppy disk to the reporter
guy, describing the murders in detail. Because he's still pissed at him
getting all the buzz. But first he sends him an anonymous note saying
"Hey, if I send you some info on a computer disk --" bearing in mind
this was in the seventies or eighties -- "you won't be able to trace it to
me, will ya?" and the reporter says, "Nah. Give it up." And he does. And they 
trace the disk to the computer at a local church where the
killer was a member, and--'
'Yeah, right. I didn't come down with the first shower, Corrigan. I
got things to do.' Bernie got up from his chair, adjusting his trousers,
and headed for the door.
Kate called after him: `Where?'
'Human bleeding Resources. Going to see if they got any of my test
results.'
She transferred her attention back to Joe. 'I know about that case.'
He grinned sideways at her. 'Thought you might.'
'I hope we don't stir up our doer, Joe.' Kate felt his eyes on her.
`VVhat?'
'Just wondering whether you got plans this evening?'
Kate got busy with her notebook and highlighter. 'Yes.'

Kate had been at home for just a minute and was moodily surveying
the breakfast dishes still on the table, it being Phyllis's day off. She
glanced at her watch, mood deepening. Where was Maisie? She heard
a key in the front door and the thud of book bag on wood. Maisie
stomped into the kitchen and flopped on to one of the chairs, looking
at Kate, face irritable.
'Mom! I waited an hour for you! Where were you? Why didn't you
answer your phone?'
'I can't find it. What do you mean "waited"? You were coming
home with--'

Maisie's eyes rolled in her flushed face. 'Mom, you texted me and
said to go to the Stu U--'
'I did no such thing! I wouldn't tell you to go to the Student
Union. It's licensed! I've mislaid my phone so I couldn't have--'
'I was waiting in the hall of the Union, like you said. Mom, you
really are losing it!'
Kate looked at her daughter's accusatory face.
'Maybe one of your friends sent the text as a joke? Check the
number.'
'I zapped it,' snapped an irate Maisie as she pushed herself off the
chair and plodded to the door. 'Another thing. I think Phyllis is on
the take.'

Kate looked up quickly from organising china, horrified at Maisie's
accusation.
'What? That's an awful thing to say, Maisie. Phyllis has been with us for. . . 
Why, what's missing?'
'My best lip gloss. You know, the sherbet-flavoured one.'
Of course she knew. On the cigarettes.

'So? That's hardly Phyllis's style. You think she ate it?'
'No need to get sarcastic,' grumped Maisie. 'It's nowhere. Gone.' Her voice 
faded as she climbed the stairs.
Kate shook her head as she sat at the table and pulled her notebook
wards her. Her stalking theory was bothering her. They didn't know
ether the girls who'd been raped years ago were stalked. But if she

right, if Suzie Luckman had been victimised twice by the same r, the second 
encounter had to be as a result of the doer watching d following her.

Kate frowned. And that was the problem. Suzie didn't come home
gularly, according to her mother. Which meant that the doer had to
willing to what? Hang around, on the off-chance she was in
mingham? Kate shook her head. Highly motivated he might be.
sent, possibly. But willing to give up so much of his time to chance?
what about the weekend case? If her theory was correct, the killer
gone to the trouble to return it to Suzie's flat, perhaps to slow 
down the police investigation. Had he stalked her all the way to
London? She threw down her pen.
Maybe Mrs Luckman's information to them was wrong.
Maybe Suzie had had a regular arrangement to come home.
But it was one of the few times during their conversation when
she'd seemed sure.
Kate shook her head in irritation.
It didn't make any sense. Stalkers didn't wait around for weeks,
hoping for a chance of seeing their quarry.
Did he find out somehow that she was coming home on a specific

date?
If so, how?
Half an hour later, Kate was in the sitting room, still prodding the
issue, when Mugger leapt on to the sofa and began an enthusiastic
washing routine next to her. She looked down at him, absently
scratching the fur on the top of his head, between his ears.
'Hi, Mugsy. What you been up to? Working hard at your job terrorising
small furry things? Meet any nice ladies?'
She went back to the list to try a different angle.
Why did he kill Suzie so long after he'd raped her?
Maybe he knew she could identify him as her rapist?
Or
He thought she could?
Kate's head dropped back on to the sofa cushion.
Getting nowhere.
She lifted her head and gazed into the middle distance, smiling
faintly.
He'd more or less asked for a date. Joe.
The smile changed to a frown.
And you avoided it.
What's the matter with you?


CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

O
n Wednesday morning, Maisie was sitting on the step of the front
porch, elbows on knees, watching her mother. The house phone
began ringing but she made no effort to go to it. After four rings,
Kate's patience had worn thin.
'Maisie, will you get that, please!'
Sighing, Maisie got up and went inside the house. From the drive
'ay Kate could hear her daughter talking.

'Hello? Oh, hi, Joe. No, you can't . . . Because she's got a man
'changing a wheel and she's in a mood so she's ordering him about
4nd--'
1"A Kate walked briskly into the hall and took the receiver from Maisie.
r
0Thank you. Hello, Joe.'
, 'Hi, Red. Got a flat?'
`114mm, the mechanic's just told me it'll take him another couple
minutes. I've got to drop Maisie-- Oh, hang on, Joe . . .' The
echanic came to the door, and at the same time, a sleek-looking
'cle arrived on the drive with a loud beep.
Maisie picked up her school bag and ran towards the open door.
elsey's mom's here! I'm going with them! Bye!'
,
' Kate looked out to check, then turned her attention back to the
one call.

'I can come in now Maisie's sorted.'

4'Don't forget. Keep to. . .'
the back way.'
'Press is thinner on the ground back there. How long will you be?'
Some quality in Joe's voice made Kate ask, 'What's the urgency?'
After Joe's reply she hung up.
urman wanted to see them. And so did Gander.



It felt crowded in the office with the inclusion of all from UCU.
Gander was sitting at his desk, Furman standing to one side of him.
Kate was trying to gauge Furman's mood and the reason for the
meeting.

Arms folded at his chest, Joe's attention was on the many Force
photographs arranged on the long wall of Gander's office. Kate
followed his gaze. Anything was better than looking at Furman. A
detail in one of the photographs snagged her attention. Wasn't
that . . . ?

It was Gander who spoke first.
'It's been brought to my attention that an unauthorised entry was
made from UCU into a confidential database relating to credit-card
use within the last three days.' He looked uneasy, but pressed on, with
a glance at Furman, who was staring stonily ahead. 'Naturally, because
of the. . . history, suspicion inevitably falls on--'

Kate saw Bernie give Julian an encouraging wink. Her face heated
up. Because of Julian's past, they were ready to blame him for what
she had done.

'Chief Superintendent Gander,' she interrupted, 'it wasn't anything
to do with Julian.'
Both Gander and Julian looked relieved.
Kate looked directly at the Chief Super. 'It was me. My responsibility
entirely.'
Furman was working himself into a rage, the vein up and running,
but Kate could detect something else beneath the surface. Satisfaction.
'I
knew it!' he said, his voice barely a whisper. 'That letter. To your
professional body. It's on its way. As of now, you no longer have a
role here. You're finished.' He pointed a quivering finger towards the
door. 'You can--'

Gander intervened, voice weary. 'Hang on, Roger. It's not that
simple. Kate is a contracted civilian.'
'Sir! Dr Hanson went into financial data without clearance. She
also interviewed the son of a prominent West Midlands businessman
when expressly forbidden. These infringements demonstrate that
she's totally unwilling or unable to work by the rules of police
procedure and follow orders, both of which she treats with contempt.'
Kate had had a presentiment in the last couple of weeks that this scene would 
eventually play itself out. She was only surprised it was so
soon and was almost relieved it was happening. She ignored Furman,
speaking directly to Gander.
'I'm not contemptuous of police procedure and I'm not going
anywhere as long as I believe we can make progress on these cases. I'm not 
quitting.'
Furman glared at her, coherent speech almost deserting him 'It's
not up to you,' he managed to hiss. 'That isn't your decision to make.'
As Gander opened his mouth to respond to Kate, Joe suddenly rose
and stood in front of Furman, disgust on his face.
'Your management skills are lousy, Furman.' Eyes locked on
Furman's, he addressed Gander. 'Sir, if Kate is suspended, I quit
UCU--'
Alarmed at this rapid turn of events, Kate intervened. 'No, no! This
is my problem. It's my--'
Furman broke in. 'Too right it is! The Force is run according to
rules and--'
Kate whirled to face him. 'What rules would those be? Always do the least you 
can? Never commit to cases? Never, ever give a thought to the suffering and 
loss of victims and their families? Because those seem to be the rules you work 
to, Furman. You're a disgrace!'
The others stared from Kate to a now white-faced Furman, but she
wasn't finished. 'Show that it's not true, what I just said. Tell us the
names of the three young women we know have died,' she challenged.
In the silence, all eyes were now on Furman. 'Who the hell do you
think you are,' he whispered, seething. 'Rules are there for a reason.
And they're for everybody. Including you. The credit-card data you
Interfered with, the Cranham family whom you harassed. It's about
human rights! That's the system we operate within. That's the law!'
Kate hadn't thought she could get any angrier. She was wrong.
Now incandescent, she took two steps closer to Furman, causing Joe
to move closer.
'So you think that those kinds of human rights not to have your
data looked at, or a wealthy family legitimately talked to because it
ght 'upset' them are what matters? What about Janine Walker's
uman rights? And Molly James's and Suzie Luckman's and the other
pe victims'? What about the rights of their families, who are done in y what 
happened to their children and have to carry on as best they


can?' Kate glared up at Furman. 'If that's the system, then it's no
damn good!'
Furman's eyes fficked to Joe, then Gander, who had a grim look on
his face.

'Dr Hanson is clearly beyond her own control, sir. I recommend
that she's given some compassionate leave time.'
Kate eyed him, still furious. 'If there's any move to reduce my
involvement in these cases, I go immediately to the media.' She
pointed towards the window. 'And I give it to them straight how
shoddy, how superficial your investigations were in 1998 and 2002,
and how you're now blocking our efforts to put that right.'

She was also thinking: He obviously doesn't know we've already spoken
to the press. She waited, frowning up at him. 'What's the matter with
you?' she asked, voice low. 'Are you afraid of your previous investigations
coming under scrutiny?'

He gazed down at her, his voice almost inaudible. 'You go anywhere
near the press and I'll bury you. If--'
Joe's deep voice cut in. 'Hey, Furman! I don't give a rat's ass for
you or your crazy priorities. Don't throw threats around, d'you
hear!'

Kate headed for the door, pulled it open and walked out of the
room. Straight into Harry. She guessed why he was there. His usual
calm, light-hearted demeanour was absent. Instead he looked
agitated, eyes strained. He'd heard about the meeting via the Headquarters
vine.

'Julian told me about the credit-card data,' he said quickly. 'I'm
worried about him. I have to speak up for--'
'It's okay, Harry. There's no need. I've told them it was me. Julian's
not in any trouble.'
'Kate, as his forensic manager, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear
that.'
Kate glanced at him as they walked together. He looked troubled.
'What is it, Harry?'
They'd arrived at UCU. 'I need a word with you, Kate. It's about
Julian.'
They walked through the door of UCU and sat at the table, Kate
wondering what was on Harry's mind. He got quickly to the point.
'Have you noticed any change in Julian recently?'
Kate nodded reluctantly. 'Now you mention it, yes. We all have. He seems 
moody, tense.' She stopped speaking, then decided it was the
right time to say what was on her mind. 'Actually, Harry, I was going to say 
something I'm concerned about Matt Prentiss's interactions
with him. I think that's what might be at the bottom of--' She
stopped speaking as Harry vigorously shook his head.
'No, Kate. It's nothing to do with Matt. I suspect Julian's taking
drugs.'
Kate stared at him, horrified. 'What makes you think that?'
'Like you said, his moodiness and--'
'But that isn't like Julian. He's been in trouble before and he's desperate to 
do well now. It just doesn't--'
'Kate, we've had some thefts of money Upstairs, and I'm afraid
Julian's the main suspect. I didn't want to have to say all of this
and I've tried to ensure that information about the thefts has stayed
inside the forensic team, but you're his main supervisor. You need to
know.'

Kate stared at him. '"Thefts"?'

Harry shrugged. He looked at Kate, face worried, eyes candid. 'I'm
not sure I did the right thing, Kate, but Furman's clearly heard about the 
missing money from somewhere. He asked me directly about At. I said nothing. 
Now I'm worried that that's leaving Julian to do
whatever he's doing. .
Kate was resolute. 'Well, Gander has to know.'
Harry shook his head. 'I'm betting Furman's telling him right now,
te. This is all confidential, but it seemed only fair to me that you
know.' He looked at her and sighed. 'Sorry to be the bearer of
d news, with everything else that's going on. And I'm sorry about
Lilian. He's got great aptitude for forensic work what more can I y? It's all 
very sad.'

Kate watched as Harry got up slowly from the table, looking
xhausted as he walked to the door and out. He knew as surely as
te did that this meant the end of the line for Julian.
Five minutes later, Kate was still sitting at the table. Her own
sition was little better than Julian's. How had it come to this?
Elbows on the table, fingers to her mouth, she stared ahead,
seeing. Maisie's financial security and her own professional reputaon
and future were probably in the balance. Dark as these thoughts ere, they 
darkened further as her eyes moved slowly to the glass
een and she reread the notes on it, although she now knew them




by heart. He was out there. He was operating. Okay, Furman might
follow up on his threat against her. He might even finish UCU in its
current form. But other people would take over the cases. Good
people. Upstairs at Rose Road.
Kate closed her eyes tight, steadying her mouth with her fingers.
What was it Bernie had said? Not over till the fat woman. . .

It wasn't over.

Yet.


CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
H
alf an hour later they were all in UCU. Nothing had been said
between them about the scene in Gander's office, beyond Joe
confirming that Gander had refused to take any action against Kate.
For now. For her part, Kate had said nothing to anyone about Julian.
It had been unusually quiet in the past few minutes. The day's
1
newspapers had arrived. Bernie refolded the Birmingham Mail and
. slapped it on the table. Joe had skimmed through The Times, given it
to Kate and was now watching her get the gist.
'Oh my--' She'd got it. She continued reading. 'What it says here
is that the doer's a sadistic bully who was spoiled by his mother and
' sexually attracted to his sister.' She peered over the newspaper at Joe,
, eyes wide. 'I didn't say that! And why's my age relevant? There's a
photograph as well. God, what a sight!' she muttered.
, tI thought you looked cute,' Joe soothed.

1

Ka 'te's eyes met his and stayed there for a few seconds, then,

What've you got there, Bernie?'
'Along the same lines, but less polite.' He reached for the paper
'again and unfolded it. 'Sadistic wife-beater, fancies his mother, hates
his brothers, had sex with his sisters oh, and you're a red-headed
minx who strikes fear into sex offenders.'
, Kate leaned sideways and snatched the newspaper off him.
Bernie continued: 'It's more or less what's there. I've just cut out
e fluff. They've worked in the word "psycho" for good measure.
' akes him sound like he's got his own motel.'
Kate threw down the newspaper in disgust.
Joe looked at them both. 'Hey, come on! It's not that bad. It gives
the bottom line on him.'
' Kate's eyebrows shot upwards. 'Not that bad? It's completely
'missed the point of what we were trying to do. It's got no finesse.



We wanted people to read about him and think, "Ah, now that I've
read that and thought about it, it sounds just like old so-and-so
who I knew ten, twenty years ago." Anybody reading that'll think,
"Golly! What a nutter", and won't connect him to anyone they've
experienced.'

Joe swivelled round to face Kate, grinning, eyebrows raised.
'Golly?'
Smiling despite her tension and upset, Kate picked up the newspaper
and threw it at him, aware that he was trying to lift her mood.
Joe retrieved the newspaper with the air of the long-sufferer, placed it
on the table and, leaning forward, forearms on knees, looked at Kate
from beneath lowered brows.
'Yo' wanna be finessed, Red? Yo' is just lookin' in da wrong place,
hear what I'm sayin'?'
Head on one side, Kate held his gaze. 'There's about as much
finesse in that Southern act as in the stuff I've just read. I'm now
going to my other day job,' she said. 'While I still have it.'

Kate sat on the wrought-iron table in her garden, her feet on a similar
chair. A few hours of concentrated effort at the university, following
the events at Rose Road, had left her feeling wrung-out. A call from
Joe in the late afternoon had helped, as had his offer to visit later.
Pachelbel's Canon continued to play from the kitchen, failing
to achieve its usual effect on Kate. Too reminiscent of her circular
thinking about Julian and also her own difficulties. She adjusted her
position on the table, the tan on her legs illuminated by the lights
attached to the back wall of the house.

Despite her efforts not to think about it, her thoughts kept returning
to her current situation. If her professional integrity, her ethical
values, were publicly questioned by Furman, it could impact on her
future. If that happened, she might find it difficult to progress, or even
remain in her current post at the university. Alternative positions at
the same level of salary might be difficult to find. And if that happened,
she might even have difficulty ultimately in supporting her and
Maisie's current way of life. This house. She gazed at warm brick,
wisteria and wide windows.

Kate resolutely quit the mental merry-go-round and slowly sipped
wine until she heard the doorbell. She went to answer it, then she and
Joe walked out into the garden together.
He sat forward, wine glass balanced on top of the work diary
between his feet, and went to what was on his mind.
'Kate, hear me when I say that Furman's a moron. He's got no
right talking to you or anybody the way he does. In the States it
would lead to litigation. I've spelled out my position to Gander.'
Kate shook her head. 'I don't want to cause you problems, Joe. Or
Bernie, or. . . Julian. Trouble is, although he's not popular, Furman's
ingratiated himself with a few people in high places in the Force.
People who don't have to put up with him on a daily basis. His views
and opinions could carry weight.'
'Then this Force is dumber than he is.' He looked into his glass,
then at Kate.
'Don't go nuts, but have you considered keeping a low profile, then
showing good behaviour as a wily next step? Or maybe even a quick
acknowledgement that you were in error, for effect only, and. . . No,
I guessed not.'
Joe, I know what I did wasn't exactly right. I know it's technically
breaking the law. But I think sometimes there are things we have to
do that are for -- I don't know -- a greater good.' She sipped, then
glanced at him. 'And now I've played right into Furman's hands. Now
he thinks he's got me. I suppose in a way he has, hasn't he?'
She went back to a previous train of thought. For Kate, her work
had always been what she was. What she loved. A lifeline at times of
stress. Like when Kevin left. It had provided an emotional refuge.
Demanded that she think, fill her mind with the theoretical. Kept her
from dwelling on the personal. But these cases were personal. The
Walkers. Dianne James. Mrs Luckman. They didn't have the luxury
of pursuing information in order to find out what happened to their
daughters. And now, by taking on the task, her own professional
future, even her personal future, could be in jeopardy. That wasn't
right. Surely?
'You're one tough broad, Hanson,' Joe said, narrowing his eyes at
her. She glared at him, mock-serious.
'Nobody talks like that any more. Not even Americans.'
'Raymond Chandler?'
'He's dead.'
'He'd be surprised and hurt to hear you say that.'
She grinned, recognising her liking of Joe's ability to defuse 
tension. Even in dark situations. Serious again, she gazed into her now
empty wine glass.
'We know a lot about what happened to these young women, Joe.
We can't ignore it. Forgetting it isn't an option. We've also got some
emotional awareness -- of what it was like for them, the fear they must
have felt.' She paused. 'Nothing was done properly during those first
investigations. Furman put no real effort into them. He directed the
superficial stuff, ticked the boxes, had people interviewed, played the
part of the investigator. But -- he didn't care, Joe. He still doesn't. I
doubt he's given any of those young women a passing thought in all
the years they've been gone.'

She tugged at the band on her hair, released her curls and ran her
fingers through them.
Joe had listened and waited. Now he offered some carefully chosen
words. 'Kate, if things get difficult for you, I can help. .
Kate's heart squeezed, afraid of what he might be about to say,
mortified with embarrassment.

'No! No, Joe, really. Thanks. We're colleagues . . . friends. Maisie
and I aren't your responsibility. Kevin may be a selfish idiot with
commitment issues, but he wouldn't see Maisie without whatever she
needed. What I just said about my professional future -- I have to
be aware of it, for Maisie's sake. But we can't let these cases go the
way they have in the past, can we? A cursory dabble, some half-hearted
inquiries, then close them, shut the boxes, send them back to the
evidence store. Neat, tidy, forgotten. We owe Janine, Molly, Suzie,
their families -- and God knows who else besides -- more than that.'

'I'm with you.'
Kate nodded, recognising sincerity in the few words. 'Who else will
make the effort, give it the best shot, if we don't? This is the girls' last
chance, Joe. Their cases will never see daylight again if we don't do all
we can to find him. And if we don't find him, what about his future
victims?'

Joe was staring at the grass between his feet. He didn't look at her
as he quietly asked his question: 'What makes you run, Kate?'
The air around her grew taut. No one had ever asked her so
directly. She knew there were two reasons. Celia was right. Although
Kate hardly thought of what had happened to them that day more
than thirty years ago, it had contributed to who and what she was.



She looked up into Joe's face. To reveal it meant trusting him. Did
she?
'You know Celia? Well, years ago, when we were small children. . .
we got into a situation. There was a man.' Kate stopped, taking
charge of her breathing. 'He saw us. He called us.' Breathe. 'He was
masturbating, Joe.' She saw his facial expression tighten. 'Six months
later, he was arrested. For murdering four children.' She stopped and
closed her mouth.
Joe waited, his eyes on Kate's face. When nothing more came: 'You
and Celia were two lucky young girls. .
'I went to him, Joe. He called and I went.' Kate bowed her head.
'Kate, you were a kid. I don't know how old--'
'Six. We were six,' she whispered.
He nodded slowly. 'You didn't do wrong, Kate. You acted in
innocence.'
Kate brushed her face with her hands. 'Like the young women in
Our cases.'
Joe was waiting. 'There's something else.'
She hesitated again. The other experience that made her 'run', as
oe had phrased it, was to do with her criminal casework as a forensic
psychologist.

Getting down from the table, she sat on the chair next to him.
'You know that I take on work instructed by the courts? Well, a few years ago I 
was involved in a case in Manchester. I won't go into all the details but it 
became more than just another criminal case. It was about a girl called Karina. 
She was found dead in her bed one morning.'
Kate felt Joe's eyes on her as she continued.
'And I was, am, convinced that she was killed. By someone inside the house at 
the time. Karina went to bed in excellent health, Joe. She died sometime during 
that night. Nobody admitted any responsibility
involvement. I was asked to provide a psychological opinion on the
atter. The police in Manchester had investigated her death. If they ad a 
suspicion or theory, they couldn't or wouldn't follow it up. The
wn Prosecution Service didn't support anyone being charged.
hey said there was insufficient evidence.'
Kate looked away, then back to Joe.
'You probably know by now, Joe, that the legal system we have e actively 
supports only those cases it knows it has a good chance 
of winning. My professional opinion of the mother's boyfriend -- his
personality traits, his dismissive attitude to what had befallen KarMa,
his capacity to view others as objects -- was ignored. On the basis that
it wasn't "hard" evidence. Even though he knew that I knew he was
involved in her death.'

Joe shook his head as Kate continued.
'Karina was only three years old. Little children don't die suddenly
in their beds unless something happens to them. But they still said
"insufficient evidence". She got no justice, Joe. As you sometimes say,
"Go figure". The opinions I provide for criminal cases are as balanced
and as rigorous as I can make them -- but I won't fudge or avoid issues
if I think they need commenting on.' She placed her glass on the
table. 'That doesn't win me many fans.'

The music had changed a minute before, sidelining Pachelbel for
something more up-to-date.
Joe put down his glass, stood and reached down for Kate's hand.
'What're you doing?' Kate looked up uneasily as he gently pulled
her to her feet and stood close, a hand round her waist, his voice low.
'I think we could use this music. In fact, I think it'd be a really good
idea,' he said.
Kate glanced up at him as they stood together. 'You think this
song's appropriate? I'd hardly call what I've had a "perfect day".' She
felt Joe's arms around her, his quiet voice in her ear.
'It's just a dance, Red, and everything's got some good bits, alongside
the crazy stuff. We're dancing for the good bits.'
The music faded and they walked slowly inside the house and out
on to the front drive. They stood by Joe's car without talking for some
seconds.

'See you at Rose Road tomorrow?' Joe asked.
She nodded. 'I'll be there.'

Ten minutes later, Kate stood in her bedroom, about to close the
window blinds. She leaned on the sill, looking out at the quiet, still
warm avenue. Not a leaf stirring. What had somebody told her when
she first arrived in the city years ago? More trees in Birmingham than
people. A heartening ratio, if it were true. She gazed at the sky,
wondering if the hot weather was likely to end soon.

'Mom?'
She turned. Maisie was in the doorway with a textbook. Their truce was 
holding. For maybe the hundredth time, Kate thought of the
small blue tablets, then banished them resolutely from her mind.
'Still working?'
Maisie nodded. 'Eng lit. A poem. I'm fed up and bored of it.' She
pouted. Maisie's academic strengths lay well towards the mathematical
and the scientific.

'Show me.'
They sat on Kate's bed together, looking at the text.
'Why use rotten old Latin for a title? Why not use an English word?'
groused Maisie, lying down at Kate's side, a small frown above her
nose.
Kate leaned against the headboard, an arm around her daughter.
'The thing to remember is that when people write things, like stories
or poems, they tend to look for ways to avoid laying everything out,
or making meaning too easily available for the reader.'

'Yeah, right. It's certainly making my life hard!'
Kate smiled down at her. 'Maybe they feel that they've had some
life-changing experience that was difficult for them. They want to
share what they've learned, without trivialising it. So they find a way of
making the reader work for meaning, strive for understanding. They
think their experience is worth being worked for. I think they also do
it because we tend to remember the things that are a struggle for us.
Why didn't you Google it?'

Maisie huffed. 'Mom, I've just done three hours of projective and
inversive geometry, although I know what I'm doing with that. But
this! I can't be bothered and I don't like it and it's well depressing.'
Kate looked at her, eyebrows raised. 'Do you know the story behind
it?'
'No. Dodders just gave it to my study group and said, "Here you
are, gels, deconstruct this wonderful work. By tomorrow, ten sharp!" '
Maisie had just given a very passable impersonation of her headmistress,
Miss Dodson. Kate laughed, brushing a stray curl from the
frown. She took the textbook from Maisie's hand.
'It's about a man who was very ill and had to have his leg amputated.' 'See? I 
told you it was depressing.'
'This was over a hundred years ago, when they couldn't cure what
he had. He wrote the poem when he was in hospital.'
t Kate pointed to one of the printed lines. 'There. He's saying he
kwouldn't be beaten by what'd happened to him. And he wasn't.' 

She gazed down, watching Maisie's eyes track words as she read.
`Mmm . . So he was determined not to give in, right?'
'Exactly. He wouldn't be beaten by his situation. "Invictus." It
means "Undefeated":
'Okay. I get it. He was brave and stuck with it. Still a bit depressing.'
Maisie
returned to her room and Kate stretched on the bed, reliving
the earlier, relatively unfamiliar sensation of strong arms.
What do I know about you, Joe?
Quiet, easy-going, funny, a good foil for my moods.
'Cool', according to Maisie.
But you didn't tell me what makes you run.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Carly Thursday morning, Kate was back in UCU feeling uneasy, L although nothing 
further had been said about yesterday. She'd
decided to continue as if her clash with Furman had never happened.
Glancing briefly at Julian's smooth face, she resolved to deal with the
information she'd been given about him in similar fashion. She would
do and say nothing. For now.

For the last ten minutes she had summarised her views of the doer to her three 
colleagues. She'd described his likely basic physical
characteristics -- probably white, around his late thirties, owner of a quality 
vehicle and as likely to be in a relationship as not. They
wouldn't be lulled into the cliche of a sad loner whom neighbours
later said 'kept himself to himself'. Kate had acknowledged that given the 
varying times of the abductions, including the most recent, it was not possible 
to be categorical about whether he was employed, although
she thought he probably was. Given the quality of his car, as
suggested by Josie Kenton-Smith, even though it was years ago, it was
possible that he had a career that came with some responsibility and
kudos and was therefore likely to involve a degree of freedom on a
daily basis.

She had felt she was on more solid ground with some of the aspects of his 
actual behaviour as suggested by the rape-murders, which
showed him to be capable of planning and maintaining focus. That
meant he was intelligent and unlikely to have serious mental health
issues. She saw Bernie fold his arms as she said this.
She had summarised the meaning of the doer's behaviour towards
his victims -- sexually sadistic, a need to render any victim totally
defenceless, a need to denigrate and control, almost certainly a longterm
user of hard-core pornography. She finished with a brief reference to his 
possible childhood experience. 
'His behaviour towards young women indicates the possibility that
during his childhood there was an adult figure who was in some way
confusing for him, probably very imposing, even frightening.'
'I thought you said to the reporters that you didn't think he was
abused.'

'Not necessarily in the ways that might be anticipated to mean,
Bernie -- physical, sexual, possibly not, although I can't categorically
rule those out.'

'Course not,' Bernie said, sarcasm showing.
'It's more a case of him experiencing a key adult as mystining, bewildering, in 
behaviour or presentation,' Kate continued. 'The way
he appears to manipulate and handle his victims, it seems to me that
he sees their presentation of themselves as somehow at odds with
what he thinks they really are. I would anticipate that he had
behavioural problems as a young person. Therefore, if he has a well
paid, responsible job now, he achieved it subsequent to his teenage
years, through ambition, diligence and a notable willingness to fit in.'

What had Celia said of him? He's a student, a mature student. Around twelve 
years ago.
Kate looked at her colleagues, trying to judge their reception of the
information she'd just given. She knew that Bernie was wondering
where they went from here.

'I have confidence in what I've said because it's based on what we
know of his behaviour.' She walked from the glass screen to sit on the
team table. 'I think it might help to consider his likely behaviour
during childhood.'
'Why?' This from Bernie.
'Because when we decide that we have a POI worth raising to
suspect, we can ask questions about it in interview with him. As a
suspect in very serious crimes he's believed to have committed as an
adult, he might find it easier, less threatening, to talk about what
he was doing many years ago. Especially if you ask him, rather than
me,' she added. 'We can also request his medical records, educational
records, if there are any, to get reliable data about his early years.'

'So what childhood behaviours would we expect?' asked Julian.
'Truancy, pilfering, lying, rule-breaking, bed-wetting, fire-setting.'
'We could arrest half the population on them grounds!'
'No, Bernie. What would be significant for us is the number of such
behaviours occurring and their severity, plus indications of the personal 
characteristics I've already outlined. It's all of these, coming together. In 
one person.' Kate shook her head slightly. 'We haven't
exactly been inundated with leads.' A thought suddenly occurred.
'Anything from our newspaper appeal?'
'Gander's put Whittaker and an officer from Upstairs on to that.
They're going to let us know if they get anything that looks solid. Or
even hopeful.'
Kate nodded. 'The only potential witness to Janine's abduction,
the neighbour, is dead. No witness information from the rape cases --
in fact hardly anything at all. It's all so -- frustrating. In the absence of 
any new leads, maybe we need to consider the persons of interest we
already have in as much detail as possible.'

Bernie rubbed his jowls. 'So the next step is identifying a POI who
might have had even a passing connection to all these girls?'
Kate looked at her notes. 'I'm sure that Suzie Luckman was stalked
and killed by the same person who raped her, who somehow knew
when she was visiting Birmingham from her home in London. Janine
Walker's diary suggests she was subjected to a degree of stalking,
although she didn't perceive it in that way. With Janine, and to some
degree with Molly, he came out of the shadows and made his presence
felt. That's unusual behaviour, but it's useful for us -- it tells us that
he's physically acceptable, attractive even, although older than both of
them. Further characteristics to add to the others we suspect, and
ones that would be easy to verify, once we have him.'

Bernie frowned. 'I thought stalkers hung about for years being a
pain in the arse. We arrested a woman last year. Got a thing for her
doctor.'

'That would have been a case of stalked victim as love object. What
we've got is a predatory stalker whose ultimate goal is capture followed
by physical harm. In our cases, destruction. They're always male.
Average age mid-thirties and probably employed.'
'Nice to hear an "always" in the middle of a lot of "probablies",'
groused Bernie.
Julian looked at Kate. 'Do they ever threaten the person they're
stalking, prior to striking?'

