Bye Bye Baby E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DCI Jack Hawksworth
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 720

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'I was totally engrossed... huge thumbs up'⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real Reader Review 'Had me hooked from the first page'⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real Reader Review 'An exciting page turning thriller that kept me gripped'⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real Reader Review It all began in Brighton. Now it's February 2003 and there is a serial killer on the loose. Scotland Yard′s brightest talent is chosen to head up the high-profile taskforce: Jack Hawksworth is a DCI who must confront his own past as the body count rises. There are few leads and Hawksworth can only fall back on instinct and decades-old cold cases for any clue to the killer′s motive and identity. With his most loyal team member threatening to betray him, a Superintendent pushing for results, a hungry British media clamouring for information, and a restless public eager for a conviction, the high-pressure operation can only end in a final shocking confrontation…

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1

5 NOVEMBER 2002

Jean Farmer took the call, and regretted instantly that she’d been the one to pick up the phone. She knew the Sheriffs and hatedthat she would now have to ruin Mike’s night out at the Castle Hotel with the news from Lincoln Hospital.

‘How serious is it, Sister?’ she asked.

‘Not as bad as it first appeared, I’m glad to say,’ the nurse from Casualty explained. ‘We’re sending her home, but she was crying for her dad and I promised Mrs Sheriff we’d call him.’

‘What exactly should I tell him?’

‘Simply that his daughter has been involved in a sporting accident. The wound to her arm is quite deep, but the bleeding has stopped, and it has been stitched and she’ll be fine. Just ask him to get home immediately, please. Mrs Sheriff is on her way there with their daughter now, and both of them are quite upset.’

‘Okay, will do. Thank you, Sister.’

Jean put the phone down, grabbed one of the staff just going off duty to hold the fort at the front desk for a couple of minutes, and headed to the dining room. Mike, in high spirits, and a group of work companions sat at the long table near the window.

She touched his shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mike, but we’ve just taken a call from the hospital. It’s Susan.’

‘Su—’ Mike Sheriff put his pint glass down clumsily. ‘What’s happened?’

Jean saw some of the colour drain from his face as alarm overrode the alcohol’s effects. ‘I don’t want you to worry but there’s been an accident,’ she started. Mike had pushed his chair back and was on his feet before she could say much more. ‘Mike, hold on.’ Jean grabbed his arm. ‘It’s all right. Susan’s fine, I promise. She’s hurt her arm apparently, but she’s okay. I’ve just got off from speaking with the sister on duty in Casualty.’

Mike appeared to be sobering fast. ‘I’d better go.’

Jean nodded. ‘I said we’d get you on your way immediately – but head home rather than the hospital. Diane’s on her way back to Louth now.’

‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ Mike said to the teachers around the table as he gathered his things together. ‘My mobile! Some bastard stole it today.’

‘It was probably that toe-rag, Wilkins,’ one of the others piped up. It was John Buchanan, a bitter sort. ‘He’s the school fence, I’m sure of it.’

Jean gave Buchanan a pained expression because she knew the Wilkins family too. And they were fine – their children were allowed to run a bit wild but they had good hearts and Georgie Wilkins was unlikely a thief. She returned her attention to Sheriff. ‘Mike, you’re most welcome to use a phone here; call on Diane’s mobile as they’re travelling now,’ she said, ushering the bewildered man away from the table and towards the double doors that led past the bar.

‘She doesn’t have a mobile either,’ he said, frowning. ‘Never needs one.’ Jean stayed quiet. ‘Sorry again. I’ll settle up tomorrow,’ he slurred slightly over his shoulder to his colleagues.

Jean answered for them. ‘That’s fine. Now listen, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to drive,’ she said. ‘Let me call you a taxi.’ She squeezed Mike’s arm reassuringly, then called across to the barman. ‘Dave, just keep an eye on Mike for me, will you? He’s a bit unsteady, just had some bad news. I’m ordering a taxi – he’s got to get home urgently.’

The man nodded. ‘Righto. I’m just checking through this after-noon’s delivery, but that’s fine.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be right back. Two minutes, Mike, okay.’

And that’s when I grabbed my chance. I’d been playing it by ear, so couldn’t squander this opportunity with the woman now out of sight, the barman preoccupied and, best of all, Mikey intoxicated enough to be compliant. Both of the staff had seen me, but what’s one more tourist in the bar of a popular hotel, and I’d gone to some lengths to disguise myself by wearing a false beard, a hat and a loose coat. Besides, I was enjoying the musty, gentle fizziness of a pale ale after so many years of living abroad. I sipped at it slowly, letting the familiar flavour sluice away the fear; killing time before the real killing began.

It was hard to believe the moment of redemption had arrived. I’d watched Mikey for weeks, watched the whole Sheriff family going about their business. The first time I’d laid eyes on him I felt as though all the breath had been sucked from my lungs. For the past thirty years he and the others had loomed in my thoughts as monsters, and yet here Mikey was now, middle-aged and so harmless-looking.