Kate shook her head. 'Predators are the least likely of all stalkers
to do that. Their sole aim is amassing information so they can prepare
for the ultimate attack. I am surprised at his approach behaviour,


particularly with Janine, the indication of familiarity, as suggested in
her diary.'
She reran Julian's question in her head.
'Actually, Julian, you've made-- me think. Whilst they're intent on concealing 
themselves prior to attack, some stalkers do show themselves
in a way, sometimes by entering their victims' homes. Obviously,
they're well placed to do that. They know the living arrangements and
routines of the person they're stalking. It's another way of gaining
intimate information in order to abduct. They may even take small,
insignificant items that are unlikely to be missed immediately.'

Lip gloss.
Kate pushed her hair off her face, chiding herself for her paranoia,
knowing it was inevitable, given the job she did and her knowledge
of the capabilities of certain types of people. 'If his personality is how
I've described, we can expect other deviant behaviours. When we have
someone who looks to be a likely suspect, we check police records,
see whether he's already known -- for pilfering, theft, deviant sexual
activity.'

She stopped again, thinking how best to phrase her next offering
whilst avoiding a knee-jerk response from Bernie.
'It's fairly usual for predators to exhibit sexual deviance in a number
of ways. I've already mentioned hard-core pornography. We've
extended our task to include prior rapes. If and when we identify
someone worthy of closer attention, we'll look for indications of
voyeurism -- for example, peeping, or other nuisance behaviour towards
females.'

She took a breath. 'We're back to the graduation of offenders. It's
not unknown for stalkers to begin their offending career as either
peeping Toms or exhibitionists. .
'Flashing? Colley!' Bernie said.
'No.'

Bernie looked irritable. 'We have to turn at least one POI into a
suspect soon, Doc. We've already got three.' He itemised on his
fingers: `Cranham, Colley, Fairley. You've ruled out Cranham because
he didn't show no signs of knowing the rape victims. I'm still not
convinced. Maybe he was just clever at hiding what he was thinking,
yeah?'
'No. Concealment takes significant effort. As I said before, he
wasn't expending any.'
'Okay, have it your way. How about Colley, the sex pest? According
to you, Doc, he ain't got no self-esteem. So how come he's able to
jump out at women?'
Kate replied: 'The fact of his doing exactly that demonstrates how
under-assertive and low in self-esteem he is. His goal was to shock the
women, Bernie. To reassure himself that he was capable of having
an impact and causing an emotional response in them. Julian got a
printout of Colley's exhibitionist records . . .' Kate riffled the pages
of A4 in front of her. 'Here. Of his seven victims, four were aged
between seven and nine and three were in their mid to late fifties. He
feels intimidated by females who aren't in those age brackets.'

Bernie wasn't finished. 'You're not keen on Fairley neither, are
you?'
'We need to keep our focus on the big picture, Bernie. My worry is,
we get the wrong person in and the case against him starts to create
itself. Or we get the right person in, but there's no tangible evidence
for arrest. We don't yet have grounds to suppose that Fairley or any of
the others have the majority of the characteristics I've talked about.'

Bernie stood, coffee mug in hand. `So I say, get 'em in here and find
out. As far as I'm concerned, Cranham and Fairley fit what you just
said. Both of them could be this psycho type. Cranham's an arrogant
bastard. The James girl was going for an interview with him. Next
thing? She's dropped off the planet. We've only got his word she never
turned up. Everything you've said applies to Cranham. And what
about Fairley? He was there. With Molly. Around the time she disappeared.'

,
He turned to walk away, then stopped. 'Or both of 'em, even. Ever
,
considered it might be a twosome? I say we make some subtle inquiries
old school mates, neighbours, people who deal with each of them
businesswise, and try and piece together what they've been up to in the past.'
ic Leaning her forearms on the table, Kate frowned up at him. 'I'm no
comp rt on police procedure . . .'
'You got that right!'
'i '. . . but I thought there had to be some solid evidence to link
individual to a crime before he can be formally interrogated as a
pect with a view to arrest. And if Cranham discovered we were
wling for information about him. . .'
: 'Yeah, well, it ain't an ideal world, this. Sometimes we do whatever 
we have to to get a case together. You know that, Doc, better than
anybody. You're no fan of rules. We do what I've said and we float
what we find with the GPS and--'
'Have it thrown back at us?' Kate responded. 'Much of what I've
said, you wouldn't be able to check out unless you have them in
first. We've had those three in for informal discussion already. What's
the likelihood they'd come on a cooperative basis again? Zero. Both
Cranham and Fairley have already involved lawyers.'
Bernie turned and headed for the coffee makings. Kate sent her last
comment after him.
'And I can imagine the scenario if you decided to arrest Cranham
and can't make it stick.'

No reply.
Joe looked at Kate, then across the room to Bernie. 'Don't forget,
we're still waiting to meet one of our POIs. Matins. The building
contractor. Sounds pretty antisocial. You know him, Bernie. What's
your take on him?'

Bernie was back, frowning at his coffee. 'You'll soon see. Another
git, but a different kind of git to Cranham. Cranham's got that posh
front. Anything could be lurking behind it Malins is more your thug
type. Bit of a hulk. History of working out. No scruff, mind you. He
likes his clothes and his cars.'

Kate looked doubtful. 'From what I've read and heard from you,
Maims is angry, antisocial and sexually impulsive. Sounds like a pretty
unpleasant individual. By comparison, our doer's a social chameleon
intent on concealing his true nature. Seems to me that with Malins,
what you see is what you get.'

Bernie stood in the middle of the room, staring at Kate, incredulous.
'This
just gets better, this does! Let's cut out the unnecessary work.
Don't even bother getting him in here. Just nail together a couple of
theories and, bingo! That's another possible suspect disposed off.'
Julian had been silent for a while, the only sound indicating his
presence being the faint scratching of pen on paper and pages being
turned. Now he looked up at Bernie.
'Kate's only saying that Malins's profile as we know it doesn't fit
with the behaviours in the cases.'
'And who's rattled your bars, Devenish?' demanded Bernie, colour
heightening. 'It's "Dr Hanson" to you, and while we're on the subject, you ask 
her if she profiles! Go on. Ask her! She'll tell you she don't. And another 
thing. I thought you was going to Waitrose's for
milk this morning. There's none left.'
Kate sighed and looked at her watch. Less than an hour since they'd
started the discussion. It felt like a day. A year.
'Look, when we see Malins, we'll be able to judge how good an
actor he might be. Meanwhile, you, Bernie, and you, Joe, know how
this works. Right now, are you confident that there's enough to upgrade
Cranham or Fairley to suspect?' asked Kate, dispensing with
Colley as any kind of contender.
No one spoke.
Kate glanced up at the glass screen. Cranham. Fairley. Colley.
Malins. She was sure of what she'd just said about them. As sure as it
was possible to be.
A treacherous thought slipped into her head. Could she be wrong?
About one or other of these men? Surely not. The theory was confirmed
in her observations. But still. What if she were wrong? Her eyes
drifted to the windows of UCU. The four of them were out there. At
this minute.
Quitting these thoughts but distracted by others, of covert entry
into people's homes, of missing belongings, Kate wrote a brief question
in her notebook, one to ask the close relatives of the victims at
some point -- Do you have home security? -- then started rummaging in
her bag.
'What you after now?' asked Bernie, drinking his coffee with a
grimace.
'My phone. It's this bag. I can never find anything in it. I need to
speak to Maisie. She's doing some revision at Chelsey's house later
and she needs reminding to ring me when she wants to come home.
Why can't she just do as she's told?'
Kate lifted the unit phone, watching Bernie and Julian as they
engaged in some mock sparring, Bernie ruffling Julian's hair.
As Julian headed for the door with his backpack, Kate checked her
watch. She put down the phone when her call went unanswered and
began replacing items in her bag. She had thirty assignments to grade
before tomorrow.

She left her remaining colleagues and UCU. Whittaker was on duty
at Reception.
'Had enough, Dr H?'


CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT


'Yep. Bye.'
Kate Hanson, divorced, single mother, job on the line, slightly fed up,
tired, a little pissed off
And now departing to gainful employment.
While I still can.

namis Jackson stood in the darkness, not knowing what else to do. U He'd 
recorded what he'd seen, before the spectacle stopped a few
minutes ago. The police had been called and were on their way. His
only role in the situation was now one of waiting.
He hadn't even been sure whether to dial 999. It wasn't as if she
was in dire need of -- anything. He took a fearful glance to one side. Not any 
more. He'd doubted the local station capable of responding
to this. So he'd rung home and his wife said she'd take care of it.
He walked slowly around it, feeling annoyed with himself for his
own lack of certainty. Well, he reasoned, how many people would
' know what to do? Finding something like that
He peered at his watch. Two thirty a.m. Ten minutes since his wife
rang to tell him they were on their way. He'd told his wife how cold
it -- she -- looked. He'd wanted to take his coat off and put it over
her, but his wife put him right. For goodness' sake, Dennis, don't do
anything until they come! So he hadn't. She still looked cold. Deathly
cold. Merely looking at her made him feel. . . conniving.

He listened. A hum of vehicles. Lights flashing intermittently as
they left the road on the outskirts of Romsley village, and wove their
way through the trees towards where he was standing.
They're here! So many!
Six vehicles came to an abrupt halt, three to one side of the small
.1 triangle of land, three to the other. A heavyset man heaved himself out
of the first and walked with a ponderous, authoritative air towards
him, tracked by. . . five, six, seven -- he lost count as the uniformed
officers bore down on him.

'Mr Jackson? Dennis Jackson?' rasped the big man, glaring down at
him, his fleshy face severe, eyes inquisitorial.

252253

Jackson nodded, mouth agape, brain on hold.
'Chief Superintendent Gander. Police Headquarters, Rose Road,
Harborne. Your wife phoned this through?'
Jackson nodded again, understanding for the first time in his fifty
four years how it felt to lose the power of speech. In the absence of
anything else to do, he stared up at the large policeman, then at the
ground to the left of him. It, she, was still there. He hadn't imagined
it. Who could?

They stood, motionless, gazing at the body lying nearby on the grass.
Gander's face reddened around the jowls as he stood, silent, thinking
hard. About youthfulness, and what kind of maniac had done what he
was now seeing.
He walked heavily to the other side of the body, snapping his
fingers at one of the immobile officers nearby. 'Light!' Jerked into
action, the officer ran, giving the body a wide berth. Gander's speculations
moved on, closer to home. To the number of young officers at
Rose Road. He shook his head, lips compressed, feeling suddenly old.
Weary.

Jackson took a couple of steps, tentatively offering the big man his
torch. Giving him a hard look, Gander took it and trained it on the
body.
'What the devil . . .' he murmured. 'What the hell's that? On her
face!'

More illumination arrived and Gander looked at her some more. In
all his years in the Force, he'd seen nothing like it.
He looked quickly to each side of him. 'You four. I want lights at
the perimeter of the scene. Over there, there and --' he pointed --
'there. Keep well away from the body.' He frowned, looking beyond
it. 'There's what looks to be clothes over there. Keep away from them
as well. Don't want you wrecking any evidence. Dr Chong and the
scenes team are on their way. Get to it. Move!'

They scattered.
Only Jackson remained. Standing there, arms hanging at his sides,
watching the scene unfold. Gander moved towards him, nodding as
Whittaker read the man's details to him from a notebook.
'Okay, Mr Jackson. . . Dennis. Tell us about it,' Gander said.
No response.
'Come on, Dennis. I need you to tell us what you know.'
Jackson gave his head a quick shake, then spoke. 'I. . . I was walking
along this pathway. We live in that house over there.' He waved a
vague hand in the direction of a distant double-fronted property,
surrounded by fields, his voice sounding odd, strangled.
'Why?'
Again, no response.
Gander reverted to formality. 'Mr Jackson. Why were you walking
out here? In the small hours of Thursday, no, Friday morning? PC
Whittaker here is waiting to write down any information you can give
us.

'What?. . . Sorry, I see what you. . . I work for the BMS.'
Gander immediately and erroneously connected Jackson to a
driving school, then dismissed it. He waited, increasingly impatient.
Jackson appeared to gather what was left of his wits. 'I do research
work. For the British Mycological Society. Currently, I'm conducting
a nocturnal study of fungi -- some are bio-luminous you see, so I came
out here. . .' He saw the young officer frown and pause in his writing.
'Mushrooms,' he added, wanting to assist.
'So you were out here, picking some mushrooms?' demanded
Gander, eyes suspicious as they flicked towards his harassed scribe.
'Fungi. No, no. Not picking them. Recording them.' He dragged a
spiral-bound book from one of the pockets of his Barbour. 'See? This
has all the species. Here.' He pointed a finger at an illustration and waved 
his other hand in the direction of a group of trees nearby.
'Deadly webcap. Cortinarius rubellus. I found two clusters over there.
I've put a mark by it on the page, plus date, time, location . .
Whittaker hurriedly made notes, looking bemused.

Gander had had about as much as he could take of the witness.
'So you found her during your. . . search? For these. . . things,' he
said, verbally prodding Jackson, at the same time delivering a scowl to
Whittaker, who was standing, pen poised.
Jackson nodded but said no more.
Gander waited. He could see the man was in shock. When nothing
else was forthcoming, he realised that a change of tactic was called for.
He gestured quickly to a passing officer and whispered to him. The
officer scooted off, returning quickly with a flask.

'Here, Mr Jackson. Take this,' he ordered, offering him a steaming


plastic cup. 'Never without a hot cuppa in situations like this. My
wife insists on it,' he added, running a warning eye over a smirking
Whittaker.

Jackson gratefully drank the hot sweet tea.
'Now. In your own time, Mr Jackson,' said Gander.
Jackson nodded, his face showing some colour as he clasped the
plastic cup. 'Sorry. . . I came out of the house at about . . . I don't
know what time it was. My wife will know. She'd made me some soup.
I had that and then I left the house. I thought all this was. . . some
kind of sick joke at first. You know, like a student thing But that
didn't make sense. Nobody here, except me . . . and her.'

Gander frowned as he watched the man. He was thinking that
Jackson was a strange character and might have some connection to
what had happened to the young woman whose body was lying a
mere couple of metres away from them.
'That's a powerful torch you've got there, Dennis. Maglite. Without
it you might have gone straight past her--'
Gander's words were stopped by an eerie sound starting up from
somewhere deep inside Jackson. It continued for some seconds,
attracting a few wary looks from officers nearby. It ended with a
gasp.
'No, no, no. . . There was no chance of me missing her.'
Gander was now extremely irritable. Their only witness, if that was
all he was, and he was an hysteric.
'What I meant, Mr Jackson, was that it's very dark. If you were
focused on your mushroom search. .
Jackson pulled himself together with an effort, mopping his face
with a handkerchief and finishing off the tea. 'You need to know. . . it
wasn't like this when I arrived.'
Gander glared at him, lips compressed, face suffused. 'What! You've
interfered with a crime scene?'
Jackson shook his head, grateful now for his wife's good sense.
'No, no! I haven't touched anything. But I couldn't have missed it,'
he said, windmilling his arms suddenly in an agitated fashion. 'The
stars, the blooms. Surging, shooting, spraying! Yes . . . Stars and
blooms. Arcing into the sky. All around her.' He stopped, a balloon
out of air; his arms dropped to his sides, plastic cup dangling from one
finger.
Made uneasy by Jackson's turns of phrase, Gander frowned sideways
at him. He remembered the sixties, even if he wasn't there,
in the sense of being involved. He reviewed what he knew of the
witness, considering whether he might be under the influence of some
substance. What were the hallucinogenic drug choices these days?
Mushrooms!
'Whittaker!' he hissed to his scribe, shoving a call sheet at him.
'Phone this number. Get his wife here. Now!'

Jackson heard this and shook his head.
'Wait. Chief Superintendent . . . sorry. I can't seem to get my
thoughts together.' He offered the plastic cup to Whittaker, then
pushed his hands into various pockets and compartments of his coat.
'But I can show you.' He drew his hand from a pocket. 'Look. Look at
this. Now you'll see why I couldn't have missed her.'
Gander clicked his fingers at Whittaker for an evidence bag and
carefully took the small object from Jackson, placing it gently inside
the clear plastic. Task completed, he examined the exhibit by torchlight.
'The
Lumix, sir. Nice one. Good time delay on the flash. I've
fancied one my--'
Giving Whittaker a discouraging glance Gander looked back at the
small, silver digital camera.
'How do I view what's on it?' He directed the question to Jackson
who gazed at his plastic-shrouded property and pointed to one of
several small buttons with a shaking index finger.
Gander pressed it and the black screen surged into life.
'Press that one to view what I took tonight,' murmured Jackson.
He did as instructed, passing several shots of no relevance to where
they were standing, then stopped. He gazed down at the small screen,
up at Jackson, then back, running the shots forward, then back. Three
of them. He walked the few steps to inspect the ground around the
body. He looked up at Jackson, then back to the ground, thinking
that he'd been summoned into a situation of madness. When he
returned to Jackson's side, there was a hard glint in his eye.

'If I'm getting your drift, you arrived on the scene within seconds
of--'
Jackson shook his head. 'There was nobody here.'
Suddenly aware of the presence of the pathologist and the full


forensic team, Gander looked among the arrivals, searching for anybody
who might help. Seeing the face of someone he regarded as an
efficient archive of information, he gestured to him and waited until
he was near enough for low conversation.
'Do you have a phone number for Kate Hanson, Creed?'
Harry looked surprised, but kept his voice low, to match Gander's.
'No, sir, but I can get it from the communications centre.'
'Do that. Call her. Now. I want UCU here.'
'Will do, sir.' Creed hurried off.
Gander peered through plastic. Now he saw. Now he understood
what Jackson had tried to tell him.
What he wanted now was for one particular member of UCU to see

it.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Dolt upright in bed, Kate tried to work out what was happening.
Door bell? House phone? The bedside clock told her it was 2.59
a.m. Any phone call at this hour wasn't good news.
Disorientated, she felt her way in the darkness to the bedroom
door, across the landing and down the stairs to the phone. Kevin?
Celia?
'Kate?'

It took her some seconds to recognise the caller's voice. 'Harry?' 'Sorry to 
ruin your sleep, Kate. Goosey asked me to get your
number from Communications and call you.'
He quickly related what was happening near the village of Romsley,
voice animated, sharpened by stress. 'You've got to see this, Kate. It's
a dead girl. Just wait till you see. Goosey wants UCU here, but
particularly you. Get Julian here as well. This could be really valuable
for his professional development.'
Absorbing the words, Kate frowned. Both she and Harry knew that
Julian probably didn't have a professional future to develop. She
wouldn't include him anyway. From what Harry had said, she'd
decided. Julian was too young for this.
Responding to Kate's questions, Harry gave details of the location
of the scene and Kate ended the call, disturbed by what she'd heard.
A rumpled figure wearing Kate's Fit Couture exercise vest with pink
pyjama bottoms, hair riotous, appeared at the top of the stairs.
'Mom?'

Kate ran upstairs, pulling off her own nightclothes. 'Maisie, I have
to go out for a little while.' She rushed into her bedroom and began
dragging items out of the wardrobe, Maisie slowly following.
'Out? Now! Where? Why?'
Kate was hurriedly pulling on garments and tying up her hair. 
'No details, Maisie, but listen to me, please. When I leave, you go
back to bed and you stay there. I'll double-lock the front door.' She
dived into the bottom of the wardrobe, scattering shoes, looking for
her trainers. 'Do not open the door.'
'As if!' Maisie was now fully awake, watching her mother's frenetic
activity. 'If I woke you up like this, you'd go apeshit.'
Ignoring her daughter's last word, Kate hurried on: 'I'll be back as
soon as I can. Damn! I have to call Joe to ring Bernie.'
Maisie watched her mother fly downstairs to the phone. With a
head-shake she padded to the landing, scooping up the cat, who had
emerged from one of the spare bedrooms, tiny bell tinkling.

'Come on, Mugsy. Let's leave the oldies to get on with it. Whatever
it is.'

After looking in on Maisie with further admonishments, Kate left the
house and sped through the deserted suburban roads, on to the dual
carriageway. She reached Romsley village in twenty minutes. She
hadn't needed Harry's precise directions. It was a scene of high
activity, police vehicles parked randomly, flashing lights and large
forensic tent in place. Some of the local populace from the area just
beyond the photogenic village had left nearby cottages or more
extensive homes and were standing obediently, many in nightclothes
beneath belted dressing gowns, behind a hastily erected cordon some
distance from the site, under the gaze of two local constables.

As she parked, Kate saw Bernie some way ahead, leaning against his
vehicle, arms folded, talking to Joe.
Leaving her car, she walked towards her colleagues. 'What do we
know?'
'Nobody's saying anything yet,' muttered Bernie. 'But Gander's
been asking for you.'
Kate turned and headed directly for the chief super, who'd suddenly
appeared near the forensic tent's entrance. Bernie and Joe followed
her.

Gander's mouth was downtumed, jowls mottled. He took Kate
gently by the arm, moving her to one side, his tone gruff. 'Terrible
business, Kate. Terrible. But I need you to take a look, once I've
brought you up to speed.'
Kate listened as, in a low voice, he quickly described the scene
currently obscured by the tent.
`Dr Chong's in there with her now. He --' he pointed to a pale
faced figure in a Barbour -- `found her somewhere between two and
two thirty. Right now he's as much use as a chocolate fireguard. But
we think it might be the girl who went missing from the Running
Wild club in Wolverhampton a few days ago.'
Jody, thought Kate.
Gander gestured impatiently to the young officer nearby, who
sprinted towards them.
'Whittaker's got some evidence from the witness.' He turned to the
constable. 'Show it to Dr Hanson, then phone in a request for more
forensic support and a catering wagon. They're going to need it.'
With a terse nod, he headed back towards the forensic tent.
As her UCU colleagues joined her, Kate looked a question at
Whittaker.
'Here, Dr Hanson. Take a look. Press that button there.' He
handed over the camera in its plastic covering.
Kate did so, Joe and Bernie peering over her shoulders. 'Oh. . . my. . . God,' 
she said softly, as the shots taken by Jackson appeared
on the screen.
Depicted in each was the prone body of a female. White, young,
nude. Kate looked closely at the area of the young woman's face,
slowly shaking her head. What particularly jarred, beyond the spectacle
of the body and its starkness against the grass it lay on, was
what surrounded her. Kate counted slowly.
`There's twelve,' said Joe quietly.
Twelve spouting, spewing fireworks. Laid out equidistant around
the body, forming a ring of thrusting, surging sparks and billowing
showers of coloured light.
Kate looked around, then up at Whittaker. 'The chief superintendent
mentioned the witness who took these. Where is he?'

Whittaker gazed at the scene, frowning, then pointed at the man in
the Barbour. 'That's him, there. He keeps wandering about.'
Kate and her colleagues walked quickly towards the man.
`Mr Jackson? Kate Hanson, Unsolved Crime Unit, Rose Road.' She
introduced her colleagues, giving the man in the Barbour a speculative
look.
`You took these?'

They studied his handiwork again, the figure depicted on the screen
still as shocking as when they had first viewed it.


'We'll be taking this with us, Mr Jackson,' said Joe to the still-dazed
man who merely nodded.
'Now we need a proper look,' said Bernie to his two colleagues,
voice low.

They walked to the forensic tent. Bernie was the first into the
protective suit offered by a gloved constable at the entrance, following
which he pulled aside the tent's flap concealing the scene within.
Connie's voice drifted across. 'Hello, Bernard. Come inside. Ah!
Your colleagues are with you.' The small crouching figure covered
from head to toe in white gazed at them through clear plastic, a voice
activated recorder in one latexed hand.

'You can probably see why Gander wanted you here, Kate. Give me
a minute while I make some preliminary observations.'
Kate stared down at the body, then looked back to Connie, who
lifted the recorder as close to her mouth as the plastic shield allowed,
to continue her task.

'White. Female. Age estimate: fifteen to twenty-five years. Approximately
five-three. Weight approximately one-ten. Hair blonde,
shoulder length. Body unclothed.' Connie switched her gaze to one
side of the body. 'Items of clothing present. Displayed on ground
in seeming depiction of body. White trousers, grey-and-white striped
vest top. No shoes or handbag present at this time. Ditto undergarments.'
She
lowered the recorder to take a breath, then continued: 'No
rigor. Decomposition under way. No body piercing. No tattoos
visible at this time.' Another pause and a glance at Kate, 'Duct tape
on torso. Three bands cross-wise. Face obscured by white cloth. Fixed
in place with cord. Cloth embellished with crude facial features.
Visible injuries: severe extensive bruising around the area of the
sternum, continuing over left and right rib area. Bruising also visible
to both clavicles. Reminiscent of hand grip. Defence injuries to both
hands. No visible injury to genital area at this time.'
Lowering the recorder again, Connie looked up at them. 'She
fought for her life,' she said quietly, then continued with her description.
'No jewellery visible. Right hand is fisted. Three or four long
fibres visible within closed fist. Appearance: man-made construction.
Colour in artificial light: difficult to determine.'
Connie rose to direct forensic technicians to photograph the body and its 
surroundings. Wes Jacobs walked slowly inside the tent, gave
Kate a brief glance, surveyed the body, then began his task.
Kate and her colleagues followed Connie to the far side of the
tent. Connie lifted the recorder to add her final comments. 'Items of
clothes previously mentioned situated directly west of body. Not yet
confirmed to be victim's.' She glanced at her watch, then stated the
time into the recorder.
Kate looked down at the clothes, instantly transported in time. To
when she was about five years old and her grandmother had given her
an old cherished plaything. A paper doll collection. A doll in outline
complete with sets of clothes for all occasions, ready to cut out and
attach to the doll with tiny paper tabs. The clothes here were laid out
in similar fashion. To mimic a person. Any link to childhood ended
there. What they were looking at was vicious destruction.
Connie returned to the body, directing her comments to UCU.
'I'm now going to remove the face covering, so I can do a quick
comparison for identification.' She held up a plastic-covered photograph
supplied by the Westbrooke family. 'Upstairs appear pretty
certain it's her -- her clothes fit the description they have -- but I like
to record my observations in situ where possible.'
Kate was standing next to Joe. They watched as Connie selected a
fine twin-handled implement from her case. Whittaker and Bernie
took a few steps in the direction of Jackson, who had gradually increased
his proximity to the entrance of the tent. Connie released the
thin ties either side of the victim's head, gripped the cloth with the
surgical tweezers and began to lift it gently from the face.
Several things happened at once.
Those with a view of Connie's action took a breath, then gasped.
Kate's hands flew to her mouth and Gander appeared at her side.
'What the devil?'

Connie gently released the three-quarters-lifted cloth and sat back
on her heels. There would be no facial identification.

They left the tent in heavy silence, shrugged off the disposable
protective suits and handed them to the constable, who thrust them
into a black plastic bag.
Jackson had seen what they had seen, from where he'd been standing
just within the mouth of the tent. He stumbled towards them,
face putty-coloured and shiny with perspiration.
Whittaker glanced at Jackson, did a double-take, then grabbed 
him roughly by one arm, attempting to pull him sideways as the latter
vomited massively on to the grass, his own stout walking shoes and
Bernie's suede lace-ups.

Kate and her colleagues left the site, Gander having entrusted
Jackson's camera to them. Connie would collect it later. As Kate
drove to Rose Road, thoughts on the night's events thrummed inside
her head.

The face.
Missing items. Shoes. Bag. Underwear. Jewellery.
Souvenirs?
It was planned. The ghastly tableau.
The face.
Is Bernie right? What if I'm allowing theory too much weight?
They already had two persons of interest they could upgrade. If it was either 
of them, upgrading could prevent this happening to any
other woman.

That face.
Anxiety surged through Kate. The young woman she'd just seen
was beyond practical or any other help.
But the next one?

He's back.

Does he have his next victim in his sights?
He has to be stopped.
Another thought occurred to Kate, hard on the last, heart constricting
in her chest.
Had the meeting she and Joe had with the press precipitated what
had befallen this young woman?
Was this his 'communication'?
CHAPTER FIFTY

K

ate drove unhindered through Rose Road's main entrance in the
stillness of the sleeping suburb. She checked her watch. Four thirty
five.
Even media types had beds to go to, apparently. But when the
news broke they'd be back. In droves. Twenty-four-hour coverage.
That realisation sent a further shaft of anxiety through her head.
As Kate got out of her car, Bernie's four-by-four appeared between the 
faux-Victorian pillars. She walked on, into Headquarters, its lights a beacon, 
its mass a leviathan among the darkened terraced homes.
She passed the deserted reception desk and continued on to UCU,
aware of activity elsewhere in the extensive building.
Bernie looked distracted as he came into UCU wearing latex gloves
and rubber boots, carrying his shoes. He went directly to the towel
dispenser on the wall of the Refreshment Lounge, then turned to Kate.

'Are we agreed this is him? No sign he cut this one's hair. But then
he didn't do that to the James girl.'
'No,' responded Kate, leaning on her elbows. 'But he's still duct
taping. Now we know about the face-covering behaviour. We know
the kinds of embellishments he gives them.'
Extracting Jackson's camera in its evidence bag from her pocket,
she activated its screen and scrolled through the shots.
The covering on the face was particularly clear on one of them. An
oval of white cloth, a hole at each side through which was looped what
appeared to be fine cord. Kate studied the features on the cloth. What
did it remind her of? Almost immediately she had it.
'Like a pantomime dame. How . . . derogatory,' she murmured,
getting a nod of agreement from Bernie.
Joe was looking at the photographs over her shoulder, saying
nothing. He probably doesn't know about pantomime, thought Kate. 
She continued to stare at the features on the oval. At the thick black
poker-lashes radiating from the eye circles, wide-set vivid blue irises
staring, sightless, one slightly off-centre. The semblance of a nose,
represented by a small inverted U shape and two black dots, evoking an
upturned snout. The mouth a rapacious gash of greasy red, the cheeks
round, feverish splotches of scarlet. The hair hanks of acid-yellow wool.
The whole mask a travesty. A mocking parody, a caricature of the
female face.
They'd seen the oval base before, features absent, long degraded.
Kate looked from one photograph to another, considering the possibility
that the doer might have developed the parody since Molly and
Janine died.
Chilled despite the warmth of the night, she put her hands round
the mug of tea that Joe silently passed to her.
'We'll need hard copies of these. What do we know for sure about
Jody?' she asked, her voice sounding loud in the still room.
'According to Gus Stirling Upstairs, she left the Running Wild
nightclub in Wolverhampton just before midnight on Thursday last.
Her friends said they saw her get into a taxi,' answered Joe.
Five days ago. Before we went to the press.
Kate felt some tension drain away.
'So where has she been since then?' she asked rhetorically.
Bernie looked from Kate to Joe.
'Her family lives in Warley Woods, couple of miles from here.
Anybody know how she was planning to get home from Wolverhampton?'
'Train,
according to the friends,' answered Joe.
Bernie looked thoughtful. 'If she stuck to that plan, and the report
about a taxi is reliable, I say she was abducted from the station. Dodgy
places, train stations. Attract all manner of vermin. And they've usually
got CCTV.'
Joe shook his head. 'She never made it to the station. She was
seen getting into a vehicle outside the club. Witness assumed it was
a taxi. She wasn't able to give any detail, beyond "big" and "pale
coloured":

Kate sat silent, her thoughts roaming. She doubted the girl they'd
seen so shockingly laid out died as long ago as last Thursday. Where
had he kept her? Surely not in any domestic environment?
She began a mental review of her theories of the cases to date and

the possible meaning, or purpose, behind the killer's behaviour. She
considered what this body had showed them.
She looked again at the camera shots. The shocking spread-eagle
pose. The pristine duct tape. And forming a circle around her, the
lighted fireworks.
Kate counted them again. Still twelve.
Bernie reached for the camera and looked down at the screen.
'He was taking a massive risk doing all this. He had to arrange
the body -- and the clothes -- then stake it out with the fireworks. Get
them going. Anybody could have come past and seen him.'
'It's a fairly rural area, and it was the early hours,' said Kate.
'Yeah, but I'm thinking these country types don't keep the same
hours as us townies. Look at Jackson. He was roaming about. Then
there's late or early dog-walkers who might have come past, or even a car. It's 
barmy.'
Kate looked at the photographs. Bernie was right, of course. It was high-risk. 
What it showed was that the need underlying and directing
the doer's behaviour was so necessary, so pressing for him, that it
eclipsed even the fear of discovery.
What need did it serpe?
Why fireworks?
Shaking her head, Kate again examined what Jackson had captured,
then looked up at her colleagues, voice low.
'It's a tableau. The face-covering represents ritualistic behaviour.
Like the duct tape. It's elaborate and fantasy-driven. This is his signature.'
She stared at the scene depicted. 'It was planned, so that
anyone looking at it would be hit. Right between the eyes.'
Kate looked at her colleagues again. 'And there's the problem. It
makes no sense. The tableau is so . . . brief. If Jackson hadn't come
along when he did, the staging element, the fireworks, would have
faded, unseen, shocking as the rest of it was.'
'How about like you said before, Doc. . . "recreational" activity?'
Kate pushed her hands through her hair, frowning at the little
camera, then looked from Bernie to Joe. 'He went to such trouble. I
can't believe it was just for him.'
'You just said it, Doc. He wanted to shock somebody like Jackson
out of his socks. And us.'
Kate shook her head. 'It's just not . . . Damn!' She seized her
notebook and opened it, searching for a blank page. 'It was all so. . . 
risky. Why bother?' She propped her chin on one hand as she wrote
down comments and questions.
Joe was deep in thought, half reclining on the chair, his arms folded
high on his chest. He glanced down at his watch.
'It's five thirty. Connie will be wanting to see us later.'
Bernie's head snapped upwards. 'Us?'
'Sure. You've seen the duct tape. Maybe there'll be pasteboard, like
with Molly and Janine.'
'No. No,' said Bernie, adamant. `UCU is strictly cold case. Upstairs
are on to this one and--'
'It belongs to us.' Kate stood, her voice a tired monotone. 'I have
to get home. Let's wait to see what else Connie might have.' She
glanced at Joe, frowning.
He raised his brows.
'I don't know about you, Joe, but I was worried that this was the
"communication" you talked about. You know. The case you mentioned.
But it can't be, can it? He took Jody before we met the press.'
She looked from one to the other of her colleagues. 'Don't know
about you two, but I'm so relieved about that.'