I shook myself free of the unexpected sentimentality. I would go through with it – there was no doubt about that. The deep wound that he and the others had inflicted upon me all those years ago had only pretended to heal. Beneath the scab of the new life I’d built, the injury had festered.

Now, with the fresh pain of loss tearing me apart, that old fury had spewed forth in an angry torrent. To lose our perfect child, lying so sweetly in his cot as if gently sleeping, his tiny six-month-old body still achingly warm, had sapped every last reserve of my strength. It was the end of my marriage too, the end of a happy life with Kim which had sustained me over the past couple of decades. I rued the day I’d suggested that starting a family would complete us. Now we had lost two daughters to miscarriage and our precious boy to some inexplicable string of letters. ‘SIDS,’ the doctor had said gently, although it had explained nothing.

I had done everything to make my life work; to walk in the light rather than dwell in the dark. No one could accuse me of bemoaning my past and yet it seemed the horror of my teenage years was never to leave me. And there he was, one of the perpetrators, about to pay for the events of his own past. I took a final sip of my beer and felt a rush of adrenaline spike through me as I began my performance.

‘Thanks. See you later,’ I said to the barman, who was busy counting crates and ticking off sheets of paper. He didn’t even look around.

I concealed myself in the corridor that led to the toilets and watched through the glass of the door as the receptionist led Mikey out of the restaurant and into the bar. He looked shaken, a bit unsteady on his feet, no doubt helped along by the beer and wine he’d enjoyed during the evening. The woman said something to him, her hand squeezing his arm, then called out to someone – presumably the barman – and left Mikey alone. He swayed slightly in a daze.

I seized my moment and pulled off the coat, hat, beard and stuffed them into the backpack I was carrying, before I re-entered the bar quietly. I pasted an expression of slight bafflement on my face, then grinned. ‘Mikey Sheriff?’ I called softly, contrived disbelief charging my words.

Sheriff stared at me in confusion. I could understand why. Unlike me, he hadn’t changed much at all. Greyer, paunchier, those dark-blue eyes even more hooded than I recalled, but there was no mistaking plain, duck-lipped Mikey Sheriff of three decades previous. That he had won the heart of any woman was a surprise.

My luck was in: the barman was nowhere to be seen, Mikey no doubt already forgotten in his need to get on with his work. I slapped the man I was going to kill on the arm. ‘You don’t recognise me, Mike? Come on, you used to call me Bletch!’

I watched his confused gaze as the nickname from so many years ago registered. ‘Bletch?’ he repeated dumbly.

I nodded, still holding my smile.

‘It can’t be,’ he went on. ‘Not A—’

I couldn’t risk him naming me publicly. ‘Is something wrong?’ I interrupted. I knew I had only seconds now before the woman from the front desk returned.

Sheriff didn’t even notice the clumsy shift in topic. Instead, he groaned. ‘My daughter’s been involved in an accident. I have to get home. They’re calling a taxi.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard there’s a delay of about forty-five minutes.’

‘In Lincoln?’ he said, aghast. ‘I can’t imagine it.’

I nodded. ‘There’s some convention going on. You can try, but I was about to head off anyway. I’m happy to take you home. It’s probably far quicker.’

I took his arm and guided him to the side door, keen to get him out the building before the receptionist returned. Help came from an unexpected quarter. A youngish woman – the housekeeper, I assumed, from her clipboard and name badge – entered through the same door we were making for.

‘Hello, Mr Sheriff,’ she said, then sensed the atmosphere and looked to me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Help me outside with him, please,’ I said. ‘He needs some air. He’s just received some bad news.’

To my relief she didn’t ask any more questions, just took Sheriff’s other arm and helped me bundle him into the cold November night. The chill air slapped us in the face. Worried it would sober Mikey up, I quickly explained to the girl what had happened. ‘So I’ll run him back to Louth,’ I finished. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Behind Mike’s back I made a gesture to indicate that he’d had too much to drink.

She caught on fast and turned to him eagerly. ‘Mr Sheriff, listen. Give me your car keys and I’ll move your car – the red Vauxhall, right? – into the staff car park. It’ll be safe there. You don’t want to be picked up by the police, do you? Why don’t you let your friend get you home safely?’

Friend? I had to stifle a smile.

Mike obviously shared an identical thought. ‘Bletch?’ he repeated and fresh confusion clouded his face. ‘My friend?’

I threw a look of sympathetic concern to Emma. ‘It’s been a while, Mike. I’m not surprised you don’t recognise me.’ I gave a shrug. ‘When Mike knew me, I was as big as a house.’

She didn’t seem to know what to say to that; I was clearly the reverse now. I kept talking, kept moving, drawing Mike towards the car park.

‘No one’s told me how badly my daughter is hurt,’ Mike slurred. ‘I need to ring home.’

Emma spoke to him firmly. ‘Mr Sheriff, get in your friend’s car and go home. It sounds as if they need you back there straight-away.’