Arriving home ten minutes later, Kate checked on Maisie sleeping
soundly, Mugger stretched across the duvet. She went to the kitchen,
going through the motions of making tea, then returned upstairs and
lay down, staring at the pattern of a small section of window pane on
the ceiling.

At nine fifteen that same Friday morning, Furman strode into UCU,
glaring at each of them. Kate saw a newspaper among his files.
'Dr Chong's initial findings seem to link the Romsley case to the
murders you three are working on. I'm anticipating that Gander will
want some liaison between this unit and Upstairs, so be prepared.
What's this?' He pointed at the details of the four rapes on the glass
screen.
Joe gave him a brief outline of their search of the sexual crime
database and the reason for it. Impatient, Furman gave Kate a glance.
'As of now, you've got more than enough to do with the Romsley
connection.'
Kate eyed Furman, aware that Julian had already given him the
information she was about to offer. 'We know that the remains of one of those 
rape victims have been found near those of Molly James and
lanine Walker. The rape cases on our list don't appear to have been
progressed by the police at all. If we can speak to the other victims, we
might establish more links and they might--'
Furman glared at her. `Might-might-might. Show me hard evidence
to connect all of those rapes to the bypass murders.'
She deep-breathed and shook her head. 'I can't do that yet, but it's
too coincidental that the rape victims all looked similar.'
'If you can't show me an evidential link between each of those
rapes and the remains, then you can forget them. We're not wasting
resources on tenuous connections. The one who was raped then.
found at the bypass was, well. . . born unlucky.' He swivelled on his
heel and headed for the door, then turned back to the glass screen,
looking at the details of the rape-victim list.
He pointed at them. 'I can tell you why none of those rape cases
progressed. Because after initially reporting the assaults, none of these
women was willing or could be bothered to come in here and make a
statement about what they said happened to them. It was a waste of
police time then. It's a waste now.'
He looked up at the clock. 'It's nearly nine thirty. Where's
Devenish? He wasn't at Romsley all night. .
'He's at the university. At a seminar he prepared for in his own
time,' said Kate coldly.
The university. Where I should be right now.
Julian. Care was needed when he was given information relating to
Jody Westbrooke.
She tuned back in to Furman, who was speaking. He was waving a
newspaper.
'See the risk of talking to the press? Inciting the disturbed to
murder? Hope you're satisfied. We'll see what Gander thinks about
it.' He shoved the newspaper back between his files, turned and left
the room. Kate watched him go, confident now that UCU had not
taken any action that had precipitated Jody Westbrooke's abduction
and murder.
She stared at the glass screen. They couldn't know if the doer had
stopped after he killed Janine, Molly and Suzie. But say if he had stopped 
then? That would suggest that something had precipitated
his killing of Jody. Kate followed the thought, eyes unfocused. Was
it the discovery of Molly and then Janine that was the prompt? If



that was the case, it suggested that he followed the newspapers
very closely. The discoveries hadn't been front-page news until very
recently.
Kate sighed, massaging her forehead. Of one thing she was clear.
What had happened to Jody was the responsibility of only one person.
He had to be identified as soon as possible.


CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
eliding open the kitchen doors later that same morning, Kate called
to the cat, then listened. Nothing. She turned back to the kitchen.
Putting the unopened tin to one side, she switched on the radio, in
time to hear a psychologist being interviewed on the news. He was
offering some theories about the murder of the girl found in the early
hours. Now he was well into his stride on the likelihood of a serial
killer being 'on the loose'.
Kate sighed, the beginnings of a headache flexing itself. She glared
at the radio.
Why don't you use every bloody cliché you can?
The voice of the news presenter joined the discussion.
'The police have reassured us that no effort will be spared until this
monster is off the streets.' Kate compressed her lips at the last few
words.
Cliché set complete.
'Cliches don't keep people safe,' she muttered, plonking down the
makings of a belated breakfast, then wheeled at a soft sound behind
her.

'Maisie! You startled me.'

'You usually go on about me being too noisy.' Already dressed,
Maisie dropped into a chair and studied her mother. Kate intuited that
there was something on her daughter's mind.
'I've phoned school and told them why you'll be late this morning.'
Maisie nodded, eyeing Kate. 'I've said I'll go swimming with
Chelsey and Lauren at the weekend.'
Kate frowned slightly. 'Maisie, I'm not sure about Lau--'
'Mom, don't be so unfair! Lauren didn't leave those. . . things!'
Kate was having doubts about her previous suspicions. How would
friends of Maisie's have got hold of the pills?



Maisie attended maths lectures at the university.
Julian?
She rejected the idea as soon as it occurred. She'd known Julian for
eighteen months. No way would he put Maisie in harm's way.
She glanced at the tin she'd put down earlier. 'Is Mugger upstairs?'
she asked.

Maisie face was troubled.

'No. . . Mom? It was on television, early this morning, about this
girl being found. Was that why you went out during the night?'
Kate glanced at her. 'Yes, but there were lots of people involved
with it. Not just me.'
'I thought your stuff was all old, like historical gruesome stuff.'
Maisie helped herself to cereal. 'Guess what? Chelsey's mom used to
be a model.'
Dropping bread into the toaster, Kate fetched plates. `UCU's cases are mostly 
historical. Some of them are . . . unpleasant, but they're
also about people's lives--'
She stopped. She'd just broken her own rule. About sharing
information about UCU's cases with Maisie, no matter how superficial.
She ran a hand over her forehead. She was tired.

'Just. . . be careful, Maisie.'
'What about?'

'When you're out there. You know. Strangers, cars.'
Maisie got up from her chair. 'Mom, how old do you think I am?
I'm not a baby!'
Blackened bread hurtled from the toaster as Kate watched her
daughter flounce from the kitchen.




CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The body was lying in harsh light on the stainless-steel examination
table, head supported by a Sani-Block. The powerful -air-extraction
system hummed. Jody Westbrooke's face was now exposed. What was
left of it. Or, more accurately, where it had been.
Inside the white forensic suit, Kate was well beyond her comfort
zone. So far she'd limited herself to brief, peripheral glances and had
yet to take in the details. Her heart rate accelerated as Connie walked
towards them.
'Hello, UCU,' she said quietly, looking tired. 'Ready for the full
story? I'll give you what I know, and where that's not possible, what I
think.'
Three heads nodded as Connie gestured towards the body.
'We have confirmation that this is Jody Westbrooke. Eighteen years
old. No physical disease. Non-smoker. Stomach contents -- undigested
cheese-and-onion potato crisps and dry crackers. No doubt
those were provided by her captor during the period she was missing.
The stomach takes approximately two hours to empty. Presence of
undigested food would routinely indicate that death occurred within
an ho. ur or two of eating those items. In Jody's case, being in a state of
mortal fear would have delayed her digestive processes. Time of death
can't be pinpointed with any certainty, but given the condition of the
body, I'm guessing she died at the beginning of this week, although I
won't be as categorical in my report.'
Connie glanced at Jody's body. Whoever's responsible for this took
her underwear, jewellery, shoes and bag. That's based on information
(fiends and family have provided as to what she was wearing that
night.'
She glanced from the table to each of them, then back, indicating ' the torso. 
'She's been dead a couple of days at least.' She pointed a


finger at the swollen, discoloured abdomen and similar swelling of the
face and neck. 'See that? The skin on her torso and thighs is unstable
because of post-mortem fluid accumulation.'
Kate bit her lip. 'Is that why it's. . . coloured like that?' she asked.
Connie glanced from Jody's remains to Kate. 'You mean these
marks? That's known as "marbling". Due to the growth of bacteria
in her blood vessels.' She looked from Kate to Joe and Bernie. 'She's
clearly part of your series. If he did take a break, he's back now.'
Kate and her colleagues remained silent.
Connie continued: 'What happened to this young woman was
savage. She was beaten very severely.' She lifted one of the hands and
pointed. 'Presence of defence wounds on her forearms and hands. See?
A fine, very sharp blade caused those.' A small silence. 'She fought
furiously for her life.' Connie's words hit them. 'But the beating isn't
what killed her. Death was due to a single crushing blow to the back of
the head.'

Connie turned. 'Come here, please, Kate.'
Kate complied and Connie stood square in front of her, placing
warm, latexed hands on Kate's shoulders.
'She was shaken like this . . .' Connie started a gentle push-pull
movement. 'But very hard. She was of small stature, like you and me,
Kate. The final push placed her head in contact with something solid
that fractured her skull. No DNA in the form of semen, no hairs that
aren't hers.'

'Fingerprints?' ventured Kate.
'No. He's a careful killer. But he missed the fibres which were
gripped by her fist. Here. Take a look.'
They pressed forward to look at the long fibres they'd glimpsed at
the scene, now in the plastic envelope Connie was holding.
'Remember I mentioned defence wounds? Her hand was fisted
before his final attack. See the wounds on her knuckles? The small
but deep cuts? At the time she sustained those, she'd already grasped
these fibres and was holding them. Tight. Either he didn't notice or
he couldn't extract them.' Connie was silent for a few seconds. 'I
doubt it was the latter. Given the ferocity of his attack, if he'd seen
them and failed to remove them, I think he would have taken her
hand off.'

Connie's last few words stopped Kate's breathing momentarily.
The faces of her UCU colleagues were grim.



Connie looked at each of them in turn. 'Only my subjective opinion, elf course.'
They stood without speaking as she continued.
`The remains at the bypass site couldn't show us in any detail what he did to 
Molly and Janine. But they confirmed that Molly James's face and that of Janine 
Walker were covered. That face-covering and the use of duct tape at Romsley 
indicates a clear link between Jody
Westbrooke's death and the bypass remains. No pasteboard item this time, by the 
way and no hair-cutting.' A small pause. 'Despite that
inconsistency, he appears to be a creature of habit, who knows what he likes 
when he kills.'
Kate listened intently to Connie, aware of the need to study the
doer's work in order to understand his behaviour, know him. She
looked briefly at Jody Westbrooke's upper body, then away, to where
Connie had placed the envelope containing the fibres taken from the fist. She 
frowned at them, thought processes ponderous due to the
events of the last twenty-four hours.
Connie watched Kate, then spoke quietly. 'Come on, Katie, favourite
student. Ignore the context. You've seen long pink fibres like these
before.'

Kate felt tumbleweed drifting across the vacant planes of her mind.
She looked at Connie, confused, then returned to staring at the fibres,
feeling slow, stupid and embarrassed by her own ineptitude.
'Your daughter . .
'My Little Pony,' Kate said quietly, matter-of-fact.
'Well done,' Connie whispered.
They had reached the door when Kate turned, getting up courage
to ask: 'Connie? When her face was . . . ?'

'A small mercy. She was already dead.' Connie looked up at the wall
clock.
'Meeting in twenty minutes. See you Upstairs.'


CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

T

he big meeting room was full and silent. No greetings, no words
of camaraderie. Gander was laying out the Force's response to the
Romsley slaying.
'The connection to UCU's cases means there needs to be liaison
between the investigative team up here and the Unsolved Case Unit.
As of now, these deaths are all regarded as the work of one repeat
offender. Consequently, it's top priority. I'm in overall command.
Any useful information, all leads, I want to know about it.'

Kate flicked a glance at Furman. His face was expressionless. She
moved her gaze to others around the table. Wes looked tired. Harry
was clearly exhausted. Sitting next to Harry, Matt Prentiss looked
morose and detached. Kate studied him covertly, wondering how he
dealt with the occasional horror of forensic work when his usual frame
of mind was clearly so low. Maybe he didn't fully engage. She flicked
another glance at Furman. If he was so concerned about the health of personnel, 
he'd do well to leave Bernie alone and focus on Matt.

On impulse as the meeting broke up, Kate hurriedly picked up her
notebook and bag and followed Matt out of the room as he headed in
the direction of the cafeteria. Seeing him order coffee and take a seat
some distance from other, busy tables, she followed and sat down
opposite him, hardly knowing why she was there.

Prentiss ignored her.
'What do you think about it, Matt?' she asked quietly.
He looked her up and down. Slowly. 'About what?'
Kate was fazed. It was surely the topic of the whole of Rose Road.
'I'm talking about the Romsley case. You were there. What's your
thinking about it? Its bizarre quality?'
Silence.
'late persevered. 'I would describe it as an outrage. What's your of it?'
4 ence. She cast around for anything that might open him up.
4
AVe've seen her. This morning. There was nothing else found
.t the pink fibres?' She saw his lips suddenly compress.
t'Arc you questioning my professionalism?' he spat, reddened eyes
on her face.
te was shocked at his response. 'No, of course not. I was simply
' g for your view of what we've all seen. How you feel about it. If
. have any ideas or--'
His voice was harsh as he answered. One or two people near
lough to hear glanced across at them. 'Nobody pays me to have
Weirs! Or to feel, or have ideas.' He stopped for a couple of seconds,
Shen continued: 'It's a forensic job. get it right! You want views, you
'pant feelings and ideas,' he added, making the words negative, 'you'd
Out talk to Harry Creed.'
t, With that he got up from the table, coffee unfinished, and walked
towards the door of the cafeteria and out.
; Kate stared after him, wondering exactly what in their brief
tIcchange had caused such vitriol. Puzzled, she left the cafeteria, four Of his 
words ringing in her head:
I get it right.
I.
In UCU, Joe was adding details to the glass screen: Jody Westbrooke's
family's confirmation that she was wearing high-heeled
'shoes and carrying a handbag when she left. Julian was entering these
facts. into a database he'd created. He spoke to them all.
'Okay, the facts I've got are Employment: word-processing.
Location: insurance company, Edmund Street. Next one boyfriend?'
Bernie shook his head. Kate rested her chin on her hands, staring at
the notes she'd made.
'I wonder where he first saw her?' she asked.

'Outside the club?' Bernie had another thought. 'Hang on. He
could've been inside the club, saw her and left. To get his car. What I
don't get is she's only five-three. All the victims so far have been five
six at least.'
'CCTV at the club?' she asked.

'Equipment, yes. Operational, no.'

'Any more facts I can add?' persisted Julian. No one responded.
Joe tossed his pen on to the table.
Kate was thinking about what they'd seen in the post-mortem suite.
'He seems to have evolved since the earlier killings, but the duct tape
and face-covering are both consistent behaviours. He showed extreme
violence towards Jody, but we can't be categorical that that didn't
occur in the previous cases.'
She had a sudden thought. Pulling the phone towards her, she
tapped the PM suite number.
'Hi, Igor. Is Connie there?'
Connie's voice drifted over the line. 'Hi, Katie. I'm guessing this is
about Jody Westbrooke.'
'I have another question. The damage to her face -- what did he
use?'

'I can't be specific, but I suspect that it was different from the
implement that caused her defence wounds. The facial damage was
caused by a very fine, short blade. Also, extremely sharp.'
'Okay . . .' Kate paused. Was there much damage to the underlying
bone structure of the face?'
'There were no knife marks on the facial bones at all. I couldn't
have done a more skilful job myself, and I've had plenty of training
in dissection and how to avoid bone damage during forensic examination,
for obvious reasons. He knew what he was doing. It was finely
carved.'

Kate made swift notes. 'Do you think it's possible he was somehow trained to be 
able to do that. Maybe . . . medically trained?'
'Beware, Katie. There have often been theories that one or other
murderer had medical training or was a surgeon. It's rarely turned
out to be the case. You might want to speculate on alternative jobs to
explain his skill.'
'Like . . . what? Any suggestions?' Kate listened, eyes on her colleagues,
then wrote in her notebook. She replaced the phone.
'No knife marks on the underlying bone structure. So the same
behaviour could have occurred towards Janine and Molly. The doer
had to have been very skilled to do what he did to Jody's face.'
'Any psychological explanation for that?' asked Joe.
Kate shrugged. 'I've got my own theory. The actual behaviour
towards the face fits with my earlier thinking about him and his
perceptions of his victims -- in Jody's case it could be that there was . . 
compulsion to unearth some quality in her. Perhaps some aspect
lie wished to see for himself, or demonstrate to others. Maybe he was
rt Ting to show that beneath the surface qualities of the victim she
Wes . . . different to how she presented herself. A difference only he
perceived and felt driven to reveal.' She paused. 'He's extremely
competent with a knife.' She scanned her colleagues briefly. 'So handy that 
maybe his line of work, not necessarily now, but in the
past, involved legitimate use of one.' Julian's pen flew across paper.
Bernie had been listening closely. 'So he might have worked in . . .
ley a butcher's or an abattoir. How about he's some kind of doctor?'
, Kate raised her shoulders. 'I think it's more subtle skills than those
required in the meat trade. Connie's clearly not keen on medical skills
being attributed to doers. I can see why. Think about the theories
surrounding the Ripper in Victorian London, creating mayhem in
impoverished neighbourhoods. Easy to see the appeal of his being a
doctor or surgeon. A nice social contrast, played up at the time by the media.'
'Still might've been right, Doc. They never got him.'
Kate got up, walked towards the window then turned.
'Think of some other jobs requiring knife skills.'
'He could have some. . . technical kind of job,' suggested Julian.
Bernie glanced at him. 'Yeah? Like what?'
Julian shrugged. 'Not sure . .
Bernie shook his head. 'Like I said before. Butcher.'

Julian sat up. 'Hey, how about he's a chef? He works with food?'
Nobody spoke for a few seconds.
'That didn't get us far, Doc.'
Kate was staring into the middle distance. 'How about it isn't a job? What if 
it's some kind of interest. . . or hobby?'
'Any ideas?' asked Joe.
Kate was silent momentarily. 'Woodworker?'
'Whatever we come up with, it don't help us now, does it?' said
Bernie. 'We need to keep an eye on what he's done but . . . What you
up to?' They watched as Kate walked in determined fashion to the
glass screen, then turned.
'My head is chaos and I can't stand it.' She seized a marker and
began writing. 'I need to get this stuff sorted. My basic idea, which you
know already, is that he stalked all of his victims, agreed? That involved
him in some decision-making; for example, Decision Number One, 

which victim to select? Two, when and where to stalk her? And finally,
Three, when does he stop stalking and move to the abduction phase?'
She finished the itemised list and turned to them. 'Anything to add?'
'He would've known for years the kind of victim he needed.
Because of his fantasies,' said Julian. Kate confirmed with a nod.
Joe leaned forward, pointing to the words on the glass. 'So he's
clear about his victim. All he has to do is find a female who fits his
criteria, start the stalking process, bide his time until he's ready.'
Another nod from Kate.

Silence, broken by Bernie. 'How about this toy she got hold of
Where was it? In his house -- no, that don't work. He wouldn't take
her to where he lives. How about it was already in his car when he
picked her up?'
Kate gazed up at the glass for some seconds. 'That makes sense,
Bernie. If you're right, it also means that the abduction phase fell
apart quite quickly, while she was still inside his car.' She paused. 'Did
the toy just happen to be there? Or was it there for a reason?'
Bernie and Joe exchanged glances.
'You mean, like it was a talking point, once he got her inside the
car?' asked Bernie.

Joe looked from Bernie to Kate. 'How about it was more a device?
To disarm her. "Hey, gimme a break here. Look, I got a kid. I'm a
regular kinda guy." '
'I agree with both of you,' said Kate, adding comments quickly to
the glass.
She looked up at the words for a few seconds, then at her colleagues.
'I'm
thinking about the likelihood of Janine's being a quiet, calm
abduction, Joe. She knew who she was going with. Or she thought she
did. But Jody?' Kate shook her head. 'No. He knew her, in the sense
that he'd seen her, watched her. But she didn't know him. So he had
to use a con -- he offered her an impersonal service: A taxi ride. That's why 
he anticipated needing to disarm her. He expected that at some
point she would realise all was not right. But it happened more quickly
than he anticipated. Whilst she was still inside the car.'

Kate walked from the glass screen to sit on the edge of the table.
'And all this still doesn't answer the question: if one of the criteria
on which he selects his victims is height, why did he chose Jody

;
estbrooke? She was a short woman. If he watched her, why didn't
know that?'
,
I
Julian sat, shoulders hunched. 'How about he only saw her sitting
down, inside places. He never got to follow her, like along the street.'
i Bernie looked at him. 'But he's the boss. He's calling the shots. He
, oould do anything, be anywhere--'
Kate left the table, paced to the windows and back. 'I think Julian has
t point,' she said quietly. 'He didn't stalk her in a range of situations.
That raises another question: Why didn't he. . . ?'
' 'How about that was one of his decisions? To cut it short?'
,
, Kate frowned. 'But why would he do that, Joe? Why would he cut
Short what is such a pleasurable activity for him? Stalking has almost as
much pay-off as abduction.'
'You ask me, he's Looney Tunes. Yes, I know what you think, Doc,
but hear me out. He's doing all this stalking and following and
, fantasising, and maybe he's reached the point where he can't hack it any 
longer. Maybe it's a full moon or he remembers his potty-training
going wrong, who knows? But whatever it was, it got him going again , and he 
had no choice but to grab her when he did. He's a head-case.'
Kate looked from Bernie to the glass and back. 'And I kind of agree and 
disagree with you there.'
'Miracles do happen, then.'
'I don't agree that he's mad, but I do think that something got him
unhooked. Something happened while he had Jody in his sights and
just for a brief time he lost his coolness and control. He cut short his
stalking phase and brought forward the abduction.' She paced, then
put her hands on the table, leaning forward.
'And that's when he found out he'd got it wrong. She wasn't his
"ideal": Kate hesitated. 'Is that why she got such a beating?'
The room was silent for over a minute. Kate put down the marker
and regained her seat as Bernie broke the silence.
'Don't know about anybody else, but I'm worried. You don't like
this, Doc, but we've got Cranham and Fairley both linked to Molly
James at the time she went. We need to get procedures in place.
Check them two out, make inquiries about them. . .'
Kate nodded, tired.
This isn't for me, this kind of work
Balancing theory against risk. Having to work within rules.
Too hard.


And if we -- if I've got it wrong?
There'll be anather Jody.
Sooner or later.
Kate's heart missed a couple of beats. Joe was speaking.
'Sorry, Joe?'
'I was wondering if you had any ideas as to why he might cut short
the stalking phase?'
Kate raised both shoulders. 'Perhaps he just had too many pressures
in his "normal" life? Or. . . maybe he felt compelled to act. Say he had
a relationship which ended. Or something happened with his job.
Maybe he'd been told about redundancy -- there's a lot of it currently
-- or maybe he was dismissed. Whatever it was, there was some . . .
disruption to his situation. Some pressure.'
Joe's voice broke into Kate's thoughts again.
'How about a visit to Jody's parents?' He lifted the phone. 'Before I
contact them, I'll check with Upstairs. Make sure we don't overload the family.'
Kate nodded absently, flipping notebook pages.
Why?
Why reduce the pleasure of stalking?
She stared ahead at the glass screen, unseeing.
'Joe?'

'Red?'
'Can I borrow your diary?'
He handed it over with a light 'My life is yours.'
She took the black Filofax and quickly found the day on which
she and Joe had met the media, here inside Rose Road. Before any
meeting with Jody's parents, she had to be absolutely certain of her
facts. She examined dates, setting her mind at rest. As she'd thought,
Jody had been abducted days before they met the press.
Kate was now back to the puzzle: why the rush to murder?


J
oe walked into UCU that afternoon miming 'Drink?' to his three
colleagues. Just arrived herself, Kate nodded, then returned her
attention to Julian, who was looking agitated.
'I was in the forensic lab and all I said to him was, "Weren't there
any clues found at the scene?" and he went--'
Bernie interrupted. 'Look, Sherlock, they're under pressure up
there. Yeah, yeah, I know he's a--'
'Tight-ass,' finished Joe, guessing the subject of the conversation.
Kate already knew the object of discussion. Matt Prentiss. Her
primary concern was for Julian in her role as his senior supervisor, a
concern she hadn't yet mentioned to her colleagues. Surely Prentiss
couldn't be the source of any drugs Julian might be involved with?
Could he? She reviewed what she'd heard about the man. Nothing to
Indicate drugs, although she'd heard whispers about alcohol.
'Do you two know why Matt Prentiss is so unsociable, so negative
and. . . surly?' she asked, looking mainly to Bernie, on the basis that he'd 
been at Rose Road the longest.
Joe shrugged. 'I heard he stopped being Mr Congeniality a while
ago, which is why Harry got the job of managing the forensic scenes
team over him. Even though he's been here longer than Harry.'
'But what's his surliness about?'

Bernie responded: 'It started well before your time, Corrigan, and
you, Doc. Must be four years back. He had an older sister.'
They all looked at him. 'And?' prompted Kate.
'Overdose. Died.'

They exchanged glances. 'So . . . what? How? Was it recreational
use that went wrong?' asked Kate, her concern for Julian surging as
she picked up the drug inference.
Bernie gave her a look. 'No, no. She weren't a user. I've never


known anybody like you for looking on the criminal side.' He shook
his head. 'She was suffering with depression is what I heard and took
a load of her medication, but that isn't all the story. Pain-in-the-Arse
Prentiss was a real perfectionist in his work here. Acted like nobody could 
work a scene better than him. That is, until he made a mess of
one and got an official warning.'
Kate glanced at Julian, then on to Bernie. 'When was this?'
'About six months after the sister died.'

'What did he do?' This from Julian, eyes large.
Bernie rubbed his jowls and pointed a blunt finger. 'Listen, lad, you
don't mention this--'
'He won't,' said Kate quickly.
Bernie nodded. 'What Prentiss did was compromise evidence in a
sex assault case.'
'How?' asked Kate, eyebrows shooting up, aware that both Joe and
Julian were listening intently.
'Bagged up the evidence, labelled it, all nice and according to
protocol then stuck it in his pocket. Connie nearly had his innards
for garters. He denied it at first, then said it was an oversight. Didn't
make any difference. The chain of evidence-handling was broke and
it cost us a conviction. GPS was livid. Gander managed to limit the
damage, on the grounds that Prentiss was under family stress, and he
was put on compassionate for about a month. After that, Creed had to
double-check Prentiss's work for months, which obviously didn't
please Creed. Him and Prentiss got on all right before that. Not any
more.'
Kate was thinking over what Bernie had said. Was there ever any
suggestion at all that Prentiss knew something about the sexual assault
case and actually tampered with the evidence?'
`Blimey, how'd you get to be so suspicious? Nothing like that. He
was distracted and that caused a slip-up. He's recovered now and
he's like a Rottweiler. You've seen how he gets on everybody's case at
scenes.'
'Hypervigilance,' said Kate quietly, thinking of the paranoia and
delusional thinking that often went with it.
The discussion was interrupted by the phone ringing. Joe answered.
He murmured a few words, then hung up.
'Crete's loss is our gain. Mains has just arrived for his interview.
And he's not a happy guy.'
F
ive minutes later, Joe and Kate were seated in an interview room. It
had been decided that Bernie would be a close observer from the
room next door, given his prior knowledge of Malins.
Kate studied their visitor as he entered the room. MalMs was wearing
a polo shirt, startlingly white against his tan, and pressed chinos. She 
observed the thick neck, heavy shoulders and splay-legged walk. Also the 
stomach over his belt. He looked like an ex-weightlifter.
He pulled out the indicated chair abruptly and sat, wordless, crossing
thick forearms. In the forest of gingery hairs Kate observed a
selection of prison art, plus other tattoos of better quality. Among them, 
scrollwork enclosing `Mum'; another, `Kim-4-Evva'. A heart
pierced with an arrow encircled the name `Maz', casting doubt on the
wearer's eternal declaration to Kim. Looked like for ever had a time
scale.

Maybe I have the chronology wrong.
Kate sighed inwardly at the banality.
Malins's attitude was one of glowering detachment. Joe started the process with 
introductions, coolly waiting for several seconds until MalMs made eye contact.
'Thank you for agreeing to come into Rose Road, Mr Malins. The
Unsolved Crime Unit here is reinvestigating the disappearance of a
young woman named Molly James.'
Joe and Kate waited.
Malins transferred his gaze from Joe to the wall beyond.
Joe continued: 'When an officer from UCU talked with you recently,
you didn't mention that you have a conviction for rape.'
Malins shifted his gaze to the rectangle of one-way glass on one side
of the room, then turned his attention, very slowly, to Kate and Joe, 
casually insolent. Only two minutes in, and Kate wanted to smack
him.

Malins's attention was on the wall ahead. 'That's right. I didn't.'
'Why not?'
'Didn't do it.'
Heat prickled in Kate's hair and on her neck. Joe leaned forward.
'A conviction is a fact, Mr Matins. It's where we start from with
you.'
'Still didn't do it,' he repeated, his eyes on Kate, or more specifically
on the top button of her cream silk shirt:
'Tell us about it.'

'Got nothing to tell you lot.'
Within five minutes, having been informed by Joe that he risked
arrest if he continued to be uncooperative, Malins had provided a
truncated version of his sexual offence, couched in the usual denials,
self-serving distortions and rationalisations Kate had heard numerous
times from offenders she'd worked with.
According to him, he and the young woman were part of a crowd
drinking at a Broad Street bar in 2000. Malins described her as having
'tagged along' when he left. According to his account, on reaching an
area of open ground, part-fenced for redevelopment, she had spontaneously
indicated no objection to having sex with him.
Kate looked him in the eye, keeping control of her voice. 'The
young woman you raped stated that you offered her a lift before you
left the club, that you told her your car was parked on that area of
open ground. That as you passed it you pushed her--'
'Didn't have no car with me that night.'
'That doesn't mean you didn't say it!' snapped Kate, control slipping.
She saw Malins's face tighten as he looked at, then away from
her.

'Tell us about the girl,' invited Joe.
Within a further five minutes Malgis had sabotaged the young
woman's character, describing her as 'well known' in the Broad Street
bars for her 'friendliness' and willingness to drink. Kate and her
colleagues had read all the statements made during the investigation
of the rape. None of it fitted with what Matins was telling them. He
was now busily attributing his conviction to misfortune and an inept
barrister.
'She had a good brief. I had a muppet!' He compressed his lips 


;And Kate saw in his face, the eyes, his capacity for anger. 'She got six
illemen on the jury bawling and sobbing along with her when she was Aar the 
box.'
'Who was your barrister?' asked Kate.
;',t' 'Idiot called Summers. I think he read up on the case while he was on the 
train coming to court. Waste of space.'
Not Osbourne. No. Kevin would have gotten you off
Kate watched as Malins examined his own hands. She glanced at them. Well-kempt. 
Unexpected for a builder? The boss. A rapist with an alias. Julian had had to 
search offence records twice with a variation on the spelling of Malins's name, 
`MalM', before they picked up the rape conviction.
You got six years for the rape. Heavy for a first offence. You'd been in 
trouble before that.' Joe's last comment was a statement as fact.
, Malins shrugged and folded his arms, adopting a bored expression.
'You probably know already. If you don't, why should I help you
do your job? Look at your records.'
Again Kate felt her temper rising. 'We have. GBH and benefit fraud.'

Malins grinned at the ceiling, then at Kate. 'Get real, love. Everybody's on 
the take. That GBH was a fit-up. That was my missus at the time and the Job, 
working together to get me done.'
Joe looked steadily at Matins. 'You beat you wife almost senseless.
Gave her a broken jaw. She needed reconstructive surgery after you'd
finished with her.'