I could see she was about to ask me my name. ‘Whoops!’ I said, pretending to catch Mike as if he’d staggered. ‘Come on. Let’s get you home, champ. Your family needs you.’ I looked back at her. ‘I’m sure Mike will ring to thank you himself.’

She gave a grin. ‘No need to worry. This is my last night here and I was just knocking off. I’m headed overseas for a year, doing an exchange.’

The angels were smiling on me tonight.

I hustled Mike quickly into the car park, all the while making the right sympathetic noises.

I bundled him into my van, locked his door, then jumped into the driving seat. I pulled a bottle of water from the glove compartment. ‘Here, Mikey, drink this.’

‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘Just water. You need to sober up. Drink plenty and we’ll see if we can’t get you a coffee on the way home. That will help wake you up.’

‘Where’s Jean? I must thank her,’ Sheriff mumbled as he unscrewed the cap. ‘Is it really you? Fat Bletch?’ he continued, a note of awe coming through the alcohol. ‘It can’t be. You look so different, so thin. Amazing.’

‘Everyone looks amazing through slightly pissed eyes, Mike,’ I said, pulling out of the car park. ‘But I’ll take the compliment. I work out, keep myself fit.’

‘I can hardly believe it’s you. I would never have recognised you.’ He yawned.

‘You could say I’ve reinvented myself along with the new body.’ I grinned at him.

He paused then; no doubt the memories were crashing back, closing in around us. No amount of alcohol could fully block those horrors.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ he admitted, and I felt a small stab of admiration that he at least said that much. ‘What can I say that can—’

‘Nothing, Mikey. Nothing you can say will change it.’ I held his abashed stare. ‘So don’t try, eh? It was almost three decades ago.’

‘No, but—’

‘Please, don’t. I never allow myself to think about it, let alone talk about it. If I can bear it, you can bear not to discuss it, eh?’ I gave him a friendly punch, but he looked like a startled deer, ready to flee. ‘Keep drinking,’ I said. ‘We have to sober you up.’

I watched as he tipped almost half of what was left in the water bottle down his throat. It was enough; I could relax now.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he said. He was concentrating hard on not slurring.

‘Work,’ I answered brightly. ‘It’s such a beautiful city and that cathedral at night – wow! I was just having a beer at the hotel and planning to drive around and enjoy all these fabulous old buildings and landmarks in the dark.’

‘A long way from Brighton,’ he murmured, leaning against the window.

‘Too right,’ I replied quickly. ‘Drink the rest. You’ll feel better shortly.’

‘I feel worse. I was coming good, but now I feel blurry again. I don’t want to be here with you. It’s embarrassing. I feel awkward and ashamed. Please don’t behave so generously towards me. I don’t want your pity and I don’t deserve it.’

I smiled in the dark and watched him give another big yawn.

Mikey was mine.

When Mikey came to, he found himself slumped in the back of the van with me hovering above him, snapping on thin surgical-like gloves.

Despite the alcohol on his breath, he was sober enough to think clearly. Terror does that to you.

‘What’s happening? Why have you tied me up? What happened to your hair?’ he asked, fear escalating in his voice as he took in the van’s interior, the torchlight, the hideous distortion of the face of the person they had once called Bletch.

‘Oh, I took my wig off. Do you like my mask?’ I said. ‘It’s not nearly as much fun as your clown masks, but I’ve heard that a stocking over the head and face is great for preventing DNA drifting down. Same with the gloves. And I’ll be burning my clothes later – there are plenty of bonfires around tonight.’ I paused. ‘Does the fifth of November mean anything to you, Mikey? It’s highly significant for me.’

It was as if he’d heard none of what I’d just said. ‘Where are we?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, Mike, this is salubrious compared with the places you chose for me. But don’t worry. I’m taking you somewhere else, somewhere that should prompt memories – not that you’ll be aware of them.’ I smiled, the gesture no doubt terrifying in the torchlight. ‘Do you know, I’ve been afraid of anything tunnel-like for thirty years, ever since you guys grabbed me in the Hove twitten. You can’t imagine how something like that impacts on your life.’

I added, ‘You remember what you did, don’t you, Mike? I can’t remember much myself – not that first time. I was so drugged, you see. Just like you’ll be again in a moment. But I wanted us to have this chat so you know what is happening and why. Now, I want you to take these. They’re stronger than the stuff I gave you before.’ I held out two tablets.

He shook his head, understanding dawning as the memories flooded back. He opened his mouth again. ‘A—’

‘No pleading, Mikey.’ I waved a finger at him. ‘I tried that too. It doesn’t work. So save your pride. Be courageous instead and go to your death bravely.’

‘Death? No!’

‘Mikey, I suggest you swallow these pills and save yourself the most exquisite pain, because even courage won’t get you through what I have in store. What I gave you in the water was just a light dose, which is why you’re awake now. But, believe me, you don’t want to wake up in the middle of what I have planned for you. Oh, wait. Before you take them, help me get your trousers down, will you, mate? Be easier if we did that first.’