Malins yawned widely, ignoring what Joe had said. 'I told your
mate, the fat bloke, I was in Henley-in-Arden on a job when that girl, 
what's-her-name, went missing.'
'Molly James. But you knew her,' said Kate, watching his face. 'You
were working at her family home.'
'Supervising, sweetheart. I don't graft. I've got employees to do
that.' He glanced casually at the steel and gold Rolex on his wrist, and
blew air through his teeth. 'I seen her no more than a couple of times,
max. I was interviewed after she disappeared. So were my lads. I told
the police I never saw her the day she went missing. Like I said, I was in 
Henley.'
Joe returned to an earlier theme. 'Your rape victim, the "woman"
you've told us about, was just sixteen. That week. That's why she was at the 
bar. Celebrating her birthday.'


Malins glared at him. 'You deaf? Or is there a language barrier here?
I told you what happened. She looked at least twenty-five.' He transferred
his gaze to Kate, smirking. 'Perhaps I give her something to
remember her birthday by.'
Kate held his gaze, memory spooling to a photograph she'd seen of
Malins's victim, looking young and dazed.
'It's your responsibility to reliably identify the age of any female
with whom you initiate sexual contact,' said Kate without hesitation.
She got up from the table and went to stand against the wall,
putting distance between herself and him.
Malins grinned at her across the room. 'Sixteen, love! That means
legal.'
'It also means young and vulnerable. You were several years older.
How old is your current partner, Mr Malins?'
Matins instantly lost the grin. His eyes narrowed and his bottom lip
became dominant. 'None of your flicking business.'
'That's enough, Malins,' warned Joe.
'Mr Malins to you! I've had it here!' He got up, face full of animosity. 'That 
one in Broad Street was a slag!'
Kate recalled one of his tattoos. Mum.
'Did you have problems with the police when you were a teenager,
Mr Malins?'
He looked confused at the sudden change of direction. 'Who
doesn't?'

'Would you tell us about that, please?'
He sat, stared at her briefly, then grinned. 'You're just like every shrink 
I've ever met. Tell me about your childhood, Alan, Tell us about
your friends, Alan, your girlfriends, Alan. What's so interesting about
all that? If you want my opinion, all you shrinks get off on it -- got no
life of your own!' His eyes travelled from Kate's feet, slowly upwards.
'Might be an exception or two. .
'Keep it civil, Mr Malins, unless you want to be here a while.'
Malins glanced at Joe, then back to Kate. He smirked.
'What was the question, darling?'
'In trouble as a teenager?' replied Kate.
He nodded. 'I was a bit of a young tearaway. Got into a few scrapes.
Long time ago.'
'Tell us about the scrapes.'
He shrugged, looking wary. Kate guessed he was editing his history. 'I pinched 
this kid's bike well, he said I did. I was sent to a private
boarding school after that.'
So many euphemisms, thought Kate, recognising the 'private boarding
school' reference, knowing its reality. Special residential education
for difficult-to-manage youngsters beyond parental control. Malins's
incidental reference to the 'shrinks' he'd met during his early years had
already confirmed for Kate a childhood of emotional and behavioural
problems.
'How did your mom and dad feel about that? Your being sent
away?' She saw Mains move instantly to surliness.
'You ever find my old man, you can ask him yourself. Don't bother
to let me know what he says. I don't talk about my mum, not to the
likes of you.' He looked from Kate to Joe. 'I'm finished with this.'
Kate watched him as he got up and rolled towards the door, several
scars visible through the gingery velvet nap of close-cut hair. She
glanced at Joe, who shook his head slightly. They couldn't keep him.
Kate addressed the broad back, angered by Malins's callousness towards
his young victim.

'You've made some comments about women to us, Mr Mains. Is
that how you judge them? Slag, slapper, whore; decent, pure.'
The back of the thick neck reddened. He half turned, speaking over
one muscled shoulder, hostile. 'You missed one out, love. How about
"stuck-up mouthy bitch"?'
Joe started to rise. Kate quickly shook her head at him. She had one
final question. About an issue that had been nudging the edges of her
consciousness.

'What was she wearing, Mr Mains? The girl in Broad Street?'
He turned fully, clearly thrown by the change in direction of Kate's
question. 'Who d'you think I am, Tommy Hilfiger? Can't remember.'
'Try,' advised Joe.
'Jeans. A top. Shoes.'
Kate guessed that they were probably nudging the limits of Malins's
descriptive powers.
'What were the colours of her clothes? Was she wearing any jewellery?'
'Can't
remember. Don't give a f--'
Joe stood and Mains clearly thought better of it, offering a limited
response.

'Black jeans. Orange low-cut top. A charm bracelet thing. Hang on!
You saying I pinched her stuff?'
'Just answer the question, Mafins,' directed Joe.
'Fuck you!' He switched his gaze to Kate, the smirk back in place.
`Ah! I get it. You're still on about her not looking her age. Well, let
me tell you, the get-up she had on, if I had a sixteen-year-old kid I
wouldn't let her out like that, showing her--'
'Thank you, Mr Malins. You've told me all I need to know,' said
Kate quietly.
He gave each of them a hostile look, then turned, pulled open the
door and walked through it.
As Malins disappeared from view, Kate intuited a childhood experience
of a physically chastising then absent father, an inadequate,
probably fearful mother and a brood of children who had never
experienced consistent, sensitive care from anyone.
None of which made him a repeat killer.

Kate was keeping to an arrangement she'd made. A fairly regular one.
She was stressed and her body was rigid with tension. She needed a
physical challenge. She'd come to the right place.
A half-stifled gasp forced its way from her mouth as she lowered
both legs very slowly to the mat, perspiration coursing from her
forehead in spite of the air conditioning.
'Come on, Kate! Another set.'
Sitting up, Kate drank water from a plastic bottle, then lay down
on the mat again. 'Easy for you to say, and I know how I'm going
to feel . . . uh . . . tomorrow . . . uhh . . . morning. It won't include
anything flattering about you, Phil.'
Phil the trainer took this calmly. 'My ears always burn around nine
a.m.'
He supervised Kate's movements closely, then nodded. 'That's
good. Your quadriceps and adductors are really strong now. Give me
one more set.'
Kate gasped, giving him a sideways glare. 'This is hard.'
He glanced at her, then pointed at the mat. 'One day, Kate, you'll
thank me for it.'

An hour later, Kate was at home in the wide walk-in shower, thinking

of the weekend. The weather was predicted to be holding and she'd 


made a decision. No work. She wouldn't even open the door of the
study. She was going to spend much of the next two days in the
garden, doing a little weeding, leg muscles permitting, and a small
amount of sun-soaking. Maisie had requested Pizza Express on Saturday
evening, this time for pasta, and she wanted Chelsey to come with
them. Which was fine, thought Kate, stepping out of the shower,
because it was a way for Kate to repay Candice for feeding Maisie on
several school nights recently.
The gym session had worked. She felt relaxed. In need of down
time.


CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
O
n Monday morning Kate parked her car and went to the boot to
get her bag. She'd considered a cool dress this morning but
decided against it. You never knew with police work where you
might end up during the day. She'd settled on black trousers teamed
with a pale blue short-sleeved shirt that showed off the subtle tan
she'd acquired in the last day or two. Her hair was in a ponytail, tied
with a narrow dark-blue ribbon.
Bring it on. She was ready.
'You look sun-buffed, Red,' commented Joe with a grin as he
walked across the car park towards her, Bernie following. They made
their way into Rose Road and then UCU, where Julian was in the
middle of writing up an assignment as part of his forensic module.
'I need to be out of here in half an hour,' murmured Joe.
Kate raised a questioning eyebrow to him.
`Jody's parents. Still want to come?'
She nodded, pulling her notebook and pen from her bag. 'Before
we leave, what do we think of Malins?' she asked.
Julian stopped writing and gave Bernie his attention as he crossed
the room to underline Malins's name on the glass screen.
Tor my money, he has to stay on our list of POIs.' He turned and
gave each of them an eyebrows-up glance. 'He's got form for sex. On
the list, yes?'
Joe nodded, looking across the table to Kate. 'I'm with Bernie at
the minute. Malins is an angry type; he's victimised women before,
including one he'd be expected to have some positive feeling for --
his wife. It didn't protect her from his anger. Plus, he raped a young
girl who was a stranger to him. Victimisation of known and unknown
females. Doesn't seem to make a whole lot of difference to Malins.
Suggests to me that he could have a real issue with females in general.

Look how he reacted when you mentioned his mom, Kate.' He
looked across at Kate, palms up. 'How'd you feel about meeting
Malins on a dark night?'
Perched on the edge of the table, Kate looked from Joe to Bernie
and slowly shook her head.
'He's not the one,' she said, before switching her gaze to the floor,
waiting for an eruption. It didn't come. She looked up.
Bernie was staring at her, waiting.
`So?' he said after a heavy silence. 'I'm stood here being careful of
my blood pressure and cholesterol level. How about you tell us what's
on your mind this time?'
Kate got down from the table and started to pace, because it helped
her think. It helped her explain.
'Think about the situation when Maims raped the young girl . .
She came to the table and searched the papers on it. 'That was in 2003. Since 
then, nothing sexual known. Yes, I know, Bernie. Just
because he hasn't been apprehended since then for sexual offences, it
doesn't mean he hasn't done anything else.' She spread her hands,
palms up. 'But the situation he and his victim were in is relevant for us. They 
shared a context for a short time.'

- She heard a brief snort from Bernie's direction, then silence. Blood
pressure and cholesterol control were more or less winning.
'He was in the bar. She was in the bar. He noticed her. He invited her to leave 
with him.'
'You ain't suggesting that that tells us anything about what he done
after?'
'No, Bernie. I'm merely identifying facts. The girl said in her
statement that she went with Malins after socialising with him. She
got it wrong. He also made a judgement of her -- yes, I know, a very
self-interested judgement. What he did was awful but also opportunistic.
It indicates how thoroughly irresponsible he is. And antisocial,
too. But what he did had none of the "planful" characteristics of our
doer.'
Joe watched her as she paced. 'Can you be sure of that, Kate?'
She shook her head, feeling much more on top of things than she
had on Friday. 'No, I can't. Theories don't come with guarantees.
Malins was in that crowded bar, in full view of other customers, who
probably saw him leave with the young woman. No stealth involved.
To me the rape was an unplanned act.' She looked at them sideways.



'I know he has a history of behavioural problems and violence, but
neither of those leads me to suspect he's our doer. Those factors
merely confirm his--'
'Impulsivity!'
They all looked at Julian.
He blinked at them nervously. 'I'm just saying what Kate told us in
our lecture last week.'
Bernie glared at him and he fell silent.
Julian's right.' said Kate. `Malins's rape was an unplanned attack by
a male who has a history of impulsive behaviour. There's no indication
of forethought, planning. There's no indication from what he did that
he indulged in elaborate fantasy prior to his attack, which he then felt
compelled to act out during the rape. The young woman said it was
quick and brutal. . . Mains is thoroughly reprehensible, but he's not
our doer.'

'You know that, do you?' Bernie said.
Kate ignored him. `Malins is an antisocial thug and no, Joe, I
wouldn't be exactly happy to meet him on a dark night, but then
neither would I assume that he would victimise me. It'd depend on
the context we were in, and his perception of that situation at that
time.' She paused. 'But I acknowledge that his rape was a predatory
act.'

'A-ha!'-

'An unplanned predatory act.' Kate paced some more, then turned
to face them. 'Whereas our doer plans everything. He has a mind full
of carefully crafted fantasies. There is no impulsivity in what he does.
Malins could be characterised as the "wham-bam" type of sexual
victimiser of females. Compare that to what we know of our doer's
stalking, his preparation, what he does to his victims.'
Silence.

Kate sat and pulled her notebook closer, frowning to herself. What about his 
cutting short his stalking of Jody Westbrooke?
Wasn't that an indication of impulsThe
door opened and Connie appeared.
'Meant to tell you, Katie analysis of the drinks cans by the remains
of the small fire at the bypass? Several samples but no DNA matches
on the national database.'
Kate distractedly nodded her thanks. 'I thought it was worth a try,
as repeaters can revisit sites as a leisure activity.'


Bernie looked from Connie to Kate and scowled. 'And the less I
hear about that, the happier I am.'
As Connie disappeared, he gazed towards the window for several
seconds, then quickly walked across the room and peered out. Looking
back at the table, he beckoned to his colleagues.
'Hey! Come and have a look!'
They went to the window.
'Take a look at that.' Bernie pointed at a pale metallic-blue BMW
that was reversing out of a space, its driver clearly deliberating whether
to leave by the front or rear entrance. 'That's Malins's car. I phoned
him on Friday after he left here to come back in and make a witness
statement about his contact with the James family.'
They gazed at the car in question, then back to Bernie.
'Look at it! Have a good look.'
Kate and Joe each gave the car a searching examination. They both
saw it. Kate's eyes narrowed at the number plate: GHB 4.
Bernie nodded through the glass. 'That's a special registration.
When I first seen it just now, I thought it was Matins the crim putting
two fingers up at the police -- about his violence. Then it clicked. He
ain't dyslexic. It means what he wants it to mean. And it's still two
fingers to us -- Malins the rapist.'
'You think he's having a private joke?' asked Kate. `GHB -- 
gammahydroxybutyrate.
Liquid ecstasy? Familiar as a club or date-rape drug.'
Bernie left the window, went to the glass screen and underlined Malins's name 
again.
Joe returned to the table shaking his head. 'Bernie, my friend,
you can't make a case against a guy because he's got a lousy sense of
humour.'
'Watch me. That fits with the Kenton-Smith case.'

Joe sat facing Kate. 'What was your interest in Malins's
clothes? Come on, Red. Give.'
'I was thinking about our victims' physical presentation. Not just
height and hair, but the overall style they projected.' Kate pointed
to the glass screen and the photographs on it. Janine. Molly. Suzie.
Augmented by additional photographs from their families, including
two from the Westbrookes. 'Look at them,' she invited.
They looked at the young women who'd never known each other.
Janine with a heavy blonde plait. Molly with her blonde-brown hair
smoothed into a ponytail. Suzie wearing her blonde hair in a long bob 
to her shoulders. Jody almost in profile, a hairband holding back hair
like liquid gold, an open expression on her sweet face. Kate looked
away from the photos quickly, to her colleagues.
'Malins's description of the girl he raped has crystallised what it is
about these girls that I believe set them apart from her and just maybe
piqued their killer's initial interest.'
Kate walked rapidly to the screen and pointed. 'Look at their general style. 
It's not just about their hair. They all dressed in a similar
way. It applies to the earlier victims as much as it does to Jody. Forget
fashion. I'm talking about taste and style. It's about looking expensive.
Classic. Which is quite unusual for this age group. I'm guessing
that someone like Malins would describe it as "classy". It wasn't just
the fact that they were blonde that snagged the killer's interest. It was
much more subtle and pervasive than that.'
Kate stood close to the screen, indicating the line of photographs
as she looked at each of her colleagues. 'See? The colours they wore,
the kinds of clothes they chose?' The photos she was indicating were
varied, some full-length studies, showing the girls' appearance in
detail. 'Look. White shirt. Seed-pearl necklace. Cream sweater. Pale
blue polo shirt, brown loafers. No sharp-end fashion.' She stopped,
gazing up at Molly's photograph, her name in gold just below her
neck. She pointed to it and looked at them. 'Although that bothers
me. . . it doesn't fit the style I'm trying to describe to you.'
`Fairley bought it for her, remember?'
`Mmm . . but if it's not your style, why wear it if he's not your
boyfriend any more?'
'I bet she still had strong feelings for him,' said Julian, nodding
sagely.
Bernie rolled his eyes. 'Thanks, Marjorie Proops.'
'Who?' asked Julian and Joe in unison.
Kate looked intently at the clothes depicted in the photographs,
running descriptive words in her head. 'I think their style of dressing is
key, but I don't know how to define it--' She broke off, staring at the
photographs, frustrated in her need to put a word to what she was
saying.
Joe looked at the photographs, then at Kate.
'I do. We have a name for it back home.'
They all looked at him.
'In the States, it's called "preppy".'


CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
They headed for Jody's family home through Monday's late-morning
I traffic. Despite the air conditioning inside the car, Kate felt perspiration
ooze from her skin. She tugged restlessly at her lightweight
trousers, wishing she'd worn something else. Not all of her agitation
was attributable to the heat, however. Much of it related to what
probably awaited them at the Westbrooke home.
To distract herself, she glanced out of the window as they neared
the Warley Woods area. She recalled that its urban designation was
either Smethwick or Sandwell, but to her eye it had the look of a
village-like enclave. She watched as Warley Woods Golf Club slipped
past, some way off the road, then looked ahead, knowing that somewhere
over there, not too far away, was the dual carriageway of the
Wolverhampton Road.

On arrival at Jody's parents' home, Joe and Kate were invited into
the sitting room of the semi-detached house. It was as Kate had
anticipated. A capsule of grief, the life, the spirit sucked from it.
Joe introduced himself and Kate to Jody's parents, a couple in their
late forties, and a younger daughter, Anna, commiserating simply and
genuinely with them on behalf of UCU and West Midlands Police.
Jody's mother merely nodded as Mr Westbrooke quietly thanked Joe
for his words. Jody's young sister watched them.

The family sat side by side on the sofa, looking as if they hadn't slept
for days, which Kate assumed was probably the case. Almost a replica
of Jody, Anna looked tired and stunned.

Kate gently pushed the conversation in the direction she wanted it
to go.
'The night Jody left here to go to the Running Wild club, can you
describe in detail everything she was wearing?'


Mrs Westbrooke stared down at her lap, making no response. Mr
Westbrooke looked uncertainly at Kate.
She reassured him, her voice low: 'We wouldn't ask if we didn't
think it important, Mr Westbrooke.'
He nodded, and described the clothes they had already seen. The
white linen trousers, grey-and-white striped top.
Anna spoke suddenly into the silence. 'She had on a pearl necklace
as well, and matching earrings.'
Both parents nodded, Jody's mother quietly offering her sole contribution
to the entire exchange. 'Mine.'
Kate made quick notes on the tasteful items. As she did so, she
reflected on the many media reports she'd seen over the years and the
numerous times in her role as forensic psychologist that she'd heard
of the sexual victimisation of young woman being attributed to the
choices they'd made about their appearance. Dianne James had said
the same.
But here were four young women dressed in a subtle, non-provocative
style. They still died.
Joe turned to Anna. 'We need to know about her shoes and
handbag. Can you tell us anything about them?'
Anna nodded and instantly sandbagged Kate with her reply. 'She
was wearing red stilettos and she borrowed my bag.'
Rapidly reorganising her thoughts, Kate murmured, 'What was the
bag like?'
The young woman sketched a shape and size with her hands. 'It was
red too.'
Was it made of leather. . . or suede?' asked Kate, still hoping for a
response that might fit her theory.
'Plastic.'
Kate felt the theoretical rug jerking from beneath her. She wrote
three words: Shoes. Bag. No.
'You haven't. . . got them?' asked Anna, looking from Kate to Joe,
her face starting to crumple.
'No. It looks as though they were . . . taken,' ended Kate, avoiding
certain words, but realising that those she had used sounded not only
lame but ominous.
Mr Westbrooke had been watching them closely. He sat forward,
face rigid with tension.
'Hang on a minute. You said you're from Rose Road? There was a 
chap from there interviewed on the television the other day. I watched
it. It was reported in the papers as well. He was saying there was no
serial killer on the loose!' He looked from one to the other of them.
'Is that what this is about? Is that what the police think?'

Joe leaned forward, hands open. 'We're looking at all possibilities,
Mr Westbrooke,' he said quietly.
Jody's father looked shocked. 'If we'd known there was even a suspicion that 
there was somebody like that in the area, I'd have gone
to the club to pick our daughter up. Why didn't anybody say!'
Mrs Westbrooke touched his arm and he slowly fell back against the
sofa. She stroked his hand.
Kate looked at him, then away. Thank God their press involvement
had happened after Jody went missing. Otherwise a ton of guilt,
justified or not, would have been added to how she felt now.
She addressed her next question to Anna.
'How did Jody spend her time when she wasn't working?'
The young woman dabbed her eyes. 'She lived for dancing.' A few
seconds of silence, then, 'She worked in town . . . she liked her job.
She had some good friends there.'
'Where did she go, say for lunch, or to have coffee during the
working week?'
Anna and her parents looked at each other. Anna responded for
them. 'I. . . well, nowhere in particular. At least, she never said. They
all had lunch in the office, but if she was on her own, Jody would
sometimes go out, to a coffee shop, or get a--'

'Any particular place that you know of?'
Anna looked to her mother, then back to Kate. 'No.'
'A couple more questions and then we'll leave. Did Jody always
wear very high-heeled shoes?'
Anna nodded. 'Yes. She had this thing about being shorter than all
of her friends, so she thought it was a good way of getting noticed.'
Mrs Westbrooke sobbed.

They were back in UCU, having established that Jody had had no
steady boyfriend and no history of difficulty with men, young or
otherwise. Bernie now knew what had transpired at the Westbrooke
home. Joe gave Kate a steady look. She saw it.

'What?'

'You're still convinced he stalked them?'

Kate nodded.
'Any doubts that Jody fits the series?' he asked.
'What do you mean?'
'Up to that night, he hadn't noticed she was short. He also hadn't
noticed that her style . .
'I know what you're gonna say, Corrigan. The red shoes and bag. A
bit, well, tarty, Doc. It don't fit your clothes theory.'
And Kate suddenly got it. Her own theorising earlier in the day burst
into her consciousness with staggering clarity. Now she knew. She got
up, strode to the glass screen, then turned to face her colleagues.
'Jody did fit. Until he curtailed the stalking phase. He didn't do it
long enough to establish that she was short. Not long enough to
check the consistency of her style.' Experiencing a need to sit, due to
the suddenness with which the solution had crystallised for her, Kate went to 
her usual chair.

'I said before that something must have happened at the time he
was stalking Jody. I suggested he might have become distracted, but
that can't be the whole explanation. Whatever was happening to him
at the time, it made his need to abduct and kill Jody supremely
urgent.' She frowned ahead, voice quiet, then looked at each of
them. 'Strong enough to make him reduce the time he spent stalking
and watching her. Something got his fantasies rolling.' Kate looked
down at the table. 'And I doubt it was merely the sight of her as
would-be victim. It was something else. Something happening, something
urgent, pressing, in some part of his life. And I still don't have a
clue what it was.'

Silence.
'So -- what's next?' asked Bernie, after a few seconds.
Kate spoke first. 'What Mr Westbrooke said, that if he'd realised the
true situation, he would have acted to protect Jody. If someone had
made him fully aware of the implications of what was being found
at the bypass, his daughter might still be alive. But nobody was made
aware. The police didn't alert the media. Then the media caught on
to what was happening, but didn't have any details, following which
Furman more or less denied any risk.'

Kate leaned on her elbows, fingers to her lips.
'We told the journalists we weren't going to do television news
interviews, but I'm now thinking that an appeal should be made to
alert young women and their families about the doer's activities.' 


'You're right, Red. I think you should,' said Joe, voice quiet.
Kate's head came up, aghast. 'What? No! I was thinking of you doing it! Or 
Bernie.'
'I could be seen as an outsider, Kate.'
'Better coming from a female, Doc.'


CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
K
nowing that it had to be done, Kate went to Gander to deliver
UCU's view that people living in the Greater Birmingham area
needed a televised warning of the current risky situation in relation to
females. Gander studied her for a few seconds, eyes sharp.
'Learn anything from your last contact with the media?'
She nodded. 'Keep to the points you want to make. Stick to them.
Don't be drawn.'
He looked at his watch as he reached for the phone on his desk. 'Do
it. I'll get on to the Midlands Today people. See if we can get it in
tonight's programme.'
Kate returned to UCU and sat, staring at the glass screen.
The phone clamoured into the silence. Startled, Kate answered it,
listened and hung up.
'It's fixed. I'm on tonight,' she said to the others, raising both
hands. 'Don't say anything.' They each looked at the small, tense
figure and remained silent. Kate's thoughts were on Maisie. She
should be home now. She'd had a lift from school.
Phyllis answered Kate's call and confirmed that Maisie was home.
With Chelsey. Kate put her hand over her eyes, trying to think clearly.
Or think at all. What day was it? Monday. Her housekeeper stayed
later on Mondays and Fridays because she arrived later on both days.
Phyllis confirmed she was able to stay until Kate got back. Kate said
she would give her a lift home then.
'No, you're all right. I'll phone our Julie to come and pick me up,'
said Phyllis, referring to her daughter.
Kate put down the phone without mentioning to Phyllis why she
would be late. She felt strung out as it was. She didn't need Phyllis's or
anyone else's reaction to the planned interview adding to her already
anxious state.
Kate was inside the Midlands Today studio, on an upper floor of the
Mailbox building. She'd mostly resisted the efforts of the make-up
department, except for what she considered an over-application of
lipstick.
Her heart was hammering as she sat on the red sofa, waiting as
the newsreader summarised the several items at the beginning of the
programme, aware that the announcement was routinely accompanied
by an upbeat musical introduction not audible in the studio. She
could see the faces of Molly, Janine, Suzie and Jody displayed on the
nearby monitor's half-screen, the other half showing the facade of
Headquarters at Rose Road.

Sitting there listening to the familiar format, Kate felt completely
disorientated. Her heart ricocheted inside her chest as one of the
presenters began the item, briefly outlining the latest details of UCU's
involvement in the cases before turning to her.
'Thank you for agreeing to come on the programme, Dr Hanson.
Everyone is now aware of West Midlands Police reinvestigating the
unsolved cases dating back to 1998, and now the most recent killing,
which is believed to be connected, despite a gap of over a decade. Do
you have a message for women at this time, Dr Hanson? Presumably
you would advise that they be especially vigilant until this person is
caught?'

Kate nodded, hoping she looked cool and professional, feeling
anything but.
'Yes, and I can be a little more informative about the risk.'
She looked to the relaxed presenter for guidance. He nodded
encouragingly. Now, she was really 'on'.
'The man who murdered these three young women years ago,
and Jody Westbrooke very recently, selects his victims first, then
observes them for some time prior to his actual attack.' Kate had
resolved not to use the word 'stalking'. It might create a picture that
was misleading. She wanted to keep it simple. 'We believe this man's
appearance is presentable, that he can appear sociable, even trustworthy.
There's a possibility that whilst he is observing a female he
may show her some low-level or friendly attention--'

The presenter interjected. 'Could you give viewers an example of
what you mean by that, Dr Hanson?'
Kate nodded. 'Nothing elaborate. Possibly a simple hello, or a very 
small behaviour, like the wave of a hand, a smile in a cafe.' She
thought back to Janine. 'Perhaps raising a drink to acknowledge her.
If any female viewers, but particularly young women between the ages
of say sixteen and twenty-one, blonde. .
Kate hesitated. She couldn't go into their 'preppy' theory. There
wasn't time. She could see the studio floor manager making a 'windit-up'
gesture with his hand to the presenter.
`. . . and well-dressed, have been approached or acknowledged by a
man, a stranger, in the way I've described, or merely suspect a stranger
of showing them that kind of interest, especially recently, we would be
very grateful to hear from them.'
Kate gave the direct number for UCU, hoping there would be no
more questions. Her mouth had dried up completely and her mind
was a wilderness. The camera shifted from her and stayed on the
presenter. At a nod from the floor manager, Kate fled, as the presenter
repeated the telephone number.





CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Vate reached home feeling both exhausted and distracted and, Rafter seeing 
Phyllis off, went straight to her study. Due to the
increasing anxiety about possible future victims, she now felt forced to
reconsider all-corners. Malins? Cranham? Fairley? She still murmured
a subtle 'no' after each, yet knowing she was unable to reject them
entirely as possible suspects. She thought of the three men and their
various characteristics. They must be interviewed again. Questions
asked about their personal histories. She made a note in her diary,
imagining the likely emailed response from Rutgers. And Furman's
response when he got wind of her plan.
Leaving the study, Kate went to the kitchen and switched on the
kettle for tea. Maisie and Chelsey were still upstairs. She hadn't seen
either of them since she came home. She listened. Nothing.
A sudden thought occurred to her, activated by a distant comment
from Bernie. A murderous twosome? Maybe when they interviewed
Matins, Cranham and Fairley separately, some link between one or
the other would emerge? Furman's likely reaction to such a plan bore
down on Kate. She massaged her forehead. Whether the negative
response was from Cranham's legal representative or Furman, she
knew she was perched on the edge of a professional abyss.
She thought of everyone currently involved in the cases, including
Upstairs. If UCU continued to work on the basis of the doer's
arrogance, they could add Furman himself to the list. Prentiss?
Or even an ex-husband. God, I'm tired.
As she drank tea, Kate's thoughts drifted to men she knew, socially
and professionally. A couple of years before, a psychologist involved
alongside her in criminal proceedings against an alleged paedophile
had oiled his way over to her after they'd each given their evidence, to
give her his views of the man on trial and why Kate's opinion of him 
was misguided. He'd gone on to suggest that she had a problem.
With men. She'd responded that she would always have a problem
with men who had sex with children, and that at that moment she had
a real problem with him, for his unsolicited insights about her. Which
Of course nicely confirmed his view of her, given the no-win situation
of making a response to him at all. The jury in the case eventually
Spoke and the judge sent the paedophile to prison.
Kate sighed once more. Did she have a problem with men? If so,
did it cloud her judgement? She thought of Joe. No. She didn't have a
problem with men.
She felt a sudden surge of anxiety and her headache fficked its long
tail. While the days were slipping by, there was a very real possibility
that the doer was frequenting coffee shops, checking his traplines,
ready to close in again. Ready for another kill.
Kate left the kitchen table in search of medication, which she
swallowed with the remains of the tea, realising she'd had no food
for hours. As she placed her cup inside the DishDrawer, she heard the
faint ring of a mobile phone somewhere on the upper floor, followed
in a minute or so by two pairs of feet thudding down the stairs.
'Mom? Mom!' The feet crossed the hall and Maisie hurled open the
kitchen door, followed closely by Chelsey,
'Why didn't you tell me? How could you! Mom, you are so unfair!'
Kate looked in alarm at her daughter's flushed face and accusing
eyes, then at Chelsey, blonde-brown hair billowing around her face,
grey-green eyes shining, looking excited and awed? She and Maisie
started jumping and clamouring together, giving little squeals.
Kate's hand flew to her head. 'What is it now, Maisie! I've got a
head--'
'Lauren Downell just rang me! She's told me!' Maisie pointed an
accusatory finger at her mother, the nail painted neon-orange, matching
Chelsey's. 'You've just been on television! She was asking me
about it and when she knew I didn't know she was, like, a total cow
and-- What's that horrible stuff on your mouth?'
The torrent of words stopped and both girls stared. Kate dragged the back of 
her hand across her mouth and looked. Lipstick. Bright.
Red. She could see that Maisie was almost beside herself at not having
been told earlier about Kate's televised interview. She was now glaring
at her mother, breathless and mutely disapproving.
'Look, Maisie, I didn't know myself until earlier this afternoon that
I would be doing the--'
'You rang Phyllis! You didn't tell her either, because if you had she
would have told me!'
Chelsey's facial expression hadn't changed. Still awed. Kate rested
against the granite, an ominous pulsing inside her head.
'Maisie, I'm sorry. Really. I should have told Phyllis to let you
know.'

Kate didn't want to admit to the two young girls how nervous and
disturbed she'd felt prior to the interview.
Seeing that Maisie was about to start up again, Kate pushed herself
away from the work surface, voice firm. 'The cases UCU is working
on at the moment they're not the kind of thing I want you hearing
about. Or you, Chelsey.'

'Yeah, right, Mom. So six o'clock's the new watershed? Ha! Come on, Chels.'
With that they darted from the kitchen into the hall, a whirl of
tanned arms and legs, and disappeared upstairs. Kate waited for the
familiar thud of the bedroom door, then left the kitchen and walked
slowly to the sitting room, mentally reviewing the notes she'd made
the previous evening. About the chaotic storage of records at Rose
Road. In the last few minutes an idea had formulated.

Kate glanced at her watch. Eight thirty p.m. No time like right now.
Given the current situation at Rose Road, she was sure they would still
be there, and hopefully they would be willing to help her.
Still overwrought but now decisive, Kate walked quickly into the
hall to locate her notebook and bag.
'Maisie? . . . Maisie!'