I slapped the duct tape across his mouth so there would be no screaming, removed the knife from its sheath and began undoing his belt. It didn’t take much imagination for my captive to appreciate what I intended. He made mewling sounds behind the tape, his eyes flicking to the tablets I’d laid beside him.

‘Ah, I knew you’d see sense. Okay, I’ll help you with those in a moment, but help me here and lift your arse.’

He obliged, clearly terrified of antagonising me any further.

‘Oh, Mikey, still got the eczema, I see,’ I said, looking at his groin. ‘Must be itchy, eh? You poor sod. Now, are you going to yell?’ I grabbed the flaccid bundle between his legs. ‘Because if you are, I’ll cut you immediately and you can feel all the pain as you bleed to death. And then I’ll be obliged to punish you properly by killing someone you love. Diane, perhaps? Rob, Susan?’

His eyes became wider still as I named his wife and children, and he shook his head.

‘All right then, Mikey. I’m trusting you not to begin shouting – not that it will help because we’re in the middle of nowhere, but I hate noise.’

I helped him to sit up a little straighter before I ripped the tape from his mouth and stuffed half a dozen of the tablets onto his tongue. The knife was frighteningly close to his face as he drank the sedatives down.

‘Swallow, Mikey. You want these to work, I promise you.’

He obliged, greedily drinking.

‘You’re a champ,’ I said. ‘Now, as Pierrot once suggested, let’s be friends and have a nice chat.’

‘Please… we were kids. It was so long ago.’

‘That doesn’t excuse it. You’re right, we were kids. But then Pierrot came on the scene and it all turned nasty. I kept hoping you’d all come to your senses and rebel against him, but you didn’t. You let him do whatever he wanted. Do you remember him jumping on me? Have you any idea what that did?’

He began to blather. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You began to cry and we got scared. We were cowards, I know. There was so much more we could have done but we were frightened. We were just kids. I’m sorry.’

‘I am too, Mikey, but it doesn’t change a thing. You see, you lot had a choice. I didn’t. You could have got help. You could have dragged him away – there were enough of you. You could have just said no. Twice you could have saved me, but you didn’t. Which of you killed my dog, by the way?’

‘What?’ he said, confused by the sudden change of subject.

‘Beano, my dog. One of you stabbed him. Who was it?’

‘It was him! Always him.’ Mike was sobbing now. ‘Phil did his best to save your dog – I think he even got cut quite badly.’

‘That makes me feel so much better, Mike. Thanks for telling me.’ My sarcastic tone was sharp enough to cut through the drug haze that was claiming him.

‘I see the R2 is taking effect,’ I went on. ‘It’s called the “date rape” drug – did you know that? Today’s version turns blue in liquid, so guys can’t slip it into girls’ drinks. But I saved these from my mother’s medicine cabinet all those years ago. They’re just like the ones Pierrot used on me.’

His eyelids were sagging. ‘Good, Mikey. Now it’s all easy for you. Just go to sleep and don’t wake up. It’s time for you to pay for your sins. I’ve been paying for them for decades. Why should I suffer alone?’

‘Why now?’ he slurred.

‘Because, Mikey, I need someone to blame for all the pain in my life. I need to fix it and set things right. I blame the Jesters’ Club – I still have your funny note somewhere. Happy Birthday, it said, and then, Let’s face it, no one else is ever going to fuck you. Signed: Pierrot, Coco, Bozo, Cooky and Blinko. Humorous, eh?’ I sighed loudly for his benefit. ‘I think I’ve entered what you’d call a psychotic episode. I can’t be sure, but my psychiatrist could probably throw some light on it.’

‘You seem so sane,’ he slurred, trying to remain awake.

I laughed bitterly. ‘So did Pierrot. But he was nuts and you all followed him like dumb sheep. What was his name, Mikey? I’ll pay him back for you, I promise.’

He slumped against the side of the van, unable to hold himself upright. ‘Flynn,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t know the rest.’

He slipped into unconsciousness and there was nothing left for me to do but get on with my grim task.

My thoughts began spiralling into the dark of the past. The floodgates I had locked so very tightly these past thirty years opened and the memories gushed back as freshly as if the events had occurred only moments ago. I could even smell the blood, as though it had just been freshly spilled.

And with the memories came a white rage that burned away the terror. Suddenly I was calm and precise; there would be no sympathy for my victim. I knew that killing the members of the mocking Jesters’ Club was the only way I could kill the suffering of so long.

‘This is for Beano,’ I said as the knife slid cleanly, easily, into Michael Sheriff’s body. Mercifully, there was no spume of blood; his heart must have already stopped due to the drug overdose. I withdrew the knife and wiped the blade clean, then went to work.

The emasculation was easy and I placed the bloody pile in Mikey’s hands. It seemed as good a place as any, and would no doubt give the police something to think about.

I sliced through his fleshy lips to reveal his teeth and gums. The debris from his ruined mouth joined the glutinous mass in his hand. He grinned at me now with a horrible leer.

‘Now the final touch,’ I told him, and pulled a small paint pot from my plastic bag – a tester size with the romantic-sounding name of Santorini.

‘I’d like to go to Santorini,’ I said to Mike conversationally as I dipped his fingers into the pot and smeared the paint on his cheeks. ‘I’d like to ride a donkey up the hillside, and then look at that famous church’s blue-domed roof, just like I’ve seen in the travel brochures, and sip a chilled light red on a balmy night on one of the rooftop tavernas.

‘Perhaps I’ll go there when this is over,’ I said. But Mikey didn’t reply.

2

LONDON, FEBRUARY 2003

DCI Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably in a chair in his chief’s office. The striped shirt that his sister had sent him from one of her favourite stores in Australia felt itchy. He sighed, knew he should have washed it before wearing it, but it had arrived last night,wrappedintissuepaperandboxed.Todaywashisbirthday and he’d felt obliged to wear it, even though it was clearly a summer shirt, and barely a crisp nine degrees outside. Thank goodness for his thick winter overcoat. He squirmed again as his Superintendent, Martin Sharpe, blustered in.

‘Sorry, Jack,’ he said, waving some files to explain the delay. Then he stopped. ‘Er, that’s a very… colourful shirt.’

‘It’s my birthday, sir. A present from Amy.’

‘Ah, how is she? Still hitched to that bloke Down Under?’ Sharpe said, lowering himself heavily into his chair, the polished buttons on his black uniform straining slightly at his belly.

Jack smiled fondly to himself, appreciating how Sharpe’s sweet tooth was taking its toll. ‘Robert, sir. Yes, I think we’ve lost her fully to the Aussies.’

Sharpe groaned. ‘Please don’t tell me she supports their First Eleven now.’

Jack grinned. ‘I’m afraid she paints her face green and gold at the cricket and has now adopted her own football team. Apparently Man United is no longer sexy enough. Have you ever watched one of those Australian Rules games, sir?’

‘Bloody rubbish – can’t make head nor tale of it. All that boun-cing and catching, running with the ball and leaping into the air like fairies.’

‘I don’t think they’re fairies, sir. From what I see, it’s quite a rough game.’

‘Well, so long as they don’t try and introduce it here in the land of real football! Mind you, Sydney looked magnificent on all the Olympics promotions. Must go see it some time.’

Jack Hawksworth made a sound of regret. ‘Amy begged me to go over for it. It’s a beautiful city, sir – in fact, she wants me to visit this year.’

‘Well, I don’t think you can go anywhere for the moment, Jack. We need you here.’

‘Something come up?’

Sharpe nodded, but before he could say anything further, his assistant, Helen, knocked at the door. ‘Coffee, gents?’ She smiled at Jack.

‘I love you, Helen. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I’m immune to your charms, Jack.’

‘You must be the only woman who is,’ the Super chipped in and then winked at his colleague, who’d bristled. ‘Settle, Jack. I’d forgotten that it’s his birthday, Helen… we can tease him all we want.’

She smiled at Hawksworth again. ‘I’ll be back with the coffee. And here’s the pathology report you wanted, sir.’

Sharpe nodded his thanks as she closed the door. ‘Don’t be too touchy, Jack, m’boy. Unless you plan radical plastic surgery, you’ve got to live with those looks… and their consequences.’

‘Was that a compliment, sir, or are we back to that old chestnut?’

His superior shrugged. ‘I’ve been telling you that for years. No need to get the hump, m’boy.’

Hawksworth sighed. He didn’t think the shadow of Liz Drummond would ever disappear. ‘Tell me about this case, sir.’

‘We don’t really know what we’ve got here.’ Sharpe pushed a file towards the man he’d been grooming for fifteen years to reach this senior role. ‘Lincolnshire Police found the body of a man named Michael Sheriff, from Louth, three months ago in the old quarter of Lincoln. No clues as yet to the killer, although he certainly left his calling card.’ Sharpe nodded towards the manila folder.

The younger man frowned, opened the file and reacted as Sharpe had anticipated to the series of photos.

‘No lips.’ He looked up, puzzled. ‘What’s the significance?’

The Superintendent shrugged. ‘We’re yet to discover. The genitals, as you can see, were removed and placed in the victim’s hands. We don’t know what the blue paint on the fingers and face mean, either.’

‘How did he die?’

Sharpe held up a finger and opened the pathology file that Helen had just delivered. Hawksworth studied the photos again. The victim was broad, not especially tall, looked to be in his mid-forties perhaps.

Sharpe continued. ‘Ah, it seems the more artistic cutting work was done post-mortem. Alcohol and the presence of flunitrazepam suggest he was likely unconscious, if not dead, before being stabbed. It was a huge dose of the drug.’