A muffled one-word response. 'What!'
'Come down here, please.'
Both girls appeared on the landing and hung over the banister. Kate
looked up at them.
'I need to go back to Rose Road. I'm not sure how long for, so you
will have to come with me and we can drop Chelsey on the way.'
'Why can't we stay here?'
'Because I don't like the idea of you-two being alone in the house
when I don't know how long--'
'Yeah, right. You don't trust us! We're not babies!'
Kate had had enough. She turned and snatched up the light jacket 
she'd left on the hall chair when she arrived home. 'Get whatever you
need and come down! Now!'
The two girls disappeared briefly, then reappeared in the hall, ready
to leave the house. Maisie's face was mutinous. A couple of minutes
later, Kate watched Chelsey press the intercom button at the side of
her drive and speak into the grille. One of the large black gates glided
slowly open, and with a wave Chelsey slipped inside and started to run
down the long drive towards the house.
'Mom?' said Maisie from the back seat of the Audi. 'Why can't I
stay here with Chelsey?'
Fed up of debating with her, and realising it solved the problem of
what to do with Maisie once they reached Rose Road, Kate got out of
the car, walked to the grille and pressed the button.
'Hello?' Chelsey's mother.
'Oh, hi, Candice. . . Is it okay for me to leave Maisie with you for
about an hour?'
`Of course. Send her in. See you later!'
Mercifully, it appeared that Candice didn't know about Kate's
television appearance. Yet. As the large gate glided open once again,
Kate released Maisie from the back of the Audi and watched her
bound down the drive. She continued to watch as Maisie entered the
house and she saw a wave from Candice.
Kate jumped quickly into the Audi, now free to put her plan into
action.

CHAPTER SIXTY
I nside Rose Road, Kate was aware of the hum of activity beyond the
quiet reception area. UCU lay to the left, but she walked past,
straight Upstairs to the large incident room just beyond Gander's
office, looking for two specific officers.
Walking into the huge room, she saw what was causing the hum. It was full of 
non-uniform officers, working at computers, reading
documents, calling to each other, a small group having a discussion in
front of a glass screen, the twin of the one in UCU. Kate bit her lip.
She should have phoned first.
She caught sight of Gus 'the Kilt' Stirling getting up from his desk and 
heading towards a catering trolley. He waved to her as he went
and she started towards him.

'Working overtime now, Kate?' he asked, grinning at her. 'Want
some coffee? Something to eat? We've got--'
She shook her head. 'I was looking for you, actually. I need your
help, Gus.'
He gave her a surprised sideways look.
She continued. 'Well, you and Al. Is he around?'
Gus shook his head and Kate's spirits dipped.
'He'll be here in ' he looked at his watch 'about ten minutes. Tell me what you 
want, to save time when he arrives. Come on. Over here and have a seat. Just 
heard that you're a star, by the way.'
'Don't. I'm still recovering.'
Kate followed Gus to a table covered in paperwork and sat down with him. He 
eyed her quizzically as she launched her proposal,
keeping it quick and simple to avoid wasting his time.
'It's about the abduction-murders starting from the nineties, which you know 
about. We extended our reinvestigation to include a number of rape cases prior 
to them. We've had some real problems tracking 
down evidence and statements in those cases, Gus. In fact all of the

evidence boxes for our cases seem incomplete. I need to know if that's
at all typical of cases managed here.' She stopped, hoping that what
she'd said didn't sound critical.
Gus gave a small head-shake.
'I
doubt it, although case papers can end up at the GPS. But what
do you want with me and Al. . . Hey, speak the Devil's name and he

appears.'
Kate turned to see Al Bowen, Superintendent of Operations,
coming through the door.
'Kate! Don't see you up here often. Fancying a change from the
Brummie Bulldog?'
Kate's smile changed to a wide grin, recognising the reference to
Bernie. Why did the police love nicknames? Despite the banter within
Rose Road, she knew that Bernie was well regarded.
Gus outlined quickly for Al what Kate had told him so far. Al
nodded, looking a question at her.
Kate chose her words. 'I can see you're very busy now, with the
Westbrooke case, but I wonder if you'd have any objection to joining
me in a small . . . experiment? It won't take long.'
Neither officer spoke. She pressed on. 'Just a few minutes. What I'd
like you both to do is think of a case each of you has worked on

separately here. The cases must be old, by the way. Dating between,

say, 1995 and 2002. Oh, and I'd like one to be a solved case, the

other unsolved.' She hoped that by specifying both it would test out
the possibility that had been suggested to her, that the GPS held on to
documents.
The two police officers exchanged glances.
Gus spoke first: 'And then what?'
Always the next question. Police work and psychology. Well suited?
Not convinced.
'I want you to go down to the evidence store, find a victim
statement, or similar, from the case you've chosen and bring it back

up here. Before you do, I want you to identify the document you're
going to search for.'
They exchanged another look, causing Kate to wonder if she'd
overstepped some unspoken protocol.
'Okay,' said Gus. 'You want us to tell you the cases we've got in
mind?'


Kate nodded.
'Mine's a 1998 stabbing,' said Gus. 'A brawl in Aston. A bloke was
stabbed five times, including once in the chest, but he survived. That's
why I remember it. Never got who did it. There should be a witness
statement by one of his neighbours.'
Kate nodded, again. She and Gus looked at Al.
'The case I'm thinking about is the murder of a woman in 1997.
She was strangled and dumped in Sutton Park. Her husband's coming
up for parole in a couple of years' time. It's his statement I'll be
looking for.'

Kate looked from one to the other. 'Good,' she said quietly. Then
she had a thought. 'Neither of the cases has been resurrected in any
way to date? No appeals? No reinvestigation?'
Both heads shook

Kate took a deep breath. 'Okay. When you're ready. .
Al's eyes narrowed. 'Presumably you want to know how long it
takes us, if we do find them?'
Kate nodded. 'You first, Gus, then Al.'
Kate glanced casually at the sweep hand of the Breitling on her wrist
as Gus left the incident room at a good pace. He was back surprisingly
quickly with the witness statement relating to his case. Kate checked
the timing, wrote it down, then nodded to Al, who set off briskly. He
also returned swiftly to the incident room, waving some A4 sheets.
Kate wrote more figures.

Thanking the two men for their efforts, Kate left the room and ran
quickly down the stairs and along the short corridor to UCU. Once
inside, she switched on one of the lights and sat down at the table to
consider the information she'd gathered.

Both officers had promptly located the statements they were seeking.
Gus had taken six minutes ten seconds, Al five minutes fifty-seven
seconds. She sat back and looked at the figures she'd written. Not an
experiment in the true sense of the word. But a good enough demonstration
for Kate that not all of Rose Road's records were as chaotic
and incomplete as those for UCU's murder and rape cases appeared to
be.

She stood, walked to the glass screen and added the two timings.
Then she stepped back to consider them, wondering about the
implications, if any.
,She remained where she was for a few minutes, eyes narrowed on


the glass screen, as relevant bits of information they'd acquired over

the last several days began to stir and cluster inside her head, like

filings to a magnet.

At home again, Kate rested her head against the back of the sofa.

Maisie was upstairs in her room. Sulking. Kate was on a quest, unable
to quit despite the hour.
Our cases are different.
Why?
Information is misfiled or missing.
Why?
Who managed the two abduction-murders in the nineties?
Furman.
Who appeared to have knowledge of the prior rapes?
Furman.
Kate reflected on gossip she'd heard about Furman's management
style during her relatively brief experience of Rose Road. She could
think of a few people there who might delight in doing him a 'bad
turn', as Bernie would phrase it. Maybe they had. Maybe the missing
and misfiled records were a product of professional mischief against

him?
Her thoughts wafted and spun, tiny gossamer creatures riding
thermals. Synapses fired and neurones connected. Her head jerked
upright as items separated themselves from the clusters of information
she was considering and became defined.
It cannot be.
That's madness.
Furman's a career officer. He couldn't be. . .
She thought of Bernie's response, next time she was in UCU and
divulged what she was thinking. Before she allowed her suspicions
daylight, she needed to explore them thoroughly. 
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

K

ate was in her room at the university when the call came.
'Hanson.'
'Hello, Doctor.'
Kate's brow creased, then: 'Hi,' she said, suddenly realising that she
didn't know VVhittaker's first name.
'Chief Superintendent Gander's asked me to ring and find out if
you're in Rose Road today.'
'Yes. Around two p.m.'
'Hang on, Doctor.' There was a muffling of the phone, then
Whittaker was back.
'Two o'clock's fine. The chief superintendent'd like to see you
then.'

Kate replaced the receiver, wondering what was afoot.

Gander was sitting behind his desk, face stern, as Kate walked inside
his office. He waved her to a chair.

'I've just come back from seeing Jody Westbrooke's parents. Tried
to give them some reassurance that we're on top of this -- this lunacy.' He 
shook his head, then looked directly at Kate.
'Lieutenant Corrigan and DS Watts tell me that you're convinced
this animal's watching, following the young women he kills?'
Kate nodded. 'He's a stalker, yes.'
Gander heaved himself out of his chair, walked ponderously to the
window and stood looking out of it. His back still to Kate, he spoke:
'We never had anything like this -- this palaver -- when I joined the
Force, you know. The job was mostly about ordinary criminal activity.
Burglaries, the occasional raid on a bank, domestics. . . Murders, yes,
but we didn't have any of this. . . perverted activity.'
Yes you did. It just wasn't recognised for what it was.


Kate sat quietly. Waiting.
Gander turned to her, looking weary. 'Nowadays, your average
police officer is expected to be a community "friend", social worker,
diplomat. . .' He sat heavily. 'Don't misunderstand what I'm saying,
Kate. They should be all of those things when they're called for.' He
shook his head. Tut now they need to be psychologists as well. They
need to understand what's going on in this. . . animal's head!'
Gander laced his fingers together, joined hands tapping rosewood.
Kate waited some more.
'You're here all afternoon?' She nodded. 'Right. I need you to do
something, if you will. I need you to talk to whoever's on duty. Tell
them about stalking, stalkers -- you know, what sort of people they are,
why they do it, how to spot 'em. Help 'em understand what this
animal's about.' He shot a look at her. 'Can you do that?'
'I can do that,' said Kate, quickly reviewing Gander's wish-list.
'Okay, then. Shall we say. . . three o'clock? A half-hour from you
should do it.'
'Yes,' said Kate.
Gander looked both pleased and relieved. 'Good. Good. It'll help
'em get a. . . a handle on this. . . whoever he is. If they understand

him, chances are they'll know him when they have him.' He stood,

and Kate did likewise.
'Thank you, Kate. I appreciate your willingness, and at such short
notice.'

An hour later, Kate entered the huge Upstairs office, where at least
thirty officers, mostly male, were gathered waiting, no doubt in response
to an edict from Gander. A glance around the suddenly silent
room, at the folded arms and closed faces, told her all she needed to
know. The Force wasn't renowned for the keenness with which it
embraced psychology and its theories, especially around the issue of

sex.
She walked to the front of the office, to stand before a wall
mounted
whiteboard, as an incident from the year before slipped
into her head. Joe teaching Maisie to play baseball in the garden.
Maisie getting upset. Missing the ball more often than hitting it.
Then, with Joe's encouragement, she got it. Maisie's jubilant words
whisped through Kate's head.
I've got a great swing now, haven't I, Joe?
Sure have, Cat's-whiskers. Don't let anybody mess with it.
Kate smiled inwardly as she recalled the verse he'd recited for
Maisie, which Maisie, no fan of poetry, had loved ever since.
She glanced across the room at the waiting officers
I've worked tougher crowds than you. And I've got a great swing. 'Sexual 
desire. Pleasure. Fantasy rehearsal. Satisfaction.'
Hearing the words, some of the officers looked surprised, some
interested. Others slouched lower into their seats.
'Those are the elements of stalking.'
Kate turned, picked up a marker, wrote some words on the whiteboard,
then turned back.
'Let's take a quick tour through the various types of stalkers.
Knowing what he's about might help identify him.'
She pointed a finger at the whiteboard. 'Is he a rejected type, who
had a prior relationship with the victim? Is he an intimacy-seeker with
a strong need for closeness to salve feelings of loneliness? Or is he
a social incompetent whose efforts to establish intimate relationships
are blocked by his inability to engage in appropriate relationship
foreplay -- you know the type. Doesn't know how to talk to females,
scares them off.'

She noted some grins within her audience, plus one or two glances
at a burly officer, who glanced round, aware of the attention on him. 'Hey!' He 
frowned, then grinned as well.
'On the other hand, he might be the resentful type of stalker.
Somebody who's been offended or upset, or so he believes, by the
victim in the past, so he's pursuing her for revenge -- he wants to get
back at her.'

Kate returned the stares of her audience. 'The rejected and resentful
types of stalker are relatively easy to identify, because there's usually a
pre-existing link between them and their victim.' She glanced at the
whiteboard. 'The intimacy-seekers and the incompetents aren't so
easy to find.'

She made her voice low, deliberate. 'And we haven't even gotten to
the fifth type.'
The silence in the room was intense. All eyes were now on Kate. She
had them.

'The cases we're all working on involve the fifth type. The predatory
stalker. This is what to expect of him. Multiple victims. Zero interest in 
intimacy as most people might define that. Definitely not a social 
incompetent. No prior relationship with his victims.' She waited for
them to digest what she'd said.
'What he does have is a problematic personality. He's likely to be
psychopathic, which means he has the ability to socially connect, even

charm, but is totally self-centred and lacking in feelings for anyone but

himself. He's also likely to be somewhat intellectually smarter than the

other types of stalker.' Kate paused.
'The key characteristic of stalking done by the predatory type is that
it's always geared to destruction. He follows and watches because he
has a plan. He's the least likely to reveal his presence, although he
might make it felt in very minimal ways. His stalking period is the
shortest of all. Around six months, on average. Predatory stalking is
about information-gathering through watching, practising, rehearsing
what he wants. His goal: power and devastation.'

'Thought it was about sex?' said a voice from somewhere at the

back of the room.
Kate shook her head. 'He's a sexual sadist. We know this from what
he left at the bypass and at Romsley. For the sexual sadist, sex is

merely a vehicle for what he must have: the mastery, the total posses

sion
of his victim.'
The tension in the room was palpable as Kate itemised character

istics
on her fingers.
'As likely as not to be employed. May have an intimate partner, but
don't count on it. The majority have a criminal record. Don't count

on that either. A proportion of predatory stalkers start their offending

careers as serial rapists, although they can have committed less serious

offences.'
'Anything we can count on? And why's it always "he"?' This from a

different part of the room.
Kate nodded. 'There are instances of female stalkers. But the
predatory type? Never. You can count on that. Until an exception
occurs.'
She walked to the desk nearest the front, leaned her hands on it and
surveyed the room. 'Look. What I'm saying could help identify our

doer, once his name is part of the investigation. Without guidance,

you could be relying on guesswork.'
She straightened and returned to the whiteboard, writing quickly,

then faced them again.
'We're looking for someone with average to good intelligence. Emotionally 
cool, possibly closed off. Socially alienated. Someone
with little capacity for sympathising with others' pain, but never
doubt his motivation to see and enjoy it. Someone who has difficulty
with intimacy. A man who may appear laid-back, even passive. He's
got a rich, rewarding fantasy life. He may appear 'absent' at times,
because he's in his own head, daydreaming.'

Again there were some grins and quiet laughs at the expense of one
of the officers in the room.
Kate waited for a couple of seconds, then, 'I think our doer is all
of these things. During questioning you'll probably locate the
foundation of his sadistic rage -- in his childhood.' A few sighs and
mutters drifted from the audience. 'I know. It's always back to childhood.
That's often how it is. What he's done, is still doing, isn't about
these young women. It's about a long-ago relationship that he found
confusing or affectionless, possibly a relationship that was inconsistent
or even absent at times.'

She waited a few more seconds for them to absorb what she'd said.
'Asking some subtle questions about his early years would probably
pay off.' She looked around the room, seeing a few familiar faces near
the back: Al, Gus, 'Sticky' Hemmings, Harry. Matt Prentiss. What
she'd given them was probably enough. 'That's it,' she said quietly.

Kate stayed where she was as several of her audience drifted out. She
returned their parting nods. Julian suddenly appeared at the end of
the exiting group with Harry.
'Hi, Julian. Didn't see you just now. Hi, Harry.'
Harry didn't respond, looking preoccupied as he walked past and
out. Julian saw Kate's eyes following him.
'Furman wants to see him.'

Kate nodded, wondering if the subject of that meeting was standing
next to her. 'Going back to UCU?' she asked.
He nodded, and they walked together.
'What you just said, Kate, about a relationship in childhood that
was inconsistent, lacking in affection -- well . .. that's me and my
dad.'

She looked up at him as they walked, reminding herself that,
intellectually quick as he was, he was still young, constructing his
own understanding of his true self. 'Yes, Julian, it probably is. But I
don't observe in you any of the other qualities I mentioned.' She
smiled at him 'Remember, it's always about combinations of factors.' 
She glanced up again at the young face, thinking that whatever

suspicions Furman and Gander might hold about Julian, they were

inaccurate or misinformed. Furman. Kate's suspicions blossomed

anew.
There was silence between them until they neared UCU, when
Julian spoke. 'I know somebody here whose father left before he ever
got to have a relationship with him. Then his mother died.'
'That's a shame. Who's that?'
'I'd better not say. He told me in confidence.' CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Carly Friday morning, Maisie opened the door before the sound of L the last 
ring had died. Hair centre-parted into thick bunches, she
was dressed in regulation green school uniform, the skirt customised
by neat rolling at the waistband, secured by a narrow red belt.
'Hi, Joe! Come in,' she said. 'Mom? It's Joe!'
'Good morning, Madeleine,' he said, mock-formal.
'Nobody calls me that,' said Maisie, matching his manner, plus a
mock-pout.
'You're up with the dawn, Cat's-whiskers. Your mom busy?'
'She's got as far as going on about her busy day. We're expecting
Daddy to call in for breakfast.'
Joe followed Maisie into the kitchen. Kate was laying the table with
three places, and looked up as he came through the door. Having
spent the last two days at the university, she and Joe hadn't seen each
other since the middle of the week.

'Hi, Joe. Tea? Coffee? Maisie, for the second time, lose the belt and
unroll the skirt to its proper length.'
He chose coffee. 'Hear you're expecting a breakfast guest.'
Kate grimaced, waiting for Maisie to reach the stairs before speaking,
keeping her tone low.
'Kevin and I are going to discuss Maisie's contact. This time he
sticks to whatever we agree to. And if he doesn't . . .' She left the
sentence hanging.
Joe nodded. 'So. What're you up to today?'
'I'll see Maisie off to school, give a lecture at eleven and then I've
got a tutorial with Julian. There's something on his mind, Joe.'
Should she say anything about the suspicions circling around Julian
to do with drugs? Or those around Maisie, for that matter? No. Maisie
certainly wasn't Joe's problem. She sighed and continued. 
'I need a quiet evening so I can get my thoughts on our cases

ordered. I can't really do that if Maisie's around, so I'm hoping that

Kevin will offer to have her at his house tonight, to make up for the
weekends she's missed.'
'I was thinking, maybe you could use an outing. Nothing late.
While we're carousing, you could tell me what you were up to the
other night at Rose Road?'
Kate said nothing. Too soon. She had to sort out her own thinking.
'Okay, back to the outing.' He stood, stretching out one arm, other
hand at his chest, to begin his pitch. 'I'm thinking a G 'n' T each, then

Wongs, probably a couple more G 'n' Ts, followed by honey pepper
chicken as an addition to the menu for two, then a tad more alcohol

and a couple of my hot jazz CDs, maybe Vince Giordarno and the
Nighthawks. Trust me on this, Red. You need some leisure time.'
Kate looked up at him, amused at his spiel. 'Idiot.' There was a
short silence, during which they looked at each other. Kate's face had
acquired a small frown above the nose.
'Joe . . . it sounds really . . . lovely. But, like I said, I need to
work. . . on my ideas. Plus, I don't know if Kevin has other plans and
won't be able to take Maisie. It's short notice.'
He nodded. 'Just an invitation between friends, Red. No expect
ations.
No worries.'
Despite Joe's casual words, the air between them felt charged. She
gazed up at him. 'Maybe . . . another time?' Another small silence.
'I need to talk to you and Bernie sometime, about Al and Gus and

the--'
Maisie returned to the kitchen, unbelted.
'Don't take any notice of what Mom says, Joe. She's on edge
because of Daddy.'
'Maisie.'
Maisie shrugged. 'Stay and have breakfast with us. Daddy will
behave himself, won't he, Mom?'
Joe and Kate exchanged a glance as he placed his coffee mug on the table. 
Heading for the door, he gave Maisie a wink.
Kate followed him out. 'Joe, it's--'
'Not a problem, Kate.'
She watched him walk to his car, just as Kevin's low-slung vehicle
purred on to the driveway. Damn! His timing always was hopeless.
'Mom! Where's my DS?'


'Stop shouting!'
Maisie appeared from behind Kate. 'Well you are-- Hey! Daddy's

She ran to the sleek silver Mercedes convertible that had just pulled
Kate walked slowly to where Joe was opening his car door. She rzed up at him. 
'It's. . . awkward sometimes.'
ri A nod. 'I see it, and I'll take a rain check on that outing.'
She tried for light-hearted. 'I expect you're glad you didn't bother
with children.'
He grinned down at her as he got into his car, then activated the
window, looking up, eyes very blue, unreadable. 'Who says I didn't?'
He began pulling away from the house, then stopped to call back to her. 'By the 
way, Upstairs brought Malins in for interview about an
hour ago, in connection with the murder of Jody Westbrooke.'
What?'

Kate watched as Joe pulled out of the drive.
Maisie appeared at her side, face full of disapproval. 'Mom!' she
'hissed. 'Your mouth is hanging open again, like an old person. Get a grip! 
Chelsey will be here soon.'
Kate gazed in the direction Joe had disappeared, head teeming.
Back inside the house, she found Maisie and Kevin sitting at the
kitchen table, laughing. She looked from father to daughter, recognising
similarity in the shape of the mouth, the curve of a brow.

Unsettled, she went to the cafetiere, thoughts drifting back to when
she and Kevin were first married. Both of them busy on weekdays,
their weekends leisurely but focused. On each other. She switched on
the kettle. Things changed. She changed. She got pregnant with
Maisie. And Kevin remained himself. He never quite understood that
Maisie needed her attention as much as he did; more, in the early
months and years. He couldn't share Kate's attention. She stared at
cool cream wall tiles.

'Mom! Listen to this! Daddy's totally mad. He says he's thinking of
staying for a couple of weeks and he'll paint the house pink to give old
Mrs Hetherington apoplexy and--'
Sounds from the direction of the front of the house distracted
Maisie. She leapt from the table. 'Hey, there's my lift! It's early. Quick, 
Mom. Can I have some money?'
Kevin reached for his wallet. 'Here you go, Sweet Pea.'

Wow! Thanks, Daddy! Mom, look what--'
'Yes, I can see.'
Kate followed Maisie to the door, to help her with her book bag
and tennis racquet and see her off. She waved to Chelsey and her
mother, then closed the door and walked back to the kitchen.

'Don't do that, Kevin,' she said quietly.
'What?' he said innocently.
'You know.'
'I gave my daughter a few pounds. What's the big deal now?'
'Our daughter. You know damn well that's not what I'm talking
about, although I would prefer it if you consulted me first on money.
I'm talking about giving Maisie mixed messages. About staying. It's

immature.'
'It was a joke, Kate, for God's sake! She knows it's a joke. She's
smart.'
'She's twelve, Kevin. Don't play with her emotions.'
Kate's thoughts slid away, to the time she'd discovered the first of
Kevin's affairs.
Like you did mine. Bastard.
She took the coffee mug Joe had used from the table and placed it
gently in the sink, tracing a finger around its rim. 'Look, all I'm saying

is, think before you say things. You know she'd probably like to see--'

She stopped.
'What? What would she like to see, Kate?'
'Nothing.' She turned to find him gazing at her, a faint smile on his
face. A face she knew so well. A face she'd thought at times she might

still--

'Did I mention that Stella and I have been considering a reconcili
ation?
It's no-go, though. It's definitely finished.' Kate looked away,
feeling his eyes on her. 'Why do I always attract career women?'
Kate started clearing the table, ignoring his last question, recognising
it as merely rhetorical. She'd suddenly decided she wanted
Maisie at home this weekend. And she didn't have to jump at everything,
or even anything, that Kevin said to her.

Core of steel, yeah!
Leaning now against the granite worktop, arms folded, Kevin gave
her an appraising look. 'I see the boyfriend is still hanging around.
Faithful to the end.'
Joe's a colleague. . . A friend. A good friend. That's all.' Kevin 
straightened, rubbing his hands together. 'Okay, what do
you say to a moratorium? No mention of girlfriends, boyfriends or any
other. .
Kate was no longer listening. She was staring out of the window,
still thinking about what Joe had told her.

Kevin had left, having managed to avoid giving a firm commitment on
his future contact with Maisie. Kate went straight to the house phone
and dialled Rose Road. After a brief wait, Gander came on the line.

'Morning, Kate. Thanks for the talk to the officers. It's given them
something to think about. I'm guessing your call is about developments
with Malins?'
Kate walked with the phone into her study. 'Yes. Lieutenant
Corrigan's just told me.' She hesitated. 'I've got doubts about Malins
having had anything to do with Jody's abduction and murder. I also
doubt his involvement with Molly's abduction. He doesn't fit the type
we're looking for.'

'I already know what you think, Kate. Both your colleagues have
given me a progress report.'
Kate waited.

'You can probably see the difficulty,' Gander went on. 'You more or
less said it yourself in the television interview. We know this man's out
there and we can't afford to take any chances -- good work in that
interview, by the way.'
So. That was it, thought Kate as she ended the call. She went into
the hall, replaced the receiver, then walked slowly to the back of the
house.
She pushed the kitchen doors wide and stepped out into early
morning sunshine. If Malins was arrested for Jody's murder, then it
ould be only a matter of time before he was also arrested for the
earlier abductions. Tunnel vision. What she'd been afraid of from the
beginning.

Carrying an opened tin of cat food in one hand, she walked down
the garden, ears cued for a tiny bell. She reached the back fence,
specting that the investigation was now out of UCU's control, and
turned to look at the old house, mellow in the early sun, the ground
4Ioor of its back elevation covered in wisteria, a second show of violet
d pale-blue flowers almost finished. And now she needed to get to
the university.

She started back towards the house, calling the cat by name. Where
was he? On reaching the patio, she suddenly stopped and looked down
at a small wet patch on one of the slabs. Squatting on her heels, she
examined it, heart constricting. Blood. Fresh blood. Standing, she
quickly scanned the immediate area. Nothing. She put down the tin
and began to search the flower beds and shrubs nearest the blood.
Lifting the limb of an old rose bush, weighed almost to the ground
with scarlet blooms, she peered into its shade.

There's something there. Something. . .
As Kate stretched out a hand and grasped the small item, the heavy
limb slipped from her other hand, its vicious thorns raking the length
of her forearm. She snatched her arm away, unaware of the twin
scratches starting to ooze. She was looking at what she was holding.
Blue velvet. Stained red. She gently shook it. A faint tinkle.

Kate pushed it into a pocket of her jeans and hurried to the water
butt. Grabbing a bucket, she filled it, hurling water over the slabs. She
didn't want Maisie to come home and see any sign of animal violence

involving Mugger.
She chewed her bottom lip, thinking of what she might say to her
daughter.

'So your next task is to check the data you have and do a draft write
-
up. Take, say, ten days, and let me have a look at it,' advised Kate,

identifying the date and making a note in her diary as she drew the

tutorial to an end.
She looked up at Julian as he stood in the middle of her room at the
university, jeans low, another Grateful Dead T-shirt proclaiming his

allegiance to a band formed years before he was born. He lifted his

backpack on to the table and added a couple of Kate's own textbooks.

'Where are you off to now?' asked Kate, watching as he donned his

baseball cap, peak to back.
'Day Three, Cadaver Camp,' he responded briefly, before finishing
the juice Kate had provided.
Kate shuddered, although she'd heard other students use the same
name for the Facility. Access strictly limited to those students judged
to have shown particular skill, aptitude and application in their studies
and who were regarded as emotionally robust. A thought occurred
to her. Might Gander decide that Julian could no longer have that
access, given that he suspected him of involvement with drugs? She watched as 
Julian hefted the backpack on to one shoulder. No cycling
helmet today. He must be on foot.
Kate's thoughts went briefly to her own postgraduate days. When
Winterton was laboratories, lecture rooms and a library. All changed
now, its warren of high-ceilinged rooms given over to forensic
laboratories, its wide swathe of grounds to post-mortem studies. The
same grounds where she and other students had sunbathed a lifetime
ago. She and Kevin . . .
'Hang on five minutes and I'll give you a lift.'
Without looking at Kate directly, Julian shook his head. 'No need.
It only takes me a few minutes to walk.'
'Don't argue with your senior supervisor,' Kate replied, smiling but
firm.
Maybe if she had a chance to talk to him without the pressures of
Rose Road or the frenetic atmosphere around tutorials at the university,
he might tell her what was bothering him. And about the
drugs. He might know something about the general availability in
the area of little blue tablets, although she was confident now that the
ones she'd found in Maisie's drawer weren't hers. Still. The worry
remained that someone in Maisie's social milieu appeared to have access to them.

As they walked to Kate's car, she thought of the most recent
development in UCU's cases.
'Have you heard? About Alan Malins being brought in for interview
about Jody Westbrooke?'
Julian's footsteps faltered then picked up again. 'No. I didn't know
that,' he said after some seconds. Kate looked at him closely. She'd
just caught surprise on his face. And something else beneath it. It
looked to her like relief.

They walked on in silence, Kate puzzled, the theoretical argument
she'd anticipated from him not materialising.
Ten minutes later, in Kate's car, she'd become aware of the shortess
of the journey to Winterton. Her efforts to draw Julian out by
talking about his work with the forensic scenes team had failed to
produce any information. They'd almost reached the far side of the
tampus. She had another try.
'So, you're still enjoying your attachment to the team?'
Silence, then: 'Yeah.'

Raise it, thought Kate. It's been on your mind long enough. Julian
clearly wasn't going to volunteer anything.
'Is Matt treating you okay?'
'Fine! He's. . . fine.'
More silence. Kate doubted that she would get anything out of
Julian in his current mood. She could now see VVinterton's bulk on
the left-hand side of the road they were following. A small, silent wait
for some traffic navigating the tiny bridge just ahead, then Kate drove
on, slowing as she approached the wide entrance. She turned between
the ornate brick pillars and drove steadily towards the house.
Even in bright sunlight, Winterton was indisputably gothic in the
Victorian style, with its arched front door, massive mullioned windows
and multi-pointed roof. The only features not included, as far as
Kate could see, were gargoyle waterspouts. As they drew near to the
building, she admired, as she had many times in the past, the handsome
stone carving around the front door - a wolf-like animal perched
on the keystone at the top of the arch, and on either side a line of
small mice climbing inexorably upwards towards him.
What happens when the mice and the wolf meet?
She stopped the car in the shadow of the sombre building, glancing
at her young passenger. Julian remained where he was, looking towards
Winterton, not moving. Wherever he was right now, he wasn't

with her.
'Okay?' Kate's voice sounded unexpectedly loud, given their close
proximity in the small car.
It broke his reverie. He gave her a quick glance and reached for the
door handle. Kate spoke quickly.
'Julian? If anyone is upsetting you or behaving in a way you don't
like, or trying to involve you in. . . anything, just tell me and I can--'
'Bye, Kate.'
He was gone.
Kate watched him disappear, then drove slowly past the front of
the house and back along the drive. She'd now got another pressing
problem to deal with. What to say to Maisie when Mugger didn't
return.
Well, she is twelve.
We've always had animals.
Maisie knows that there's a time to be born, to live and to. . . 



Poor little Mugsy. Kate bit her lip as a childhood game slipped
unbidden into her mind.
What's the time, Mr Wolf?
Time late you.


CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

K

ate arrived at Rose Road that Friday afternoon to find a note and
a long list from Joe. There had been eighteen callers so far in
response to the televised appeal, discounting incomplete or incompre

hensible
messages, plus numerous hang-ups.
She studied the information relating to the list of named callers.
A number of them from females suggesting that their partners might
be involved in UCU's cases. Joe and Bernie had checked each and
dismissed them as likely candidates. Two calls from elderly women,
each claiming to be the subject of male interest. One male was identified
as the woman's postman, the other as a known conman whose way
of gaining access to his victims' homes was to make unsolicited calls
on the elderly, offering to do gardening. He'd been arrested. The
other calls had been vetted. None fitted the criteria of a stranger
making subtle contact with a female whose physical characteristics
and appearance were similar to those of their victims.