‘So the stabbing was just to make sure,’ Jack commented, unable to take his eyes off the hideous lipless grin that left the victim’s teeth permanently exposed.

‘Don in Pathology is suggesting that the killer is left-handed. We know the victim was married with two children; forty-four years of age. A teacher. Nothing out of the ordinary – not into anything known to the police.’ Sharpe pushed the pathology report across the desk. ‘Here, you can read it all.’

‘Sir, presumably the Lincolnshire boys have it all covered. What has this to do with the Yard?’

His superior lifted another file from his desk. ‘Because three days ago a forty-five-year-old male – a Clive Farrow – was found dead in the public toilet block of Springfield Park.’

‘Hackney Marshes? We shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘We should when the MO’s the same as for our killer from Lincoln. Farrow lived in Hackney just off Lower Clapton Road with his partner, Lisa Hale. They’d been engaged for four years. He was a year older than Sheriff.’

‘Identical death, you’re saying?’

Sharpe shrugged lightly. ‘Certain classic highlights – the lips removed, emasculation, presence of the identical drug.’

‘No alcohol this time?’

‘Seems not. Everything’s in this file.’

‘So we have a serial killer? Is that what you think?’

‘Who can say yet, but two bodies suffering a similar fate, seemingly at the hands of the same murderer, suggests a serial killing to me.’

The door opened and the smell of roasted coffee beans drifted in with Helen and her tray. She put a tiny pink fondant fancy in front of Jack. In its creamy centre she’d placed a pale-green birthday candle. The garish colours echoed his striped shirt. ‘Couldn’t resist it,’ she admitted sheepishly, and squeezed his shoulder.

‘I can forgive you, Helen, but only because this is the real stuff,’ Jack quipped in response, loudly inhaling the aroma of the coffee.

‘Oh, well. Since Martin got back from Rome he’s been unbearable. Not even plunger coffee is good enough any more – I have to boil the stuff.’ She pulled a face of mock despair for Jack’s benefit before withdrawing.

Martin motioned for his subordinate to enjoy the treat. He sipped, sighed at the taste of properly percolated coffee, and gave his instructions. ‘This is now the Yard’s case – we’re pulling both events under one unit – and you’ve got the nod to run it. Get a team together, Jack. Obviously we need cooperation from the boys over in Lincoln, so I don’t need to tell you to move into their regions with a light tread. Who would you bring under your command?’

Jack frowned in concentration. ‘Brodie. He’s tough and he’s good. I trust him. Swamp – always reliable and adds the maturity an operation needs. I think Kate Carter’s as sharp as they come. I like the way her mind works. I also got to know a young constable while she was in detective school at Hendon. She’s a whiz on our database, HOLMES, and a qualified indexer, which I need on the team anyway. DS Sarah Jones – she’d be great. A handful of PCs, of course. I’ll put together a list.’

The Super nodded.

Jack looked up from the notes he was scribbling. ‘Have we done a profile yet?’

‘No, but I’m sure John Tandy over at FSS will have a field day with this material. You can have whatever you need.’

Jack approved. Tandy was one of the better profilers out of the Home Office. ‘What are we telling people?’

‘We’ll be making a statement for this evening’s news. As little information as possible, of course. I want you there, Jack. Helen will let you know what time.’

Hawksworth nodded unhappily but said nothing. He sat forward to finish his coffee and felt the scratch of the new cotton again.

Sharpe continued, ignoring his protégé’s reluctance to appear on TV. ‘SCD has formally named your investigation Operation Danube.’

‘Another river?’ Jack groaned. ‘Can’t they dream up something more exotic for major operations?’

‘Consider yourself lucky it wasn’t Yangtze!’ Sharpe smiled apologetically.

‘Hmmph,’ said Jack as he drained his cup, then looked at his chief, waiting for the signal that the meeting was at an end. However, it seemed the Super had more to say and Jack guessed where they were headed.

‘This next bit has to be said, Jack.’

The DCI raised his hands, his expression one of pain. ‘Please, sir, you don’t—’

‘I do, though. This is my job, Jack. You get to catch criminals, I get to keep my personnel on the straight and narrow – none more important in my eyes than you. You understand what’s at stake here?’

‘I do, sir,’ Jack said, grimly.

‘I hope so, Son. This is the test. Most don’t get a second high-profile chance. Your work is exceptional – we all agree on that. None more supportive than myself, but I’m biased. Since your mother and father… Well, you know that Cathie and I have felt like parents to you. But we lost a man and everyone wants someone to blame in such circumstances. It was clearly not your fault, but I want you squeaky clean from here on. On the other hand, I’d suggest you don’t get too defensive. I know a lesson was learned when you were an up-and-coming detective. Now it’s time to let it go.’

‘Then why do I feel as though I can’t ever be too careful? That inquiry wanted to haul me over the coals, sir.’

‘You were exonerated,’ the older man said, peering over the rim of his glasses.

‘Mud sticks.’