Kate felt dispirited. Maybe they needed to give it more time. She
thought again of the idea she'd arrived with.
Malins was still in custody in the basement of Rose Road. She knew
that Furman had arranged for Joe to be part of an interview panel
for five would-be armed-response officers this afternoon. She'd
learned from Joe that Furman had sent Bernie to Solihull to make
some neighbourhood enquiries about MalMs.

Kate was glad of the emptiness and silence in UCU as she took her
ard. She lifted the phone and dialled an internal number,
hoping that the Kilt was there. He was.
'Hi! Gus.' Kate got straight to the point. 'Listen, how do you feel
about me going down to speak to your guest, if there's still time?'
She waited as Gus turned the idea over. 'Okay by me, Kate, but it's
up to Matins himself to say yea or nay, as he hasn't taken up our offer of a 
legal adviser. Given the seriousness of what we think he's involved
in, we've applied for an extension, so we've got him for a bit longer.
Leave it with me. I'll get back to you.'
He rang back almost immediately, to confirm that Malins was
willing to meet with her.
Within five minutes Kate was inside the custody suite in the basement.
She stood at the desk, waiting for the officer on duty to make
arrangements and then come back for her. She'd never been down
here. With previous UCU cases, the suspect had been brought to
them in a formal interview room. She looked around. Featureless
walls, and a large metal duty desk blocking the way to the cells and
interview rooms beyond.

'Okay, Dr Hanson. Got him ready and waiting for you.'
She followed the custody sergeant's broad back to a small holding
room. He opened the door and stood aside to allow her in. Another
officer was already inside, standing to one side of the door. She knew
both would remain throughout. Sitting at the interview table, PACE
recording machine dormant, was Malins

As Kate sat on one of the heavy chairs opposite him, Mains gave
her rapid peripheral glances. He was clearly resentful, and also restless,
boredom possibly at the root of his agreement to meet with her.
'Good afternoon, Mr Mains' He transferred his gaze from the
officers standing by the door, then flicked his eyes away, arms firmly
folded across his barrel chest. Kate decided on the direct approach.
'You're being held as a possible suspect in Jody Westbrooke's
murder--'
'Your handiwork!'

Kate shook her head. 'I doubt you had any involvement in it.'
He looked suspiciously at her for a few seconds. 'That's very
Interesting, love, but ohh, look! I'm still in here!' He glared at the
officers either side of the door.

'Why haven't you accepted legal representation, Mr Matins?'
He looked at Kate again, clearly irate but holding on to it. 'I
ought I'd only be here for an hour or so. I haven't done anything
d my usual brief's away. But I'm starting to reconsider.' He sub'cled
into silence, turning from her, but Kate had already detected

rvasiveness in his face.
She fixed him with a look. 'Mr Mains, I need you to talk to me.' 
'Yeah, right.' His eyes slid to the PACE machine at the end of the
table, then to Kate.
She shook her head. 'No. No notes either. I ask you a few questions.
You give me whatever answers you can.'
He looked sceptical. 'And I have to trust you're on the level? Will it
get me out of here?'
'I am, and it might. No guarantee.'
Malins's mouth curled downwards. 'That the best you can . . . ?'
He gave her a direct look, rotating his heavy shoulders, then sighed.
'Go on then. Fire away. I've got nothing better to do.'
Kate was direct. 'Your record shows that you hurt women, Mr
Matins' He compressed his lips as she continued. 'I need you to tell
me about the women you've hurt.'
He looked from Kate to the officers and back. 'I've got no hang-ups
about women, if that's what you're getting at. It was just my ex
wife. .' He shook his head, as colour washed over his face. 'She was
having it off with a mate of mine. She only done it because she found
out I was . . . Anyway, I don't take that off any woman. So I just
bopped her one.'
Kate nodded, keeping a neutral face. 'What about the young
woman you raped?'
Malins unfolded his arms and leaned towards her, hands on his
thighs. Kate heard restlessness from the area of the door as he
answered her question in a hoarse whisper.
'I already told you. We were in the same group at the bar. She was
cosying up to me. What'm I supposed to do? I . . . done the business.
There wasn't any violence. Why would there be? She hadn't done
anything to get me mad at her.' He gave Kate a keen look. 'From what
I've read, that geezer you're looking for's a right nutter. It was in the Sun. 
A sicko! I'm not into that stuff. I'm just your normal bloke.'

Kate decided to go for broke. 'If I asked you whether you're
attracted to women who dress in a certain style -- tasteful, neat -- what

would you say?'
He looked at her, hands still on thighs, gingery eyebrows merged.
'What's with you and clothes? Looks to me like you haven't got
enough to do.'
He stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing at Kate. 'Hang about. I've
heard this lot talking about a shrink being on the telly. Was that you?'
Kate merely gazed at him.
'They said you were on about clothes then. Look . . .' He raised
both hands, then, at more restlessness from the direction of the door,
replaced them on his thighs. 'Should I know what you're on about?
Because I'm telling you, I don't have a bloody clue.'
He was clearly irritated, but a glance at Kate told him that she was
still waiting for a reply. He shrugged, expelling air from his mouth.
'I'm just your average bloke, yeah? A bit of leg, a bit of tit, and I'm
happy.' He paused. 'Ask any bloke what he likes. Blokes like to see a
woman who looks like a woman, know what I mean? But nothing too
tarty, you get me?'

Kate thought she did.
Malins continued. 'The one at the club, like I told you, low-cut top,
tight black jeans. Very nice.'
'Where were you at around midnight the Thursday before last?'
'They've already asked me that! About five bloody times. I told them the same 
thing each time. I was at A and E, Selly Oak Hospital.
With this. They're checking it out.'
He waved his left hand and Kate noticed for the first time a flesh
coloured dressing on the palm. She looked at him, waiting.
The pale blue eyes fringed with ginger flicked away from her. 'I was
doing some work at my old lady's house. The screwdriver slipped. I had to have 
stitches. Satisfied?' He folded his arms, gazing at the wall
ahead.

'One last thing, Mr Malins. Where did you get your car?'
He stared at her for a few seconds, then shook his head.
'You ask me, I think you're all mad in here.' He sighed heavily. 'I bought it 
off a mate of mine. He's. . . living somewhere else right
now and he doesn't need it.'
'What's your friend's name?'
Malins rolled his eyes. 'As if it matters, Gary Bennett.'
'And he has a middle name) Beginning with H?'
Malins stared at Kate. 'Yeah. Harvey. How'd you know that?'

Kate was back in UCU. Given the antisocial criteria by which Malins
lived his life, he was probably telling the truth. Mostly. She recognised In 
him the capacity for over-assertiveness common to many sexual
offenders. The violence against his ex-wife appeared to have been
triggered by jealousy. It had an emotional meaning. Perched on the
'table, she gazed at the glass screen.


He did rape a very young woman. Which in itself is violent. But not
sadistic.
Shaking her head, she transferred her attention to the phone, lifted
it and pushed buttons. Gus answered immediately.
'How'd it go?' he asked.
Kate told him what Malins had said to her and her doubts about
him as Jody's murderer. 'I know he has the capacity for violence, but
not in the way we've seen in our investigation. By the way, how's his
alibi holding up?'
A short silence, then Gus spoke.
'We're still waiting on that. We can keep him for a few more hours.
Better to be safe than sorry.'
Finishing the call, Kate got down from the table and walked to the
glass screen to draw a neat line through Malins's name.
The next time everyone was in UCU, she hoped to be ready to put
forward her thoughts about the man for whom they were searching,
and her theory of his possible proximity. And wait for their reactions.



CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
I n matching pink tennis skirts, white T-shirts and ankle-high white
Converse trainers, Maisie and Chelsey walked side by side along the
High Street.
'So, swear it wasn't you that left them,' demanded Maisie.
'No way, I swear! I don't mess with things like that and I don't
know anybody else who does.'
Maisie sighed. 'Yeah, well, my mom is still on my case. She's a bit
busy so she's not actually said anything else, but she will. You can count
, on it. If she asks you about some little blue tablets, just tell her--'
Chelsey grabbed her arm. 'Come on, Maisie. Let's cross here!'
' Maisie looked up to see a break in the heavy Friday-afternoon
' traffic. One driver had stopped his large silver car for them and was
, waving them across.
As they raced to the other side of the road, Maisie was acutely
Aware, as always, of Chelsey's long legs and the capacity of her chest
for bounce. She dwelled briefly on inheritance. No doubt she her4elf
had short genes. And she was still in the trainer bra she'd been tallowed six 
months before. Nothing much was happening in that "department. Mom couldn't 
even get that right, she thought bitterly,
reflecting on her mother's slim build.
As they reached their destination, Maisie's mood recovered. She
loved the Fallen Angel, with its pretty pale-blue cupboards, the little
cakes in their holders in the window. She was a favourite of the tall
sophisticated twin sisters behind the counter. Now one of them came
t
, rward and smiled down into the heart-shaped face vibrant beneath e luxuriant 
curls.
'What's it going to be today, ladies?' she asked, including Chelsey.
' The two friends pondered, pitting the Vanilla-Oreo against the ink Dream. 
They selected one of each, and a juice.



For Maisie, the appeal of the cupcake shop lay in its having one foot
in childhood its sweet treats and baby-blue decor and the other in
the grown-up world, signified by the two stylish young women who
ran it. It reflected Maisie's own situation. A foot in each world. All she
knew was that she loved being inside the Fallen Angel, eating little
cupcakes and laughing with her friends.
After a few minutes, Maisie put a hand to her flat stomach.
`Mmmm . . . that was de- licious!'
She glanced at Chelsey, who was gazing intently out of the window
towards the nearby side street. Maisie's eyes followed her friend's.
'Who's that?' she asked, studying the car that had just parked there.
'Hey, wasn't that the car that stopped for us?'
'That's him! The one I told you about. The one who came into
school,' whispered Chelsey. She turned back to Maisie, face animated.
Maisie looked from the car to Chelsey. 'The one who owns the
acting school?'
`Mmm. He said he might be around here this Friday. You need to
keep this quiet, Maisie, but he's considering giving me an audition
for this play he's planning to stage at the Rep!' Chelsey took a last
mouthful of Oreo cupcake.
Maisie frowned and drank juice, reviewing what she knew of
Chelsey's keenness to go to acting school.
'If he was talent-spotting, how come he didn't ask anybody else at
school if they wanted an audition? Dodders hasn't mentioned him,
nor any of the other teachers.' She had a thought. 'Why don't you just
stick with your dance and voice lessons for now, and--'
'I told you all I know. Dodders sent him to meet me in the entrance
hall.'
Maisie gazed at her friend. 'If he's such a big talent scout, agent,
whatever, how come--'
Chelsey suddenly got to her feet. 'You sound like your mom, Maisie. I'm going.'
'Where?' asked Maisie, looking up at her friend.
Face flushed, Chelsey gazed out of the door of the cafe, then back
at Maisie. 'He's seen us.' She glanced at the car again. 'Come with
me, Maisie,' she said suddenly. 'I know you're not interested in being
part of it, but you could just. . . be there, yeah?'
Maisie glanced through the window of the little shop. 'I don't
know. . . My mom. .
' Chelsey picked up her backpack and moved towards the door.
Turning in the doorway, she looked back at Maisie, who was still
sitting at the table.
'Come on, Maisie. Please!'
Chelsey glanced out of the door towards the waiting car, its engine
humming quietly, then back to Maisie, her long blonde-brown hair
whirling. 'Are you coming or not? Please, Maisie.'
Tracking Chelsey as she headed out of the door, Maisie was torn.
After a few seconds, loyalty won out. She grabbed her pink backpack
and raced out of the cafe. Once outside on the pavement, however,
she slowed, lowering the backpack to her feet. Chelsey was now at the car 
window, talking animatedly to the man and pointing back at
Maisie, still lingering some distance away.

Chelsey turned to her. 'Come on, Maisie! It's okay!'
Maisie took a step forward, frowning at the driver. Eyes dazzled by ,the bright 
afternoon glare, she put up a hand to shield them, staring at the car. The 
talent scout, or whatever he was, was inside in shadow,
ing well back. With the harsh sunlight on her face, Maisie couldn't
' ake out any details, yet there was something about him. Something

iliar. .
As she watched, her indecisiveness melted away. She'd decided that
wasn't interested in theatrical activities. Not if it meant going with
s man. The car, now with Chelsey inside it, stayed where it was for

e seconds, then slowly pulled out of the side road, slipped into a
ce amid the heavy High Street traffic and was gone.
Alone on the pavement, Maisie watched it disappear, confused, her
alty to Chelsey and her mother's repeated cautions causing a
onant clamour in her head. Mother had won out She stared in

' direction the car had gone, then back to the interior of the
cake shop. She could see the two young women inside, serving
tomers. What if she went in and said -- what? My friend just got
e the car of someone she knows and it feels . . . weird.
'Yeah, right.
; Feeling slightly nauseous, Maisie put on her backpack and started
ng. She hadn't got a good look at him. She didn't think she'd
him at school. But she'd seen him somewhere.


CHAPTER SIXTY--FIVE
As he arrived back in UCU late on Friday afternoon, Bernie eyed Kate,
ti sitting in companiable silence with Julian, frowning at her notes.
'Got some news for you, Doc. Upstairs are charging Malins with
Jody's murder.'
Even though Kate had anticipated it might happen, it was still a
shock. She sat up, knocking over her tea. 'No! On what grounds?
What evidence?'
Bernie itemised on his fingers: 'His past form, his connection to the
James girl--'
'But that's not enough, surely!' she snapped, blotting the tabletop
with tissues.
'Loosen your suspenders, Doc. His alibi fell to pieces. His mother
said she never seen him. So wherever he was using his "screwdriver",
it weren't at her place. I gotta say this. If it's walkin' and talkin' like a
duck--'
As Julian watched, eyes wide, Kate slapped both palms on the table.
'We've been through this! Okay, yes, he's shown violence in the past.
But he isn't angry towards women per se.'
'No, listen to this, Doc. There's something else you don't know.
Upstairs spoke to his rape victim. Older now, of course. She told them
how he was "really nice" to her, that she trusted him when he offered
her a lift in his car. She says she never thought for a minute he was
lying or that he would do what he done. That's obvious, else she
wouldn't have gone with him, yeah?'
Silence.
He continued. 'So. There's the ability to charm that you're always
on about. He put himself across to her in such a way that she felt safe.'
He looked at Kate, tapping the table with a thick finger. 'Conned,
Doc!'


'That's not charm,' she said, scornful. 'Not in the sense I mean. She
was only sixteen at the time. She didn't have enough experience of
males to make any judgement about him.'
'The James girl was older. Maybe he managed to come across to
her as Prince Charming while he was working at the house. The boss!
Kudos, see? If we'd moved earlier to raise him to suspect, like I
wanted, we could have worked up to an arrest and UCU would've
got the credit for the collar.'

'It isn't him!'

'You don't know that.'

Kate stared at Bernie, hot-faced, as she got to her feet. 'This is all wrong. 
It's a mistake. Everyone knows of cases where the police get so
keen on a suspect that they ignore disconfirming evidence and end up
with the wrong person in prison.'
Bernie's eyebrows rammed together. 'Oh yeah? And the prisons
are full of innocent people, if you believe 'em! Look at what we've
got. One, he was at her mother's place when Molly went missing.
Two, he's a convicted rapist. Three, he's got a conviction for violence to 
another woman, his own wife. Four, he's got a short string,
temperwise. Five, he's not accounting for his whereabouts when Jody
Westbrooke went missing. Them's facts!'

'They're surely not sufficient to link him to the murders of Molly,
anine or Suzie. If he wasn't at his mother's house, where was he?'
emanded Kate.

. 'Like I said, he's not saying, and that in itself makes him look
odgy. Look, Doc, I don't tell you psychological stuff. That's your
Mine's police procedure, right? And--'

'Where's the link to our four victims? I told you, Matins isn't angry all 
women. Look at the duct-taping and other behaviours. There's o evidence Malins 
has sadistic inclinations.'
'He raped a sixteen-year-old girl!'

'Bernie, you know that isn't sadistic behaviour as defined by--'
Bernie snorted angrily, face suffused. 'Here we go! Up Theory Alley
'n. Definitions and airy-fairy experiments in ivory bleeding towers d stuff 
wrote up in journals by Dr Know-it-All, with pages of
ferences and tables Fig. one, fig. two yeah? I've seen 'em. The
if you got over there and what he ' Bernie jabbed a blunt finger at an, who was 
staring from one to the other 'drags in here and has 
his nose in for hours. Don't get the idea that because of the way we
talk round here we know nothing--'
'What?' frowned Kate. 'Don't be so idiotic.' She glared at him and
slowly shook her head. 'Bernie, you are the most incredible social and
intellectual snob.'
He became still. 'You what? Listen, I'm Brum born and bred, me. I
ain't ashamed of my roots. And I've been in the Force for--'
Julian watched anxiously as Kate threw down her pen.
'I didn't say anything about your background! I don't doubt your
professional abilities, Bernie, but on this, you and Upstairs are so wrong. 
Trust me.'
'Bloody southerners!'
At that moment Joe came through the door, carrying a tray of
machine coffees, UCU having run out of supplies.
'Okay, kids, gather round. I've just heard something of interest.'
They turned to look at him.
`MalMs is no longer charged with murder. Solid alibi, plus consideration
of Dr Hanson's views.'
'What?' seethed Bernie with the look of a bulldog watching a
particularly meaty bone disappear out of reach. 'So where was he
when Jody was abducted?'
'With two other guys, trying to break into a builders' merchants in
Weoley Castle. Signs of tampering with the lock at the firm's storage facility 
and DNA that's his. He's been rearrested for that.'
In the ensuing silence, Kate and Bernie eyed each other. He took
one of the cups.
'Okay. Maybe he never killed Jody--'
Kate stared at him. 'What do you mean, maybe?'
'He could still have killed the James girl. All I'll say, Doc, is I hope
he's not let off for Jody and another woman goes missing then turns
up dead.'
'If that does happen, it won't be because of Malins being released,'
she snapped.
Joe looked at Kate. 'What happened to your arm? You been fighting
again?'
Kate frowned. 'Rose bush. I was looking for Mugger. He's disappeared.'
Joe
studied her for a couple of seconds, then with a nod he walked
to the door. More armed-response interviews. Kate watched him 

leave. She hadn't told him she was staying home with Maisie tonight.
She needed to work on her notes. And if her theory panned out, she
would sell it to them.
She 'glanced at Bernie's face. Fat chance.
The phone shrilled. He lifted the receiver and barked into it.
'Watts! . . . Yep.' He looked across at Kate, brows climbing. 'Well,
well. You don't say. We will.' He replaced the phone. 'We got ourselves a 
visitor.'
Kate quickly rang Phyllis to let her know she might be a little later
than usual, then followed Bernie to the door.


CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Kate and Bernie walked to reception together. At the end of the
short corridor, they found five people sitting waiting. Three men
and two women. One of the women looked to be in her mid-thirties
and had a magazine open on her lap; the other was a few years older,
wearing a drab jacket, a bag of shopping near her feet.

'That must be her. The one reading,' Kate said quietly as they
reached the desk.

Bernie looked with raised brows to Whittaker. Receiving a confirming
nod, he walked to where the woman was sitting. Kate hung
back slightly, aware of the uneasy truce between herself and Bernie.
She listened as Bernie introduced himself to the woman, who put
down her magazine and smiled up at him.

'Yes. I received a phone message from the Unsolved Crime Unit via
the university a few days ago. My name now, it is Amelie DijonMasterson.
Please call me Arnelie. I was coming to Birmingham for a
few days. I thought I would call in here, for someone to ask the
questions.'


She agreed to talk with them in the nearby small interview room and
stood to follow them. Tall, noted Kate. Once they'd settled inside,
Kate continued to study the woman as she spoke.

Amelie Dijon-Masterson was slim and blonde, wearing narrow
black trousers, flat black shoes and a cream-coloured top. Attractive.

Not in-your-face sexy. No high fashion. But not necessarily her style
in the nineties?

Within ten minutes, Mrs Dijon-Masterson, who now lived in
Oxford, had confirmed in an easy manner and near-perfect English
that she was attacked in June 1996. At the time, she was a student at
Birmingham University. Bernie asked her for any impressions she had
of her attacker. She responded with an eloquent shrug. 


'Well, this is so many years ago. I do not think of it so much, you
,
kriow? What can I say -- I cannot describe him to you in any details.
It was dark and it happened so quickly. He suddenly appeared as I Walked and 
requested a light for his cigarette. He was not an older
man. He was young. I say I did not see him well, but I think his hair 1. was 
light in colour.'
`VVhat makes you say that he was young, Arnelie?' Kate asked.
The stylish woman raised her shoulders again. 'Well, he was slim
it was the hair. Long, you know? It was back here, like this.' She
gestured with both hands to the back of her own head. 'Like, the tail.
I felt it, yes? But I already told this. To the policeman.'
'Which policeman?' asked Kate quickly. 'As far as we're aware, you
never made a statement.'
Amelie's eyes flashed. 'Oh, but yes! I did! You think I endure such
Outrage and go quietly away? No! I came here, to this place, to make 4 e 
statement.'
4
As Kate and Bernie exchanged glances, Amelie lifted the black
eather bag from the floor near her feet, placed it on her lap, searched
Its contents and produced a folded sheet of paper. 'I have brought it
'th me, the copy.'
4+, She handed it to Kate, who stared down at the witness statement,
stomplete with time and date -- within days of Amelie's ordeal. It also
eluded the name of the officer to whom she'd spoken.
Kate felt as if all her senses were on standby. Bernie rubbed his
jowls, giving Kate a sideways looks. Amelie was obviously aware of their 
disconcertion.
'There is some problem?'
pointing to the name.
,
; 'You came into this building? Spoke to this officer?' Kate managed,
i
1,'Yes.'

'Can you tell us what you remember of the interview, Amelie?'

i'4!' 'Of the interview?' The attractive woman opposite them looked

Vrom one to the other, confusion evident on her face. 'Let me think. It

was in the early evening -- see? The time is there, I think, yes? It was

very quiet here, and I remember that I was glad it was so, because I

did not think I would be able to do the statement if it was noisy and
busy. You understand?'
They nodded.
ytheor
her 'Looks like he's back from London. And going again.' Kate looked
down at the name on Amelie's witness statement.
Sergeant Roger Furman. Yet another item of information to add to
'You didn't object to being interviewed by a male officer?' Kate'Looks like 
he's back from Londot
asked.down at the name on Amelieitne
Amelie gave another eloquent shrug. 'He told me that a female wasSergeant Roger 
Furman. Yet anotl
her theory.

not available because of the late hour . . . I didn't want to go away andh
return, so I agreed.'
'Tell us about him, the officer you spoke to. Whatever you can
remember.'
Amelie looked from one to the other. 'Well, he was a young officer,
about in the middle twenties. But I am guessing, because I did not
4

look too closely at him, you know, because of how I was feeling? But
he was tall, about -- stand, please?' Bernie did as he was bid. Amelie
stood too, almost as tall as Bernie, and nodded. 'Yes. About the same.
But slim. And he had short hair, which was light- or mid-brown.' She
frowned, looking down at her statement from years before. 'No. I
.
cannot think of another thing to say about him. He was kind as far as I
can remember -- oh, he had not got the uniform, you know? Like
you.'
They thanked Amelie for coming in to see them As Bernie showed
her out, she agreed that they could keep her copy of the statement.
Back in UCU, Kate scanned the single sheet carefully. What Amelie
appeared not to have noticed was that there was no mention of her
rapist wearing his hair in a ponytail. Kate glanced again at the top
of the document, to the name of the officer who'd taken Amelie's
statement. Bernie appeared and they both looked at the statement,
then at each other.
'He told us the other day that none of the four rape victims
bothered to make a statement,' said Bernie.
'Where is he?'

'Due back from London sometime today.'
Statement in hand, Kate walked slowly to the window and sat in the
shadow of the half open blinds, in time to see a car nosing its way
out through the main gate, causing a commotion among the media
representatives.
'Furman drives a Mercedes, doesn't he?'
Bernie confirmed it.

'What colour?'
'Like a pale gold. He was bragging about it a while back. Said it was
"champagne", or some other poncey name.'
342343

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

N

either Kate nor Bernie had spoken for the last five minutes. Kate
got up from the table and went to the Refreshment Lounge, where
he was boiling water for tea. She leaned against the tall cupboard,
arms folded across her waist, one hand clutching the A4 sheet, watching
him move to and fro.
'I need to talk to you, Bernie. I need you to listen to me -- hear me
out, yes?' He stopped momentarily and nodded. Kate took a deep
breath. 'It's obvious that the rapes and the abduction-murders of
Molly and Janine are linked. We've got a crossover victim, too -- Suzie
Luckman.' She looked down at her feet, then up at Bernie. 'Jody
Westbrooke is a victim of the same doer, even though she was short
and didn't fit his requirements.'
Kate paced a few feet from Bernie as he watched her, then turned.
'Bernie, I'm anticipating that you're going to call me either mad or
paranoid -- or possibly both -- when I tell you what's on my mind. But
because of this --' she waved the copy of Amelie's statement -- 'it's time
to say what I think.'
She paused. Bernie was listening, face receptive. Kate proceeded,
careful not to overstate. 'I think somebody in this building is either
directly involved in what happened to these young women, or at the
very least has a personal interest in hampering our investigation.
Whenever we've tried to follow up a lead, we've come up against
chaotic or missing records. We're told that Suzie Luckman came
to Rose Road to make a statement but we can't find it. We have no
reason to believe that Tracey Thomas didn't make a statement, but
can we find one? No. And Janine's diary. Put in the wrong place -- but
what a wrong place. In Josie Kenton-Smith's rape evidence box.
Whoever did that probably didn't anticipate anyone making a connection between 
the abductions and the earlier rapes. It's like
someone is deliberately working against our investigation.'
Bernie rasped a hand over his jowls. 'If you're right, why didn't
whoever it was just . . . get rid of the diary?'
Kate gazed at him. 'Because he thinks like a policeman, Bernie. The
diary was evidence, and if it was totally gone it would look very
suspicious, draw attention too close to home. It had to remain available,
so that it could be "found" if that ever became necessary.'
She glanced at the statement in her hand and slowly shook her
head.

'When I asked Al and the Kilt to find statements from their old
cases, they went straight to what they wanted. It's only these cases, our 
cases, that have such chaotic records. To me, that's too much coincidence.'
Kate's
eyes drifted over specific words in the statement, aware of
those that weren't there.
'And now look who we have taking Amelie's statement. When you
wrote a progress report for Furman, did you include the rape cases?'
Bernie nodded.
'So Furman knew we were looking at them. Now I think about it,
he even told us to ignore them. But he never mentioned that he was
actually involved.' Kate held up Amelie's statement. 'Involved like
this.'

'Perhaps he forgot? It's years ago.'
Kate tapped the statement in her hand. 'That's not all. I believe
Amelie when she says that she told the officer who took her statement
that her attacker had his hair in a ponytail. I do believe her. So why
didn't Furman include it?'
Bernie's hand rasped stubble again, as he frowned at the statement.
'So what're you saying is that it's Furman who's covering up?'
'That's one possibility. All we can legitimately say right now is that
Furman led both abduction-murder investigations and was involved
in at least one rape investigation, but he sure as hell hasn't benefited
us with information from his involvement. Plus, the statement he took from one 
rape victim didn't include key descriptive information.' Kate
stared into the middle distance. 'Why not?- What if . . . what if he
knew the doer back then and was protecting him? You said it, Bernie. A twosome. 
The only way to sort this is to confront Furman when he comes back.' 
She walked back to the table, Bernie following. Sitting down, she
added a few words to her notebook, then looked at Bernie, who was
sitting silently nearby. She knew he was thinking about what she'd
said.
'Where's Joe? I thought the firearms interviews finished this after

noon?'
'Gone over to the Walkers' again, to tell 'em we'll release Janine's
diary to them soon.'
Kate frowned. 'He could have phoned to tell them that.' She
nodded at the table, to an additional photograph of Jody just received
from her family. 'Could you put that up on the glass screen, please?' Bernie 
walked to the screen and pressed the photo to the smooth
display surface. In it, Jody's sleek pale hair was tied at the back of her
head with a just-visible narrow pink ribbon.
Kate gazed at Bernie, conscious of her reliance on him or Joe to
explain police procedure.
'All the rapes were investigated by Rose Road, weren't they?'
'This is Regional Headquarters,' he said with a brief nod.
'Before Suzie Luckman moved to London, I would have expected
her to come in here and make a statement about her rape, wouldn't

you?'
Bernie shrugged. 'It varies, Doc. If she was a cooperative witness
and wanted to support the Force in getting him arrested and prosecuted,
then yes. But she didn't report it straight away. Then she went
off to live in London. Don't sound to me like she was committed to
following through with it at the time. We can only do so much. Then
it's up to victims to press their complaint.'
Kate wrote in her notebook and Bernie watched her.
Suzie came to Rose Road at least once. Her mother confirmed it. For
information on a job.
Public-spirited young woman. Cooperative.
Makes no sense that she didn't come in for interview.
'Why d'you do that?' Bernie asked quietly.
'Every time I don't understand something or something doesn't fit,
I write it as a question or a comment in this book.'
'Each to their own,' muttered Bernie, elbows on the table. 'I'll done
that, I'd be dragging it behind me on wheels. That's the difference
between you and me, Doc. You sort and analyse. I'm more your intuitive type. 
Which is why I'm saying Cranham or Fairley. Or Ma--
Yeah, all right. Not Malins.'
More silence, then: 'You do know what I'm really thinking about
Furman, don't you, Bernie?'
'Doc, there could be all kinds of reasons why he never mentioned
taking the statement and not putting in the ponytail bit.'
'A pretty dire omission for an officer.'
'Maybe Atnelie got it wrong. Maybe she thought she said it. It's a long time 
ago, Doc. Memory can play tricks.' He shook his large
head. 'It's crazy, what you're saying.'
Kate looked up at him. 'Why are you suddenly supporting him?'
Days ago, she would have anticipated a stinging response. Now
Bernie merely looked at her, eyebrows high. 'I ain't supporting the
moron. It's just. . . what you're saying is. .
He eyed Kate as she leaned on her forearms, her hands clasped
tightly together at her mouth, face set.
'Come on, Doc. We got enough problems without you losing it.'

When Joe returned, he found them sifting through the four rape
evidence boxes. He came to stand by the table, hands in pockets.
'When I was at the Walkers', I remembered something we hadn't
checked out.'

Kate looked up at him. 'What's that?'
`Malins's employees. So I went to see Molly's mom to get names.'
'How is she?' asked Kate.

Joe raised his shoulders. 'Like you said. She told me that Malins's
employees were young local guys. She knows two of them. Happy
family men now. No offending as far as she knows. They still live close
by. The third one died in 2003. Auto accident.'
He continued, looking from one to the other: 'Well, it's nice to
come back and find you two playing nicely together. Want some
coffee?' he asked.
Kate nodded absently. She had spread all the documents from the
Luckman box on the table in front of her and had gone through most
of them already, finding no indication that Suzie was ever interviewed.
`Suzie would have wanted to talk to the police. She was thinking of
joining the Force herself. Her mother said she came here to get details
about career opportunities.'
'No disrespect to Mrs Luckman, Doc, but she's not the full ticket.' 
'It just doesn't make sense that she didn't make a statement.' Kate
turned to Bernie. 'The police do actively encourage women to report
crimes against them, don't they?' she demanded.
Bernie gave her a sideways glance. 'You can't leave nothing alone,
can you?'
He sighed, rubbing his large hands over his face, mustering what
patience he had left on a Friday afternoon. 'Look. Try seeing it from a
police viewpoint, Doc. What can we do if a woman don't want to talk
to us? Insist she comes in? Try and force her to make a statement?
After what she says she's been through? That'd go down well with the
Women's Libbers.'
Kate frowned. 'It just seems--' She stopped dropping items into
the evidence box and held up an almost blank A4 sheet with a printed
heading: 'Witness Statement'. At the top of it was Suzie Luckman's
name, address, a date and a reference number.
Her heart picked up rhythm. 'Look at this,' she said softly, waving
the single sheet at her two colleagues. `Suzie did come in. On Sunday,
the twenty-fifth of May 1997. See?'
Joe and Bernie studied it.
`Why is there nothing written on it except for her details and the
date?' asked Kate.
Bernie answered: `She could've got cold feet. It happens. Women in
sex cases come in saying they're up for making a statement, then after
a few minutes they change their minds. They find they can't do it.
They leave.'
Joe nodded his agreement. `It's a big ask of any female victim of
violence, sexual or otherwise.'
'You two have always got an answer for anything,' responded Kate,
seeing the sense in what she'd just heard.
Bernie gave her a look. 'Now you know how it feels from this side.'
Still vexed, Kate thought of Suzie Luckman walking into the building,
meeting with. . . She looked at the incomplete witness statement
sheet no officer name. She sipped coffee as Bernie hauled himself
from his chair.
'It's time we wasn't here, Corrigan.'
Kate looked up as Joe stood and patted pockets for his keys and
phone.
'Where?' Then she remembered. Earlier, Furman had asked both
Joe and Bernie to assist at a police recruitment open day at West 


Mercia Constabulary Headquarters in Worcester the following day.
They were driving there this evening and staying overnight.
Joe smiled down at her. 'Listen up, Red. Keep your nose clean
while we're away. Rest. Make notes, if you must. Do colouring. Stay
' inside the lines. Don't pass "Go". In short, behave yourself.'
She looked up at him. 'In other words, just look after the old
homestead? Okay. Until I get a better idea.'
He shook a finger. `No. No. No ideas.'
After they'd gone, Kate realised that she hadn't yet told Joe about
her latest theory. About Rose Road. About Furman. Bernie would let
him know.