‘Well, you just have to learn to be less prickly, DCI Hawksworth, and more slippery. Don’t give it anything to stick to.’

‘Liz and I,’ he began, then shrugged. ‘It was a mistake, sir.’

‘Don’t make it again,’ the Super said, his gaze searing, determined to leave an impression on the younger man. ‘In light of that, are you sure Kate Carter is the right choice?’

Jack’s bowed head snapped up as if he’d been slapped. ‘Superintendent Sharpe, I don’t—’

‘DCI Hawksworth,’ the senior man interrupted gently, ‘this is not about whether you would seduce DI Carter. This is about DI Carter’s susceptibility. It’s about temptation, an extremely good-looking female detective and a rather too eligible boss. I may be sixty-four, Jack, but I have not forgotten the drive of a young libido. I also have spies everywhere, none more capable than Helen. She keeps her ear to the ground and we know just how much of a talking point you are with the females. Something like this could seriously compromise you. You’re the rising star of the Force, Jack.’ Sharpe paused before adding emphatically, ‘Don’t blow it!’

‘Sir,’ Jack said, through gritted teeth, ‘if we followed that theory, I’d have to keep women out of this operation altogether, and then we’d be up for a different sort of inquiry! And just for the record, sir, DI Carter is engaged to be married.’ He held his temper as the old man chuckled, his mirth suggesting he didn’t believe that fact would stop a romance occurring.

‘It got ugly last time, Jack, and apart from the death of Paul Conway, the Met lost a very good DS in Liz Drummond. I was able to protect you then, but your profile is too high now. You have jealous colleagues and the desire to constantly cut someone successful down to size is alive and well at the Yard.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Look in the mirror tonight, Jack. Get some sense of the fact that your good looks are what nearly undid you… and could again. Use them to charm the Met’s hierarchy, but save any amorous pursuits for women outside of the Force. Sleep with a schoolteacher, for pity’s sake.’

‘I hear you,’ Jack said, working hard not to show his exasperation. He stood, moved to the door. ‘I’ll get on, sir.’

‘One more thing, Jack.’

‘Sir?’

‘Try very hard to follow the rules on this one, eh?’

‘I was right on Operation Destiny.’

‘Yes, you were, but you took one too many chances. At the risk of being tedious, Jack, I’ll remind you again that a lot is at stake. This is your return to the big time – you have been given what is arguably the most high-profile criminal case the Yard has had to deal with in a long time. The media will go into a feeding frenzy once they get the first sniff of a possible serial killer. I want you to be hailed as a hero when you get this bastard, and I don’t want any dirty linen being aired in the Yard over your handling of it.’ His Superintendent gave a final warning. ‘And I don’t want a third lipless, dickless corpse on our hands, Jack. Move fast because the media will be onto this in moments.’

Jack didn’t need to be reminded. He could already see the first shrieking headline in his mind: Killer Gives Kiss of Death. He grimaced. ‘Well, let’s keep the details from them as long as we can.’

‘Happy birthday, Jack,’ Sharpe added, more gently. ‘Find this bastard for me.’

What a day! But he’d finally secured the operations rooms, set up the request for phone numbers, spoken to IT regarding all the equipment required – computer terminals with full CAD, NC and MSS capabilities, as well as additional PCs for HOLMES, the database. He had contacted the relevant webmaster to ensure the Danube home address with contact details was already in the public domain and ready to take daily updates. Most importantly, he’d ensured Joan Field was a cert as the operation’s receptionist and all-round mother figure. Joan was the best – kind, firm, generous, tough. All qualities that would anchor a team coming under intense pressure and would keep the baying dogs of the media, the public and their own hierarchy at arm’s length.

He had also set up a temporary office at Wellington House, where the new team would gather the following afternoon for their first briefing. Finally, he had called around the country and pulled in the team itself. Everyone had leaped at the chance to work on the high-profile case and he was delighted that each of the senior members – the DIs who would drive the investigation – were now attached to Operation Danube. SCD Reserve had been alerted. It was likely that he’d need to pull in officers and/or clerical staff from the 24-hour available roster at short notice. His mind was whirring with all the details as he finally set off from the Yard that evening.

Jack preferred not to take his roadster to work but he’d have given anything to have it to get him home quickly. By the time he’d battled the Victoria Line’s late-night shopping crowd and changed at Euston for the four stops northbound to Archway, he was feeling the weight of fatigue of this busy day. Not only had it included setting up one of the Yard’s most important investigations, but there’d also been the key press conference.

Jack had rung the Super before he left the Yard that evening with a promise that in another seventy-two hours they would have broken new ground on the two cases and would have something to tell the media at Monday morning’s follow-up press conference. It had sounded hollow even to his ears, but Jack knew he had to remain positive. Sharpe had understood, of course. He had been there enough times himself.

But Jack had also grasped that there was pressure from above and the need for the police to be seen to be making headway on this high-profile case. Journos had picked up the trail since this evening’s gathering of the media, and Hawksworth had already been forced to put a constable with a friendly but firm approach onto the phones full time to deflect the media interest.