She began replacing items one at a time into the Luckman box,
preoccupied with thoughts about the cases. She now knew something
was very wrong here. She lifted the phone. When she got a response
she recognised the voice. Whittaker.
'Hello. What can I do for UCU, Dr Hanson?'
'Has Chief Inspector Furman returned yet?'
'Sorry, Doctor, but when he left, he told me he wouldn't be
returning today.'
Kate put down the phone and decided to go home. She couldn't
challenge Furman alone anyway. And if she was wrong, it would be all
the ammunition he needed, given the state of their professional
relationship.

Lifting the evidence box to the floor and pushing it under the table,
Kate took Amelie's statement and Suzie's incomplete one to the
secure cupboard. Squatting on her heels she unlocked it and placed
both inside, Suzie's uppermost. About to close the door she stopped,
heart constricting, eyes fixed on the scant details.

She'd found the answer to her question as to how whoever killed
Suzie knew where to find her when she wasn't visiting her mother in
Birmingham. She reached and lifted out the sheet, staring at the home
address it bore: what appeared to be the number of a flat, then a road,
and lastly an area. Camden. London.

Kate forced herself to breathe deeply as she slowly replaced the
sheet and closed and locked the cupboard. Whoever murdered Suzie
had to have known where in London she lived so he could return her
weekend case and cause confusion as to where she was when she
disappeared. He wanted to make that location geographically distant from 
himself. That way, he wouldn't be linked to it.



She stood but remained where she was, staring down at the small
cupboard, its key tight within her fist. The presence of those few
details suggested that, whoever it was, Suzie hadn't recognised him
immediately. Recognition hadn't come until she'd started to make her
statement. As soon as it did, she left.
This is mere conjecture. You've been accused of seeing links where none
exist.
You don't know who interviewed Suzie. You can't know who she saw
when she came here that day. Or even if it was here that she saw him.
And anyway, it's madness.
Air it as a theory and that'll be the end of you.
Kate gazed ahead, unseeing and shook her head. Madness or not,
all lines of reasoning returned her to one location.
Rose Road.
H
e was inside the workshop. Sitting against the wall, his breathing
under control, more or less. He hadn't expected her to be so
strong. Or so wilful. Lucky he hadn't taken the little redhead as well, her 
daughter. He'd never have been able to control both.
He gazed ahead, across the workshop. That was another lesson.
Too young. Although this was an anomaly. A purposeful change to his
modus operandi. He grimaced at the police talk, experiencing a small
jab of irritation. She wasn't going to rest until she got the answer. She
just wouldn't leave it. He gave an imperceptible shrug. Fine. By the
time she started working it out, he'd have her too.

He studied the anomaly, unconscious, three metres away from
him, face down, blonde hair spread. A big girl. She looked way older
than twelve, or however old she was. In fact, now he thought about
it, there was little difference between her and other females of his
acquaintance. He smiled. Acquaintance.
He looked at her again. Anomaly, acquaintance, and now an
opportunity he wouldn't pass up. Need pulsed within him. K

ate hit Broad Street, which was seething with Friday home- and
leisure-bound traffic. The lights changed and Kate came to a stop.
She gazed through the windscreen, asking herself why she was here.
The only answer she came up with was that George Brannigan had
been at the scene of Molly's abduction. Another talk with him might
dredge something from his memory of that day. She would also ask
him where he himself was when Jody Westbrooke disappeared. For
thoroughness.
As she drove on, Kate evaluated her progress in the cases thus far,
including the friction she'd experienced. She came to a depressing but
unavoidable conclusion.
Too wilful to be a team player.
And the constant insistence on police procedure. Rules.
Too frustrating.
And now she had a theory that even her UCU colleagues would
consider bizarre.
Or mad. Maybe it -- she -- was?
Maybe she'd lost perspective?
Parking her car outside Symphony Court, she went inside and
buzzed the intercom. Brannigan was at the door of his apartment
dressed in baggy grey joggers and a black T-shirt when Kate exited the
lift. He looked a little perplexed but immediately invited her inside.
Kate took in the broadsheet newspapers spread over one of the coral
sofas, and the coffee mug on the floor. He ran a hand through his
hair, starting to fold newspapers.
'I worked late last night, so I've been relaxing a bit today. Here,
have a seat.' He gestured to one of the sofas, then sat down on the
other, facing Kate.
'I'm sorry to have to disturb you again, Mr Brannigan, and I hope you don't 
mind my dropping in, but I need to talk with you some
more about the day Molly James disappeared.'
'Not at all. Ask me whatever questions you have. Fire away.'
Kate sighed. 'There's nothing specific. I was wondering if you'd
thought of anything else, anything that might help us? Even the most
trivial thing from that day?' she said, looking hopefully at him.
He looked back at her with a faint shake of his head. She could
see that he appeared troubled by his inability to provide what she
needed. She reviewed her thoughts of the doer. An actor, a mimic.
She retuned to Brannigan, who was speaking.

'I'm really sorry. I want to help. Obviously I do. But there's
nothing.'
'Would you mind telling me where you were late last Thursday
night?'
He looked surprised, then got up from the sofa and walked from
the room, returning almost immediately with a leather diary. He
flicked pages, then nodded, showing it to Kate. She read the few
words there: Indoor Arena, Broad Street. 10.30 p.m., plus the name of
a well-known band.

She nodded her thanks, recalling mention of the concert on television,
and Maisie's enthusiasm.
'Their management booked me to do some after-show pictures.
Here.' He handed Kate a card. 'That's their contact details. You can
check. They know me. I was with them for a couple of hours, maybe a
bit longer.'

Kate took down the details, then gave her attention to Brannigan, a
possible way forward crystallising in her head. As a psychologist, she
knew about memory function. She also knew that she needed to
encourage him to search his episodic memory of that day, years ago,
when Molly disappeared.

She leaned forward, voice low. 'Mr Brannigan, could you do something
for me? Could you think back to the day of the mall fashion
show?' He looked at her, uncertain. 'I want you to take your time. Put
yourself right back there. It might help your concentration if you close
your eyes for a minute or two.'

Brannigan gave her an evaluative look, then a quick nod. He could
see she was serious. One hand supporting his head, he leaned against
the sofa and closed his eyes.
Kate adjusted her voice to soft. 'Tell me exactly what happened that 
day, Mr Brannigan. From the time you arrived at Touchwood. You
parked your car. Locked it. Walked inside the mall. . . What then?'
She watched, seeing his eyes move beneath their closed lids, voice
as quiet as Kate's own. 'I had some aggravation getting inside the
mall. . . I actually got there early. . . about one thirty p.m., but. . . I
was stopped by this. . . security guard.'
'Why was that?' Kate asked, keeping her voice level low, her attention
on Brannigan's face, his closed eyes.
'I had a couple of cameras in a bag I was carrying. Another one was
on a strap round my neck. For some reason this security chap took
exception to that. . . said I had to go to the office.' Brannigan's face
registered irritation as he recalled the event. 'I showed them all the
proofs of identity. . . they still phoned John Lewis's head office to
confirm my reason for being there.' He shook his head slightly.
Kate's eyes were still on his face. 'So, you've been somewhat
delayed but now you've arrived inside the mall, what happened next?'
Brannigan frowned. 'I was . . . under pressure to get started . . .
find the best vantage point -- the usual stuff. It was . . . crowded
around the runway that had been set up for the show. . . Everybody
milling about. I decided to wait it out. . . for people to get settled.'
'What did you do while you waited, Mr Brannigan? Where were
you?' asked Kate.
He frowned, eyes continuing to move under their lids. 'I went and
sat on the side of the runway where the models were due to come out.
Sat there for. . . about five minutes, waiting. .
'Then what happened?' Kate pushed gently.
Brannigan looked annoyed. 'The security guard. The one I told you
about. . . I saw him again.'
Kate nodded encouragement, although Brannigan wasn't looking
at her. 'He was standing there . . . on the opposite side of the
concourse. .
Kate remained silent, not wanting to disturb the flow.
Brannigan's brow creased and he lifted one hand. 'There was this
shifty-looking scruffy chap over there . . . Forgotten about him . . .
I'd watched him for about a minute because he looked so. . . out of
place. Just hanging around. That's when the security guard came
along. He had somebody with him.'
Brannigan opened his eyes and looked at Kate. 'I remember now.
There was a police officer with him.'
'Can you describe the police officer?'
Brannigan shrugged. 'Quite tall, say five-ten. Fair-haired. Plain
clothes.'
Kate looked at him sharply.
'So how did you know he was a police officer?'
'Because I saw him again when I called in at the mall a day or so
later. By that time there were loads of them, police, uniformed and
plain clothes. Everybody knew the girl was missing by then. They'd
appealed for people who'd been in the mall on the day she went to
come forward. So I did. I was in the area.' He grinned suddenly.
'Some of the officers were stopping people to ask questions and one
or two others were taking photographs of the layout of the mall. He
was with them, the officer I just told you about. I had a joke with him.
I said, "I could've done that for you", and he laughed.'

A few seconds' silence.
'Funny what you remember when you really think about something,
isn't it?'
Kate left Brannigan's apartment and drove home, thinking of
Brannigan's recall.
A police officer, fair-haired. Plain clothes.
As she drove, her thoughts meandered.
Photographer. Photographs. Posing.

In the quietness and fading light, Abby Stevens's hesitant voice drifted
around the room.
Hi. . . This is. . . my name is Abby Stevens. I saw you on TV, well, it
was a lady, and she said. . . There was a long pause. Anyway, I just
wanted to say. . there was a man. And he did what she said. Last week.
In the Coffee Cup, near the cathedral in town. I know which day. It was
the same day I got my new job. But listen, he didn't do anything weird.
He was just there, looking at me. . . He smiled. Sorry for going on. . . I
think I might be wasting your time. It's probably nothing. . . but lam
the r0t age, like she said. . . and I'm blonde. . . My name is Abby--
Sorry, I've said that already. My number is . . .
As the call ended, a light on the answering machine suddenly
glowed red, a tiny beacon in the dim quiet of UCU. 
CHAPTER SEVENTY
K
ate walked in on Phyllis laying the table for dinner and a pleasant
smell of basil. Phyllis had made pasta, as she did routinely on
Fridays. Summoning a taxi and thanking her housekeeper, Kate
walked Phyllis out to the drive, waved, then went back inside. She

could hear faint music from the upper floor.
She saw an untidy heap of papers beside a cardboard box on one
of the granite surfaces. She went to it and looked through the small

pile. Photographs. Family pictures and other mementos. Maisie had

probably got them out. She'd just started a school project on family

history.
Kate examined the items as she dropped them into the box. A
photograph of Maisie as a toddler, astride a rocking horse, a dis
-
embodied hand supporting her. Another of Maisie in a tiny school

uniform, complete with straw hat. A photograph of Kate and Kevin.
She dropped it into the box with the rest.
The next item was the order of service for Kate's mother's funeral.
Then a leftover invitation to Maisie's naming party, a picture of the

plump, grinning infant on the front. A New Year's Eve menu for

Simpson's restaurant. Kate shuddered. A wonderful evening and one
of the few occasions when she was undeniably wrecked.
She glanced at the last item. A programme for a play. She'd seen
the performance with Cee. She looked at the list of characters and the
brief synopsis -- 'for the character Garry, nothing matters but his
ego . . . self-regarding infantilism. . . his view of life . . . to live and
do as one pleases'. She dropped the programme into the box and
replaced the lid.
Going to the end of the kitchen, Kate lifted the internal bolts of the
folding doors and gave them a gentle push. As they drifted smoothly

open, she listened, half expecting to hear the little bell, followed by


Mugger himself. Nothing. She turned away. Maisie would have to be
told.
Crossing the hall to the stairs, she hung on to the curved handrail,
her face upturned to ensure her voice carried upstairs.
'Maisie? Maisie! Dinner in a couple of minutes.'
The music stopped and she heard a door open. Returning to the
kitchen, she finished laying the table and crossed to the wide hob.
Within two minutes she was carrying plates of steaming pasta across
the kitchen.

'Mai-- Oh, there you are.' She deposited the plates on dinner mats
and sat.

Maisie sat opposite her mother in silence. Kate forked pasta.
'How did your study afternoon go?'
More silence.

'Did you check with Professor Denton this morning about the
calculus?'
'Didn't need to. I can do it.' Maisie sat back in her chair, poking
listlessly at her pasta.
Kate looked at her daughter, then looked again. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothing,' muttered Maisie.
Kate gave Maisie's face closer scrutiny. 'You don't look very well.'
She leaned towards her, placing fingers gently against her daughter's
flushed cheek.

Maisie jerked her head away from the hand. 'For God's sake, Mom,
just leave me alone!'
Kate watched, surprised, as Maisie threw down her fork, pushed
her chair back and darted towards the kitchen door, small face crumpling
and dissolving. She sat, staring in the direction Maisie had gone,
thinking of possibilities. Probably a row with Chelsey. She gave her
attention to her pasta. She would choose her time to talk with her
daughter.

The phone rang. Kate got up from the table and walked into the hall. Must get a 
phone in the kitchen, she mused as she answered the
call.

'Hello?'

'Kate?'

Kate was about to open her mouth to respond, but her caller
continued in a rush.

'It's Candice. Is Chelsey with you?' There was an urgent quality to
the voice coming over the line.
'No, she isn't. Maisie's home and she's upstairs. Shall--'
'They weren't at school this afternoon. I rang earlier to check. It's
gone six thirty now and Chelsey's not come home.'
Kate's face set. 'Candice, can I phone you back when I've spoken to
Maisie?'
Hanging up, she started to call up the stairs, then had second
thoughts. She walked quickly upstairs, crossed the landing and
tapped on Maisie's door.
A subdued voice responded: 'What?'
'Maisie, I need to come in and talk to you.'
No reply.
Kate pushed open the door. Maisie was lying curled up on her bed.
Kate detected small sounds of emotional upset. She walked to the
bed and sat down next to her daughter, putting a hand lightly on her
upper arm.
'I want you to tell me right now what's going on, Maisie.'
No response, except for a muffled sob.
'Come on, Maisie. Candice just rang. Chelsey hasn't arrived home.'
A series of quick sobs burst from Maisie as she sat up, followed by a
torrent of words that froze Kate.
'We went to the. . . Fallen. . . Angel and. . . Chelsey saw him. . .
he. . . came to the. . . school. . . he's a. . . drama coach. . . said she
would. . . get a. . . part and then. . . she went in. . .' She paused,
took a shuddering breath. 'In his car!'
Horrified, Kate stared at the hot face, glistening with tears. `Chelsey
got into a car? With a man?'
Maisie fell away from her, sobbing. Absently, Kate patted her
daughter's arm, then got up off the bed.
'I'll be back as soon as I can, Maisie. I have to call Candice.'

Face against cold, hard cement, she wavered in and out of consciousness.
Gradually, consciousness took over and she lifted her
cheek from the floor, head hammering in the harsh light. The floor
around her rose and fell. She lay down and more minutes slid by.
Forcing open her eyes, her gaze fell on a low shelf nearby, contents
just visible. Vision drifted, then focused: bits and pieces . . . 

something. . . blue. . . little red heart. . . Her eyes slid over a small,
familiar emblem: Ellesse . . . Good Luck in Your New Job!
Now fully conscious, she tried to rise, sliding her hands over the
dusty cracked cement, feeling a light whisper against her palm from
the little tongue of paper, almost invisible within one of the cracks.
She grasped it involuntarily as two strong hands seized her ankles and
began to drag her bodily, while her own voice screamed on and on.


CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

C

helsey's parents had arrived at the house shortly after Kate phoned
to tell them what she knew so far. Kate had already called Rose
Road, and WPC Rita Sharma had been dispatched on the orders of
Gander to gather information. Whittaker was also with them now,
having just come on duty.

Kate watched as Rita Sharma spoke quietly to Maisie, hoping that
the youthful style of the young Asian police officer, lips lightly glossed,
black hair streaked with vibrant red, would encourage her to talk. Kate
herself had already tried asking questions, but each time Maisie had
become incoherent. Kate guessed it was a combination of worry,
loyalty and guilt. Guilt at their being out of school, as well as feeling
responsible for not being able to do anything to halt the subsequent
train of events, details of which were now slowly emerging.

Maisie looked exhausted. Kate went to the sofa and sat next to her.
Chelsey's parents also looked exhausted.
It was 10 p.m. No word from or about Chelsey since she'd parted
from Maisie more than seven hours before.
Sharma and Whittaker got to their feet. Sharma motioned Kate into
the hall. Reassuring Maisie, Kate followed them.
'We've got all available officers at Rose Road on full alert,' said
Sharma. 'We're going with Chelsey's parents to their house to see if
the Kilt and his team have turned up anything from their search.
Anything that might give us an idea of who was driving that car.' She
lowered her voice, in case Maisie could hear. 'I checked with the head
of the school. She's confirmed that the school has had no contact,
direct or otherwise, with anyone presenting himself as a drama coach
or owner of a stage school.'

There was a sudden harsh sound from the radio receiver attached to
Whittaker's uniform. He spoke into it, then turned to Kate. 



'Doctor? Lieutenant Corrigan and DS Watts are on their way back
from Worcester.'
Kate watched, helpless, as the officers led Chelsey's dazed parents to
the front door and out into the darkness. She walked back into the
sitting room, where Maisie was sitting up, face pallid, dark smudges
under her eyes, the eyes themselves bottomless.
Kate sat next to her and put her arm round her. 'You've done what
you could, Maisie. You've told them all you could remember.'
'But it was no good,' whispered Maisie. 'I couldn't remember the
car or anything.'
Kate hugged her, then encouraged her to lie down, tucking a light
blanket around her. Time enough to tackle her about the truancy.
Squeezing Maisie's hand, she went into the hall and phoned Phyllis,
to ask if she was able to return to the house. Getting confirmation,
Kate sent a taxi to collect her. Phyllis would be receiving a generous
bonus for all she'd done for Kate in recent weeks.

Forty-five minutes later, Phyllis was at the house and Maisie was
napping fitfully in the sitting room. In the hall, Kate looked at the
time: 11.10 p.m. Without her mobile she felt reliant on the land line
for information and wanted to be there to pick up as soon as she
could. Realising that a call might not come for hours, she walked from the hall 
into the kitchen. Phyllis looked up as she came through the
door but didn't speak. Her worried face said it all.
Kate took her notebook out of her bag and sat down at the now
cleared table. Where to start? Until somebody told her otherwise,
she would believe that Chelsey's disappearance was linked to UCU's
investigation. Somewhat young, but Kate could see similarities. The
blonde-brown hair, long and lush. Chelsey was tall for her age,
topping Maisie by a good ten centimetres. But there had to be more to her 
abduction. Opening the notebook, Kate flipped pages.
The first line to catch her eye was the question as to whom Colley had seen at 
the mall when he cleared off `sharpish'. Kate thought of her visit to 
Brannigan's apartment earlier. Finding his number, she walked into the hall and 
called it. He came on the line after four rings.
'Mr Bratmigan? It's Kate Hanson again.' She bit her lip. 'Sorry, I've just 
realised how late it is. .
'No problem. I'm watching TV.'
'Remember you told me that you saw a tall, fair-haired police officer


with the security guard at the mall, and they were dealing with a
scruffy man?'
'Yes.'
'Well, was the officer the same one you said came to see you at your
premises some time after Molly James's abduction?'
'No. It wasn't him.'
Kate's mood went through the floor.
'The only time I saw the one with the security guard, was at the
mall, like I told you.'
'Tell me again what he was doing there.'
'He was with a lot of other police officers, uniformed, plain clothes.
He was with the ones taking photographs and taping off areas of the
concourse--'
'Thank you, Mr Brannigan,' said Kate, faintly.
She put the phone down and stared at it for a few seconds, then
went back into the kitchen. To her notebook. Her eyes skimmed over
the written words. The cold room. She thought back to that day. Who
knew she had gone down to the cold room? Bernie. Joe. Whittaker.
Her head snapped upwards. Matt Prentiss. He was at the desk when
she went to request the key. Tearing a page from the back of the
notebook, Kate began to construct a list. Returning to her written
notes, she read on.

One of the rape victims had described her attacker's hands as
smooth and warm on a cold night. Kate lifted her eyes from the
writing, staring to one side. Connie's hands on her shoulders, demonstrating
the killer's grip on Jody Westbrooke. Connie's hands, smooth
and warm. Was she attaching too much importance to such a small
point? Could she assume from a mere suggestion that the killer had
worn latex gloves that he had forensic awareness? She shook her head
slightly. Who didn't have that kind of knowledge now? CSI Land.

She read on. The cards found with the remains of Janine and Molly.
The photographs of the tableau created of Jody's body. They had
meaning for the killer, else why would he bother? But what meaning?
She tore another page from the back of the notebook and tore it
again, into three little squares, writing words on each. Resting her
chin on her arms, she looked at each one in turn. Nothing. She moved
the little squares into a different order. If the cards and the display
meant anything, they might mean something in relation to each
other. She looked again at the words she'd written: Red stain or pattern on 
white pasteboard.
Two black circles and a downstroke.
Fireworks.

She stared fixedly at the squares of paper, the words beginning a
tattoo inside her head. How about:

Zero-Zero. Red. Fireworks.
Try the other way.
Fireworks. Zero-Zero. Red.

No!

Red. Zero-Zero. Fireworks.
Now it came so quickly that Kate's face heated up and perspiration
appeared on her forehead. She'd had it the first time. Red stain.
Valentine. February. February! In Janine's diary. Fireworks -- November.
It was about months of the year.
She looked at the zeros and the downstroke. Now it was obvious.
Not really a word. An exclamation. A cultural usage she'd seen from
her own visits to North America. In October, Americans sent greeting
cards to each other for Halloween, the most often-used three letters
an exclamation evoking cosy fright:
Boo!

Kate stared at what she'd written. Tableaux. Staging. Posing. She
slowly shook her head. Why hadn't she realised? Why hadn't she
guessed when she saw the pictures taken by Dennis Jackson at
Romsley? Kate breathed in, then whispered the words.
'He's photographing what he loves -- his life's work.'
She went back to her notebook. To her notes on the two rape
victims who did go to Rose Road to make statements. But she knew
now that there were three statements, the third never completed.
Josie Kenton-Smith and Amelie Dijon gave statements and lived.
Suzie stopped in the act of making her statement and left. She died.
Suzie did see someone.

Someone who looked familiar.
Someone who reminded her of her ordeal.
And maybe that person recognised her?
Much later, when Suzie went to Rose Road again, braver, wanting
information, wanting to join the Force. . .
Maybe that time he saw her.
He feared she'd come to identify him.
He couldn't take the risk.

He knew where she lived both here and in London.
And Suzie Luckman had to die.
At that moment the phone rang and another piece of the puzzle slid
into place. Communications Centre had never had Kate's home phone
number. No one at Rose Road did. She went to the kitchen cupboard
and pulled out the box of photos. It was where she'd left it. The
topmost item. Crossing the kitchen, she went to the place where the
paper recycling box was kept. She dragged it out and lifted out
newspapers, scattering them on the floor. She had it. The Evening
Mail for the previous Saturday. She went to the entertainment section
and found it. It had finished its short run the day before.

It came into Kate's head like an express train. Now she knew why he
cut short his stalking of Jody. He was at the bypass excavation. He saw his own 
historical handiwork. He heard his colleagues talking about it.
A florid, intoxicating reminder of his own savagery. However many
other women had or had not perished by his actions since that time,
the discovery of all that remained of Molly James and Janine Walker
which began UCU's reinvestigation had stimulated the all-consuming
need. To do it again. He couldn't wait.

And Jody died.
The phone rang again.
Phyllis's voice called to her from the hallway.
'Kate? That American just called but the line went dead. Now he's on the line. 
Bernie Watts. .
Kate rushed to take the phone off Phyllis.
'Bernie! You've heard! Do you know--'
'Doc?' The line was poor. 'Your Maisie's not . .
'No, Maisie's fine. It's Chelsey. She's disappeared, but--'
'Bloody hell! Me . . . Corrigan are . . . our way. . . your place in
about half an. .
'Listen, Bernie. I think I know who hello? Hello?'
As the signal finally died, Kate hung up the phone and walked
directly to the kitchen. She stared down at the list she'd just made.
Heart beginning to pound, she spooled memory.
His cold dismissal of injuries. Julian's distraction and low mood.
Everything about him, a lie. Kate brushed her damp forehead, staring
ahead. It all slid neatly into place. Julian on drugs? Drugs in Maisie's
drawer.

He's been in this house!


He was communicating with them, with her, all the time. Very
subtle, but it was there. They -- she -- just kept missing it. There were
still a couple of things she had to confirm. She had to be sure before
she made the accusation.

Taking the stairs two at a time, and running to her bedroom, Kate
changed into a black hooded top and jeans. He'd taken Chelsey so
that he could do what he had to, but also to punish Kate. Maybe to
teach her a lesson.

Back in the hall, she snatched up her keys, then went quietly to the
door of the sitting room to check on Maisie. Sleeping now. Turning
back into the hall, she went to the kitchen. Phyllis looked at her, her
face a question.
Kate went to the work surface and the small notepad kept there for
shopping needs. She began to write.
'Phyllis, I'm going out and I want you to call these two mobile
phone numbers as soon as I leave, yes? Keep ringing them until you
get an answer from one. Read whoever answers these three words.'
Phyllis nodded, reading the note. A place. And a name.

As the front door closed Maisie was on her feet almost before she
was properly awake. His face. She'd seen it. In the line of traffic. As he
stopped to let them cross. She knew him. She'd seen him only once
before that, but she knew who he was.
She ran from the sitting room and out into the hall, voice shrill and
desperate.
'Mom! Mom! Where are you? Mom--'
Phyllis appeared at the door of the kitchen. 'What's all this? You're
supposed to be lying down--'
'Phyllis! Where's my mom?'
'She's gone out.'
Maisie stared wildly at the housekeeper. 'Where! Where'd she go?'
'She didn't say. All she said was to phone these two, which I'm--'
Maisie seized the piece of paper and flew to the hall phone.



CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

K

ate sped down the silent avenue and on to the main road. Exceeding
the speed limit but not caring, she sent the car hurtling
through the dark suburb. Thunder rolled and droplets of water hit
the windscreen.
Minutes later she left the car and walked into Rose Road, past the
officer on duty, who merely nodded at her as she continued on
upstairs.
Opening Gander's office door, Kate walked quickly inside and
closed it. Switching on the light, she stood in front of the wall of
Force photographs. One of these held the key, but she had to be sure
if she was going to help Chelsey. She walked a couple of paces
forward, her eyes sliding from one photograph to another. So many faces in each 
one. She went directly to the middle of the array.
Photographs of staff from 1994 to 2008.

And there he was. Still recognisable. Back then his fair hair was in a
ponytail. In his area of work it was allowed.
Racing downstairs and into the admin offices on the ground floor,
she pushed open one of the doors. She knew where to look, from
when she'd been in here in the past to give staff details of her
availability for UCU.
She went directly to a wooden cabinet with a series of wide, shallow
drawers. An archive of Nobo wall charts. Staff leave. Furman had
wanted Julian to create a database for the information when he'd first
joined UCU. Kate had resisted, pointing out that Julian wasn't mere
admin help. Pulling open a drawer dated 1995-8, she dragged out the
large charts. She had to be certain she was right. She ran a finger down
one of them. Two trips to America. Plus two days of leave: 22nd and
23rd May, 1997, the first a day after Suzie Luckman's neighbour said
that Suzie had returned to her flat. The neighbour was wrong. It was 

Suzie's killer she'd heard that Sunday. Leaving her weekend case. One
name was written by each of the annotations.
Kate stilled, tension coursing throughout her body as the door of
the office slowly opened.
'What the hell are you doing here?' asked Furman quietly, taking a
few steps further into the room.-
Not speaking, eyes on him, Kate swiftly chose her escape route, ran
quickly behind the desk to the door and out. She hurtled down the
stairs and out into the night, hearing footsteps coming after her and
Furman's voice shouting her name. Running for her car, she threw it
into reverse then aimed it at the exit.

It wasn't madness. Now she was sure. It all made horrific, disillusioning
sense.
Within seven minutes, she'd left her car on the side of the road.
Within a further minute she was in sight of the rear of the building's
dark bulk, familiar even in full moonlight.
Thunder roiled and a few large raindrops fell on Kate's head as she
reached the fencing. Solid. Eight feet high. She ran her hands over the
smooth wood. No features. No hand- or footholds. A flutter of panic
started up in her chest.

How long would he hold Chelsey, before. . . She quit the thought.
She must focus.

She moved quickly, following the high fence in the direction of the
road. It had to join the building somewhere. She recalled an item
from a team meeting months back. These grounds used to be security
patrolled. Not any longer. Cutbacks.
Reaching the point where the fence ended, she found it. A narrow
infill of chain-link, joining fence to brick wall. Looking up, she could
see a single strand of razor wire on top of the chain-link section.
Without hesitation, she pushed the toe of one trainer into one of the
lower links, legs powering as she pulled herself up by her hands.
Repeating the process as the raindrops increased amid more thunder,
she reached the top of the fence, then steadied herself, one hand on
the brick wall, thigh muscles taut, torso rigid for balance.

Holding her position for seconds, she contemplated the drop on
the other side, trying to judge the grassy covering's softness. Without
warning the Chamberlain Tower clock split the silence and rent the sir. Hyped 
and startled, Kate wavered then pitched forward, balance



lost, razor wire snagging and tearing at her clothing, ripping into the
flesh of one thigh. She landed heavily on the other side of the fence
and lay for some seconds, air knocked out of her.
Struggling to her feet, she pressed herself into the shadow of the
back wall, aware of sticky wetness sliding down her leg. Scanning
ahead, she saw sheds and outbuildings, the most distant of which
appeared to be a kind of workshop with a roller-shutter door. A seam
of light showed under it. She crouched, listening.

Nothing.
Amid another roll of thunder, she headed silently for the workshop,
avoiding the gravel path skirting it, ignoring the vicious pain now
starting up in her thigh.
Reaching the workshop, she crouched against the wall, breath
coming in gasps, a gaping sensation in her thigh making her queasy.
She waited, struggling to bring her breathing under control as she
listened for any sounds within. Ignoring the wetness now collecting
inside one of her trainers, she crept slowly forward, keeping to the
shadow of the wall. She reached a window and tried to peer inside. It
was covered with what looked like a sheet of hefty cardboard.

That's when she heard a soft footfall immediately behind her, the
low whispered words drifting into her ear:

'Boo! B0000! Get it?'
Her heart hurled itself against her chest as she tried to look at him
and more blood flowed. Before she could fully turn or form words,
he had both of her arms pinned at her sides, her back tight against
him.

`Uh-uh, don't do it,' he hissed, shoving her hard against the wall of
the workshop, then crushing her mouth with one hand. 'Be a good
girl, now, hmmm?'
She felt his breath on one side of her face as she strained her eyes
to see his face. His body felt taut against hers. She guessed he was
listening. For what? She jerked her head sideways, trying to escape the
press of his hand.
His voice came again, whispering. `No-000 . . Be still. We need to
spend a little time together, don't we, hmmm? A little . . . date? Just
you and me.'
Kate's mind was racing. What could she do? What should she say to
stop him?
'I think we should go inside. How about it?' Roughly pushing the 

side of Kate's head against the brick wall of the workshop, he reached
for and pressed a nearby button. The roller shutter slowly rose.
His lips were against her ear, voice a parody. 'What d'ya say, huh, Red?'


CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

K

ate felt herself being slowly but firmly propelled forward as he held
her, his arm tight across her chest.
His voice was low. 'I've got something I really need you to see,
you interfering bitch. No-no-no, stop it! No pulling away. Come on,
easy. . . easy. . . There you are. See? We're two colleagues being. . .
cooperative.' He tightened his grip across Kate's chest. 'There you
go . . . good girl. . . come on, that's right . . . A little further.'
Kate quickly took in the detail of the inside of the workshop, highly
illuminated in the darkness of Winterton's grounds. He gave her leg a
sudden vicious kick. It oozed, causing Kate's head to swim and the
ground beneath her to heave.
Head dropping forward, she knew she had to stay conscious. Her
one other thought was that, whatever happened, whatever he did, she
must not allow herself to be taken inside that workshop. She tensed
her body. Instantly he mirrored her movement, anticipating resistance.
And that was when Kate saw her. Lying face down on the concrete
floor. Filthy pink tennis skirt, one hand flung beyond her head. The
blonde-brown hair had spread like rays as it had fallen on to the dusty
floor.
The sight of her, and the possibility of what the hair might be
concealing, was too much for Kate. She arched her body, jerking her
head against his chest. His hand momentarily loosened its grip on her
mouth. As it smacked back into position, Kate sank her teeth hard
into one of his fingers.
He cursed as he whipped both arms away from her. 'You crazy
bitch! You're going to get my best, and that's a--'
Kate spun to face him, the ground once more heaving under her
feet.



Another officer had appeared beside the girl stirring on the floor of
the workshop.
'Face . . . face?' murmured Kate feebly, incapable of anything more.

She felt herself being carried away from the building into darkness.

But not before she saw the girl being turned gently on to her back.

Chelsey. One eye black, face swollen along the jawline. Still a beauty.
I ate on Saturday afternoon, the little woman was brought into UCU, L where 
she perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Joe studied the
small figure wearing the too-big raincoat as Bernie went to make her
some tea. In the silence the woman's eyes roamed nervously.
Suddenly aware of Joe's interest, she gave a tight smile. Bernie
placed the tea on the table in front of her. They waited. Harry Creed's
aunt broke the silence.
'He was such a nice boy. I can't believe this has happened!' She
stopped and fumbled in her bag for a tissue. Looking up at each of
them, she shook her head. 'It isn't his fault. They didn't handle it in
the right way. She was my cousin. I was a couple of years younger but
even I could see that it wasn't right.'

Bernie had taken a seat and was watching the woman intently. He glanced up at 
Joe. They both remained silent.
'She was very young when she had him, you see.'
She bit her lip.
'Why the charade?' asked Joe, frowning. 'This was the seventies.
People didn't care about that kind of thing any more. Did they?' He
looked at Bernie, eyebrows raised. Bernie shrugged his shoulders as
she continued.
'You don't understand. She wasn't even fifteen when he was born! It was . . . 
kept in the family.' She shook her head. 'Look, I didn't
come here to parade the family's . . . I brought this. I thought he
might like to have it. Will you give it to him?'

She'd placed a photograph on the table. Both officers looked at it,
saying nothing.
'Harry would have been about thirteen or so when that was taken.'

She looked up at Joe, then to Bernie. 'You will see he gets it? Please?'

She scurried away, tea left to grow cold as Joe and Bernie passed the 

photograph between them. Speculating on who in the Creed family
had fathered this woman's child when she was less than fifteen years
old.
'My money's on her own dad,' were Bernie's final words on the
issue.
O
n Monday morning, a tired, white-faced Kate was let into the
custody suite. The Kilt was waiting. When he saw her, he came
swiffiy forward.
'You're sure about this, Kate?'
Kate nodded. 'I'm sure.'
Her manner didn't invite argument or reasoning. She'd been
through that in UCU already. She'd insisted on coming down here
alone. She walked carefully, notebook in hand, into the holding room.
The one where she'd met Malins, a couple of centuries ago.

With the Kilt's help, she reached the waiting chair and slowly sat.
After being taken to Casualty late on Friday, she'd been transferred
to the new Queen Elizabeth Hospital and a private room overnight.
The stitches tracking down nine centimetres of the inside of one thigh
pulled and pulsed.

Flinching inwardly, but determined to give him nothing, Kate
slowly looked towards the opening door. The two officers bringing
him inside still looked shocked. He'd been one of their own for years.
Almost. She knew they would stay in the room with her. Kate hadn't
argued.

He sauntered slowly across the room, an officer close on each side,
and took the chair across the table from Kate. She looked at his hands.
Palms together, almost prayerful. Held by two plastic ties. He was
wearing a white forensic suit.

Seeing the irony of it, Kate smiled to herself, then looked him fully
M the face. He stared back. Kate detected suppressed excitement. She
'broke the silence, voice low.
'Quite a performance. A little stereotypical, perhaps, but--'
'Fooled you,' he murmured indistinctly, staring into her face. Her
'eyes. 'Fooled ev'ryone.'


Kate met the stare head-on. 'What was the thinking?' she asked.
'That a gay man who loved Noel Coward plays wouldn't be a suspect
in the murders of young women? I'm guessing that you got a lot of
amusement from playing that part.'
He didn't respond, merely looked at her, and for the first time she
noticed little flecks of green in the light brown eyes.
She waited. When he didn't speak, she continued: 'I know you
now, Harry. I know that the very least of what you are is a liar and a
manipulator.' Again she saw suppressed emotion and recognised it for
what it was. Delight. 'You've been inside my house, took my phone
and other things--' Kate stopped momentarily as anger surged. 'And
you also left something. In my daughter's room. To cause a rift--'
He laughed. An odd, high-pitched little sound from somewhere
deep inside his throat.
She ignored it, continuing: 'You caused a flat tyre on my car. I'm telling you 
that I know all this. You needed to show me us what
you could do. But you couldn't get it right, could you, Harry?' His
face was still, eyes watchful as Kate slowly shook her head. 'I remembered,
you see. You just couldn't show enough humanity, empathy,
when you saw those photographs of the beaten women. Because you
don't know how.'
He smirked, mouth tightly closed.
'We know now that you were responsible for Matt Prentiss being
blamed for a mistake you made. And then there was Julian. You
manipulated him. You offered him drugs that he wouldn't take. You
lied to me about alleged drug use because you sensed he was feeling
increasingly nervous and confused about you.' She stared into his
face. 'You were willing to ruin his life. All Julian has right now is
opportunity and motivation. You would have seen him with nothing.' She ended, 
furious.
As she stared into Harry's face, the vacant orbs of his eyes, she saw
his mouth move slightly and could have sworn she heard a mocking
sound: Boo-hoo.
Harry sat, silent, his eyes unwavering, as Kate stared at him. 'Janine
Walker. Molly James. Suzie Luckman. Jody Westbrooke.' As she went
through the litany, something stirred behind the flat eyes. Unbounded
avarice. He still had them. Inside his head. 'You photographed them.
You photographed the horror of what you did to those young
women.' She glared, still maintaining a calm matter-of-factness. 'We've 
trawled the records. We can't find you. You must have done
something before. . . this.'
He responded with a hardly perceptible smirk. Secretive.
Kate kept her eyes on his face. 'That's all I have to say about what
you've done. There'll be others who'll ask you questions about that.
The reason I'm here is to--'

She broke off, staring at him. He was doing something. Something
with his mouth. Easily unnerved in her weakened state, Kate watched
his lower jaw move from side to side and his neck muscles bunch. She
saw his rolled tongue emerge between his lips, saw within the roll a
small white plastic item. Serrated.
Shocked, unable to process, Kate was taken completely unawares by
the two burly officers suddenly appearing from behind her. They were
on him in seconds, grabbing him on either side. One of them shot out
a huge hand, clamping it around Creed's lower jaw.
'You bastard! Open! Open up!' He did so, slowly, and the small
serrated item fell on to the table, where it lay, wet with bubbled saliva.
The cutting section of a plastic knife.

The officers remained frozen in position for several seconds, then,
following an exchanged glance and a nod in unison, they let him go,
each with a quick shoving movement. A latexed hand appeared from
Kate's right, to pick up and remove the remains of the plastic knife,
leaving only the little trail of bubbled saliva on the tabletop.
Kate looked at Creed. Still showing what he could do. Communicating
his ability to manipulate any system of which he was a part.
Closely shadowed by his colleague, one of the massively built
officers returned to the table and leaned on it, gloved hands supporting
his muscular upper body, breathing heavily as he glared down at
the prisoner.

'That was your one and only chance, Creed. From now on, while
you're here, you get no utensils. If I had my way, you'd be sucking up
your meals through a fucking straw. We'd be happy to watch you starve,' he 
murmured.

Creed grinned after their broad backs as they moved the few feet to
the door, his joined hands in front of his mouth. He looked into
Kate's face, green-brown eyes gleaming. Still grinning, and checking
that her guards were sufficiently distant, he raised his tethered hands and in 
a minimal lightning-fast movement pointed both index fingers at her face, 
making tiny carving movements in the air between them. 
Kate waited for a few seconds before she spoke, holding his gaze.
She wanted him focused. She wanted him to know that she knew. Now she'd let him 
have it. 'I've got something for you, Harry,' she
said softly, pausing so that his attention remained fully on her. 'I've
also got a story. Would you like to hear it?'
He looked back at her, the grin still in place, but she could see he
was curious, waiting. She could almost hear the whir of his thought
processes.
'Well, this is a story about a man. A boy, really. And the boy didn't
have a father, well, not one he could openly acknowledge. Which
is sad and unfortunate, isn't it?' He was listening intently. She continued.
'But what he did have was a sister.'
His face was now a mask.
'The boy and his sister were close, as siblings often are. She was quite
a bit older than him, you know,' continued Kate conversationally, 'and
she had boyfriends all the time.' She skimmed a look Harry's way. His
face and body were rigid. 'She was a very. . . striking woman, you see.
Tall, with yellow-gold hair. What some men might describe as a good
body. Well built, you know? She dressed to show it off. Tight skirts.
Tight trousers.'
Perspiration beads had formed at Creed's hairline.
Kate continued her narrative. 'She wore her tight sweaters low, so
that everyone was able to see what was inside.' She glanced across the
table. 'Don't get the wrong impression. She was a good sister to him.
Most of the time. But she needed to be out there. She had a life of her
own, didn't she? She'd promise occasionally to stay in with the boy,
but most nights he would watch her as she made her face up and got
ready to leave him on his own with his grandfather.'
Kate frowned suddenly. 'Sorry, Harry. I forgot to tell you that this
is a sad story.' She nodded, looking sombre, voice low. She could see
that he was straining for every word. 'Oh yes. Very sad. Because the
boy wanted his sister to stay with him. He didn't want to be with his
grandfather. Grandad said funny things. Because Grandad had known
something for years that the boy was just about to learn.' Kate leaned
forward slightly, dropping her voice further. `Grandad knew that the
boy's sister wasn't his sister at all! What do you think of that?' She
waited a few seconds. 'Have you guessed yet who she really was?'
She sat back and waited again. No response except for a reddening
of Creed's eyes and a watchful quality to his face. `No? Well, she




was. . . his mother.' She saw his lips flatten into a thin line. 'I expected
you to get that, Harry. Anyway, then the boy hated her, his mother.
Because she was a sham. She'd lied to him for ten, eleven years. All of
his life, in fact.'

Kate waited, looking into Creed's face, the skin stretched tight,
the eyes riveted on hers. Seeing that he was not about to speak, she
continued.

'And that's the end of the sad story . . . Oh, I forgot something
else. I haven't told you what happened to the boy, have I?' She could
hear him breathing into the brittle air between them. 'You see, the
hatred the boy had for his sister who was really his mother just
grew and grew. As he got older, he decided that no matter what they
looked like, every woman was really like her. A sham. A lie. And he was very 
angry. But the women he was most angry towards were tall, slim
young women who wore tasteful clothes and subtle cosmetics, whose
hair was soft and blonde. He really hated them. Because he saw how
good they were at concealing their true selves. He had to remove the
masquerade. To expose the truth beneath.' Kate gazed at the rigid
face, softening her voice. 'He had to find his mother.'

Silently, without taking her eyes off him, she felt for her notebook
and drew something from between its pages. Holding it up so that he
could see it clearly, she spoke softly again,

'Say hello to Mommy, Harry.'
That was when he lost all control. His eyes were almost completely
white, face livid, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth, shocking
the officers guarding Kate into action. They fell on him. An alarm
sounded. Four additional officers rushed into the mayhem. It took
them over a minute to haul him from the room.

Kate could still hear him, the high-pitched shriek now growing
gradually fainter as they dragged him back to his cell. She looked
down at the photograph lying on the table in front of her, studied the
elaborately curled peroxide hair, the moon face heavily blushed, thick
mascara around the eyes, sulky lips a downtumed clot of slick red,
thick neck pushing up from a sea of frills framing a deep cleavage to
which a young boy was tightly clasped. Beyond the harsh cosmetics,
Kate recognised something in the woman's face reminiscent of Harry
Creed the adult. Rapaciousness.

Looking shaken, the Kilt walked slowly into the room and came to



where Kate was still sitting. He sat on the edge of the table, looking
down at her, distractedly stroking a hand over his head.
'You okay, Kate?'
'I'm fine, Gus,' she said quietly.
He continued to stroke his head. 'How do you explain something
like that?'

She looked up at him. 'He needs to control and punish his mother.'
She stood awkwardly and he put a hand under her arm to walk with
her to the door. 'She died. Twelve years ago. But he keeps searching
for and exposing her.'
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
ate was on leave from her work. All of it. For a month. Her leg
was healing, the doctor who'd stitched it assuring her that his
handiwork would leave nothing but an eventual faint scar.
She was now lying on the sofa, the cat curled awkwardly at her side.
They were watching Morse, who was still grumpy.
A series of thumps down the stairs and across the hall and Maisie
erupted through the door.
'Mom! Joe and Bernie are outside. And Joe's carrying this mastsive--'

,Kate
looked across at her and smiled. 'Homework finished?' Maisie
nodded, curls chaotic.
Immediately after Chelsey's rescue, Maisie had sobbed, 'I'm sorry,
I'm sorry' over and over again. Kate knew it was because she believed
she was responsible for Chelsey's abduction. Because she'd allowed
her friend to walk into danger alone. She'd had to explain to Maisie
that she'd made a good judgement by not going too, that there
was nothing she could have done to stop Chelsey from making the
wrong choice. Chelsey had made her decision based on glib talk from
Creed, starting when she saw him loitering near the entrance to the
school, sufficiently plausible to snare the young and naive. And some
who were older and more worldly than Chelsey, who was now on the
way to a full recovery. Maisie's own progress had been helped by a
card from Chief Inspector Gander, thanking her for her contribution
to the identification of Harry Creed.

Now Maisie squatted in front of Mugger, scratching him lightly
between his ears.

'You silly cat. What you mustn't do in future is take on a fox! Don't do that!' 
She shook a finger at him, then laughed and stroked his head.
'See? That's another lesson you missed! Now, if you're very good, the

vet said your collar can come off tomorrow.' She turned to look at
Kate.
'Mom?'

`Mm . . . ?'
`Do you think he's okay? He was in Mrs Hetherington's garden for
ages before Bernie found him. He might have psychological problems.'

'Mugger
or Bernie?'
Stroking the cat, Maisie looked sideways at her mother. 'As you're
back to your normal self, can we talk about Facebook?'
The door of the sitting room swung open and Phyllis looked into
the room. She'd had a quick discussion with their visitors about Kate's
convalescence.

'Them two are here. Shall I let 'em in?'

'Of course, Phyllis.'
Phyllis disappeared, muttering, 'Suppose they'll be wanting coffee
and . .
Kate and Maisie listened as Bernie's voice reverberated from the
hall.

'How you doin', sweetheart?'
Phyllis's response was a series of unclear murmurings.
'Play hard to get. I won't give up!'
Maisie leaned against the sofa, giggling, as Bernie and Joe walked
into the sitting room, Joe with a huge bouquet of roses and card.
Kate looked up at him.
'Somehow, Corrigan, I hadn't seen this as your style.'
He grinned. 'It's from all at Rose Road. Including Furman.'
'That I do not believe!'
`No? I'm cut to the fibre of my being, honey chil', that you should
ever doubt me. Hi, Cat's-whiskers.'
Maisie grinned up at Joe. 'Hi yourself.'
A tray of coffee cups in one hand, Phyllis elbowed Bernie, but
mainly for effect. She knew the role he and Joe had played in Kate's
rescue. She took the roses from Joe.
Joe smiled down at Kate, then bent his long legs so that their faces
were level. 'It's true. He spoke highly of you not an hour ago.' Kate
looked at him, searching for sarcasm. 'Seriously, Red. We had a very
pleasant team meeting. Furman paid tribute to your outstanding


intelligence, your beauty and my arrest technique. He also expressed
his sincere relief that Ber-nard has been passed as fit.'
'He was thrilled all right,' said Bernie, eye-rolling.
Joe continued the story: 'Then he expounded for around ten
minutes on the Force's duty to protect the young and the vulnerable
in society, after which we followed him to the High Street for a
celebratory team lunch, where he narrowly missed making roadkill of
the Big Issue guy in the Waitrose car park.'

'What! Is he okay?' Kate thought of the courtly man who worked
the pitch outside the supermarket.
'Yep. Leapt like a gazelle from Furman's wheels. We decided to skip
lunch.'

'You idiots!' laughed Kate. Reminded of the young and vulnerable,
she asked, 'How's Julian?'
'He's fine. Creed was doing a real number on him. And Julian was
doing all he could to resist his influence. Creed thought that Julian
was malleable, so he made a point of befriending him, slowly trying to
groom him, offering him tabs. He was too worried and in awe of
Creed to say anything.'

Kate looked concerned. 'But is he all right? Tell him he can come
and stay here. .
'He's shaping up fine, Doc. I think he was shocked how Creed
turned out, like we all was, but he's young and he's coming to terms.
He's been stopping over at my place most of this week. Tell you what,
that lad can cook!'

Kate's thoughts drifted to something Bernie had said about repeaters
being people's sons and husbands, a phrase he'd attributed to
Julian. Doubtless Julian had said it, but she now thought of its more
likely source. Harry Creed. Quoting the words of the beleaguered
police officer heading the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper years before,
the meaning of his reference being that repeaters were all but
indistinguishable from anyone else.

Wrong.
If we're vigilant, we see them.
She also thought back to what she'd said about the psychopath as
work colleague. It was true. Creed, the manipulator of Prentiss. She
knew that it was Creed who'd compromised the evidence-gathering.
Doubtless he had manipulated Prentiss into a position where he had

no choice but to accept the blame. Prentiss's demeanour was now
much more understandable. Who wouldn't be angry?
They'd read Creed's medical and educational records. After the
references to his emotional and behavioural difficulties as a youngster,
and his seemingly aimless teenage years, there was an indication of
him appearing to settle down. He'd started an arts course. Kate would
have staked money on it including some kind of sculpture. She
rejoined the talk in the room.
Bernie slurped coffee. 'A real con man, Doc. An ac-tor. When
Creed the late-starter done his forensic training in the early nineties,
he was based at Bradford Street. That was Regional Headquarters
then. I've now spoke with a couple of people who worked there at
the time. They've got no recollection of him being gay.' He shook his
head. 'He sabotaged all the records of our cases. He interviewed
Amelie Dijon, posing as Furman. By the way, Goosey's torn a strip
off Furman about his management style. Doubt it'll make any real
difference to the Arse's underlying attitudes, mind you.'
Kate raised her brows and grinned. 'Bernie, you sounded quite
psychologically minded when you said that.'
Bernie watched as Maisie walked to the sitting-room door and out,
Mugger in her arms.
'Yeah, well. . . You was right about his other motive, by the way.'
Kate shook her head. 'Making sadism pay. Producing heavy-end
pornography from it. That way he got to enjoy each of the murders
for as long as he wished, and so did his paying clients, in their case,
vicariously.'
Bernie looked disgusted. 'They're being visited by Upstairs. We've
seen a calendar Creed was working on. He called it his "work in
progress". Said he was waiting for the cold weather so he could finish
it -- 'December'. Some of the images are equivalent to the highest
level on the Copine.'
Kate recognised the reference to the scale used to evaluate the level
of deviance of child-abuse images. She looked away. She couldn't take
too many reminders yet.
Joe perched on the sofa arm looking down at her.
'You done good, Red,' he said quietly. 'Connie and the team are
working full-time at the bypass. And the Facility.'
Kate's thoughts spooled to what they now knew about Harry Creed
and his towering rage towards his mother. How many dead girls


would have been found to have paid for it with their lives by the time it was 
all finished? Creed was a vacuum. An emotionally empty vessel
who wanted to render others empty by reducing them to nothing. He
wasn't seeking retribution. He simply enjoyed doing what he did.
She thought of Creed inside her house. The locks had all been
changed and an alarm system installed. The bill for three thousand
pounds was modest for ensuring Maisie's safety and Kate's peace of
mind, even if Creed was incarcerated.
'What a waste,' she said softly, then looked up at Joe. 'I can't do it
any more. UCU. I'm not suited to it. I'm too impatient to follow
rules or be in a team. But it's more than that. There were so many cues
and clues that I missed--'

Bernie intervened: 'You never missed 'em. You wrote 'em down and--'
'Exactly. So much information and I still didn't see it. It's made me
realise I respond to our cases as if they're academic exercises. I got so
caught up in solving the puzzle that I lost impetus.' She looked away. 'It 
could have resulted in Chelsey. . .
Joe gazed down at her. 'Listen up, Kate. It's the same for all of us. When we 
first notice something, it's not always possible to see its
relevance. Or even if it is relevant. When does a cue become a clue,
huh? It takes time for all that stuff to form a pattern so we can
recognise its meaning.'
'Yes, and by the time it did, Chelsey was in his hands and Maisie
could have--'

'Hey, cut yourself some slack, Kate. You got the answer. You took
days to solve cases that were ten-plus years old.'
Bernie leaned towards her. 'You'll get used to police work, Doc, as
you do more of it.'
'No. Police work's about rules and procedures. I don't get on very
well with either of those. And like you say, Bernie, I feel safe in Theory
Alley. Non-emotional, contained. And that goes back to the first
problem--'
`Blimey, that's ten minutes I'll never get back. Is there much more
of this?'
'There's nothing to blame yourself for, Kate,' Joe said. 'Why would
anybody think of it being an inside job? Nobody else did. You got the
answer. It was the same for us. We knew what you knew. When we
were in Gander's office last time, I was looking at the photographs on





the wall to avoid listening to Furman and stop myself smacking him in
the mouth. I saw the photograph of Creed and his hair but I didn't
connect it with what Bernie said about the French student who was
raped. See? With twenty-twenty vision it can seem obvious. It isn't.'
He paused, then said: 'What you did took real courage, Kate. You strode in 
there, for Maisie's friend -- not an easy act to pull off when
you're only five-three.' He grinned down at her. 'One tough broad.
Nobody knew how tough.'
The included,' said Kate with a shudder.
Bernie heaved himself off the sofa, glancing out of the window. 'I
got a few things to do back at Rose Road. Looks like summer's over.
Sky's black over Bill's mother's.'
Joe looked at Kate, eyebrows up. She shook her head and grinned.

Kate was exhausted.

'Where's Maisie?' she asked.

'Making a cake with Phyllis,' said Joe, looking up from the chords
he was practising quietly on the Gibson L5 guitar. He'd brought it to
the house days before, when Kate began her convalescence, and had
visited every day since, waiting patiently for her to recover.
'Joe?'
'Kate?'

'When I said to you ages ago about you being pleased you didn't
have children. And you said. .
He stopped playing and looked at her for some seconds. 'Is it
important that you know?'
Kate looked up at him 'Yes. . . No.'
'Pity Bernie's gone. He'd have loved that, for sure.'
Seeing the small frown above Kate's nose, he went to sit next to her.
She leaned her head on his shoulder as he spoke quietly. 'How's the
leg?'
'Fine. . . Don't change the subject. Tell me.' She yawned.
'Okay. Well now, let's see. Once upon a hippy time, I was at
university. And so was she. I was a real young kinda dude. We got
married. Fast-forward about five years and we knew that all we shared
was our. . .' He looked down at Kate, sleeping soundly.

'I guess it'll keep for another day,' he said quietly. He listened as
Kate murmured something in her sleep and grinned down at her.
It sounded like 'density'.

Ceveral weeks after the separate funeral services for Janine and Molly,
all from UCU were invited to a combined memorial to celebrate
the lives of the two young women. Invitations suggested that those
attending did so in colourful clothes. Kate had been reluctant to go
until it was confirmed that no press were to be allowed anywhere near.
She walked into the little church wearing a cream-coloured coat, the nearest to 
colourful that she owned. Maisie had lent her a long
lapis-blue scarf with fringes and sequins. Alongside Kate were Joe,
Bernie and Julian, wearing matching pale-blue ties embroidered with
tiny dark-blue flowers.
Every surface inside the church was covered with informally
arranged pink roses. 'In Paradisum' from Faure's Requiem played as the guests 
assembled.
During the service, 'Nimrod' surged through the building. Kate
had her jaws clamped together so hard her face ached. Then there
were smiles as parents and other relatives and friends of the two young
women related their memories of them.

At the conclusion of the service the congregation was informed that
the music that would play them out of the church was the choice of
both mothers. Gasps of surprise and more smiles appeared when the
first familiar strains of 'Here Comes the Sun' were heard. The buoyant
crowd surged out through the church doors, then clustered in smiling
groups in the cold winter sun, some still singing.
Afterwards, Kate and her colleagues went back to the Walkers'
house. She watched guests remove their bright coats and scarves,
faces flushed by the early-December chill. The house was filled with
flowers. One wall of the sitting room was given over to a display of
photographs. Two smiling young women at various stages of their
short lives.



Kate left Bernie and Joe and walked towards a spray of yellow roses
in a tall vase at the centre of a table full of food. She touched them
gently, recognising them as UCU's contribution.
Furman was hovering at the other side of the table. Their eyes met.
As far as Kate was concerned, there was little he could say to defend
his careless response to the destruction of all four young women. She
knew he'd been officially admonished. After a few seconds he nodded
at her. She acknowledged him. If she were him, she wouldn't have
dared come today. She turned away and walked over to Joe, who was
in conversation with Paul Walker.
Mr Walker turned to her. 'Dr Hanson, thank you so much for
helping us celebrate Janine and Molly's lives. And for uncovering
Janine's spirit, even when her situation was so bleak.'
Kate nodded, knowing he was referring to the little note she'd
taken from Chelsey's hand as she was removed from the workshop at
Winterton.

It had lain in a crack in the cement floor of that horrific place for
all those years, a testament to Janine's knowledge of her killer and
her determination to identify him: Janine Harry LIAR help me. The
workshop had yielded other evidence. Jewellery. Clothing. Other
items that Kate and her colleagues recognised, others as yet unidentified.
Kate
opened her bag and took out a small red volume and handed it
to Mr Walker. It could be returned now that the criminal case against
Creed was prepared. He nodded his thanks. Seeing this, Mrs Walker
came over to them, hugged Kate and kissed Joe.
'We're so pleased you're all here. We'll be posting photographs on
the website in a few days. Look, there's our son, Nick, and his baby.'
Kate looked towards the door at a tall fair-haired man carrying a
laughing infant in his arms, then turned back to find Dianne James
standing next to her.
'Hi,' she began, unsure of what else to say. It suddenly occurred to
her that Dianne looked different.
'I've taken myself in hand,' the other woman said in response to
Kate's uncertain glance. 'After UCU became involved with Janine's
case, Paul and Isobel got in touch with me.'
Kate glanced to where the Walkers were talking and laughing with
various guests, and saw Bernie deep in conversation with Connie. She
looked back at Dianne.


'So. . . you're feeling. .
'I don't get angry or fall apart at the slightest word any more.
Molly's loss will always be there, but I'm learning to live with that.
They --' she nodded towards the Walkers -- 'helped me realise that we
grieve because we love . . . and that I was letting Molly down by living
as I was. She's up here.' Dianne tapped her forehead. 'And I had to
start being different. To give her a better place to be.' She glanced
around the room. 'There's quite a few of us in our group now. People
who've lost children to violent crime.'
Kate looked at her, remembering how she herself had felt when
they first met. 'Dianne. . . when I visited. . . I didn't know what to
say to you. I hope I didn't appear uncaring. .
The other woman shook her head. 'You didn't. How are you now?'
'I'm back at work. The university.'
Dianne smiled. An attractive woman, Kate realised. A woman with a
purpose. She thought of Suzie Luckman's mother, now in full-time
care.
Is it better to struggle through grief or to be relieved of it through
incapacity?
She breathed deeply.
Maybe just. . . different.
Dianne had something to ask Kate. 'I've been told he'll get life.
What does that mean? Will they keep him in for . . . always?'
Kate answered truthfully. 'Harry Creed is dangerous. But he has
human rights. His lawyers will probably want to get special hospital
status for him. If they succeed and once he's there, he'll put on a
show, manipulate his way around the system, volunteer for all the
treatment programmes available, as a result of which, if he's ever
released, he'll be even better at manipulating people than when he
went inside.' She stopped, biting her lip. 'Sorry to sound bleak. And I
seriously doubt he'll ever be released.'
Dianne nodded. 'I appreciate your honesty. What a waste there's
been already. Who knows what he'll have cost other families before
the investigation has run its course and we know the full extent of it.'
Kate knew that excavation of the bypass had been extended still
further and was continuing. The grounds around Winterton were also
being dug up. What better place to hide remains than in a location
where they were legitimately kept? After it had been fully excavated,
the plan was to demolish the house and related outbuildings.

Dianne glanced across the room, then back to Kate with a smile. 'I
think somebody's looking for you.'
Kate looked in the same direction. Joe.

In the last days of the year, the four colleagues were back together
at Rose Road. Boiler trouble had left the building without heat for
the last two days and it was deathly cold inside UCU. The table was
covered with boxes, each with a clear label. Gander had lent them
Whittaker, who had worked tirelessly in scarf and fingerless gloves to
help them sort and label the documents.

Kate was at the window, staring at the smart little terraced houses
opposite. All quiet. Residents able to go about their business and park
their cars, unhampered by media vehicles. What had begun in this
room as a very cold case had become one of the biggest inquiries in
the UK, certainly the biggest West Midlands Police had ever had. Still
ongoing Upstairs. Only yesterday, Kate had driven along the bypass
and seen bright yellow digging machines passing between leafless
trees.

Kate had also seen Creed. A few weeks ago. When he was taken
to court and remanded again. It had emerged that he intended
to make a plea of diminished responsibility at his trial. He was now
biding his time in the special hospital unit. Kate's responsibility at
some future date would be to testify to the callous planning and
heartless calculation of which he was capable.

'Kate?' Hearing Joe's voice, she turned back to the room and
walked to the table. Each of them took a box and headed for the
basement. To the 'solved' section. When the table was empty, they
walked out of the room and stood together in the corridor. Joe
looked at each of them as he closed the door of the Unsolved Crime
Unit.

Till the next time.

He lay on his narrow bed and pressed the button on the remote
control for recorded programmes. Up came the list. He went immediately
to the one he wanted. A Sky News report. He watched
himself come into view, his upper body concealed by a blanket. With
compressed lips he watched as he was led from the prison van, scarcely
visible, to a side door of the court building. The scene was the
filming done from the road.



The location suddenly shifted. To the front of the same building.
He slowed the recording. Here she was, in bright winter sunshine,
highly visible in her tailored suit and high heels, as she slow-motion
walked from right to left on the screen and the camera ate her up. He
reran it. Right to left. Reran. Right to left. He stared at her image, at
the dark-red hair bouncing and swaying around her shoulders.
His mouth formed a smile. He knew they would search all recorded
programmes at the end of the week. They would delete this one. He'd
lose tokens for being 'bad'. But he had a plan. To be really good in
future. See where that got him during the long haul.
The smile stretched into a wide grin. He breathed out words as he
watched her on the screen, vital, confident. Free.
Seee y000uuu!'



My sincere thanks to the following for their valued professional advice
and patient guidance: Chief Inspector Keith Fackrell, West Midlands
Police (Retired); Lynne Hart, Assistant to H.M. Coroner, Birmingham
and Solihull Districts; David C. Knight, PhD, Assistant Professor,
Department of Psychology, University of Alabama at
Birmingham; Sam Taylor, Fitness Trainer, Birmingham; and Dr
Adrian Yoong, Consultant Pathologist, Birmingham.
Given the quality of their support, any technical mistakes are,
needless to say, my own.





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