Normally Jack relished the long walk up the hill past Whittington Hospital to Waterlow Park near where he lived. But by the time he reached Highgate Village this evening he was desperate for a shower, a glass of wine and a couple of hours of moronic TV – anything to take his mind off mutilated bodies and the lack of leads he would be presenting to his new team. Nevertheless, he turned at the top of the hill, as he always did, and admired the view across London. Highgate was a prized address and once again Jack counted his blessings. There were no positives to losing parents so young in such horrific instances. The motorway crash had given him his inheritance early and he had been determined not to squander it on anything but the bricks and mortar his father would have approved.

The parklands that surrounded the suburb, courtesy of the Bishop of London’s hunting grounds during the Middle Ages, lent it a genuine countryside air. This sense of the rural was further reinforced by the presence of Highgate Wood and sprawling Hampstead Heath. Residents of Highgate could take picnics in their own suburb, walk their dogs for miles through woodland, and generally enjoy the impression that a great city, and all of its trappings, was not throbbing just minutes away. Jack had lived here for four years and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

He thought about dropping into The Flask for a pint of Speckled Hen, but the low mood he had held off all day caught up with him and he ignored the pull of the eighteenth-century taproom and moved instead in the direction of Coleridge House, a grand old Georgian pile tastefully divided into four mansion apartments overlooking the park. He checked his postbox and withdrew a motley assortment of bills, junk mail and a late birthday card from an ageing aunt. He glanced at the name of the owner who had acquired apartment four a few months ago – he had meant to offer a welcome and still had the Harrods Christmas pudding in his apartment. He felt a fresh stab of guilt. He’d better change it to a bottle of bubbly now, and if he didn’t hurry up, it would have to be an Easter egg.

As the lift doors closed he dug into his pocket for his door keys, still thinking about the meeting with his boss. Martin Sharpe had obviously argued long and hard to win Jack the operation. He was determined not to let his Super and long-time supporter down. The truth was, Sharpe was more than that. Sharpe and his wife, Cathie, had tried their damndest to plug the gap that the death of his parents had left. Sharpe and Jack’s father had been close friends since their early days working in the Diplomatic Protection Group at Westminster, continuing together to Downing Street. After DPG, it was clear Martin was a career officer, destined for Superintendent, probably higher.

When Mary and Ken Hawksworth had died in the 1985 M6 pile-up, it was Martin Sharpe who had helped to gather up the bits of twenty-two-year-old Jack Hawksworth and reassemble him.

Amy, three years older than Jack, had been working in Bahrain when the accident happened, and although she was permitted compassionate leave, it wasn’t long enough for the Hawksworth siblings to find comfort. Amy was hugging her brother a teary farewell almost as soon as she’d arrived and so it was Martin and Cathie who had quietly taken him into their lives and, with the gentlest of touches, brought him back from a dark year during which Martin had feared Jack might give up the Force completely.

Jack entered his apartment, headed straight to his bedroom and changed from his itchy birthday shirt into comfy jeans and sweatshirt before flopping into the leather sofa opposite a TV that he didn’t have the desire to turn on. He needed to eat, he needed to sleep, but for now he couldn’t move. He spent several minutes staring across Waterlow Park and its manicured flowerbeds through the living room’s tall windows. The Flask tempted him again – he could relax over some tapas, perhaps a glass of wine. The watering hole that had once been a hiding place for highwayman Dick Turpin was probably just what he needed to lift his spirits and placate his grinding belly. But at this late hour it would be buzzing with arty types and he wasn’t up to the noise and activity. Instead, he opted to try and clear his mind of mutilated corpses with a splendidly crisp riesling from his fridge. He was too tired to think of food but knew he had to eat properly or he’d end up with a paunch like Swamp’s or a complexion like Brodie’s: both the result of long hours, late nights, beer and fast food. He couldn’t blame them, but Jack spent too many precious hours in the Yard’s gym in an effort to keep some semblance of fitness to waste it on a lazy attitude to what passed down his gullet. Health and fitness were important to him, and what he saved on not having to pay for a private gym he invested in decent wine.

He looked again at the shopping bag containing streaky bacon, tomato, onion and free-range eggs he’d grabbed at Highgate Village and urged himself to get up and make an omelette.

Before he could move, the landline began jangling next to him. Wearily he reached for it. This had to be personal – no one from work rang him on his home number. ‘Hello?’

A voice began singing loudly into his ear. ‘Happy birthday, dear Henry, happy birthday to you!’ it hollered, dragging out the final word.

Only his sister ever called him by his middle name. ‘Thank you, Amy.’

‘You’re most welcome. How rude of you not to return my call.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. If only you knew…’

‘I do,’ she said, her sunny voice making him feel warm inside. ‘Tell me it arrived in time. Did you wear it?’

‘It did. I did. Another thank you.’

‘Do you love it?’

‘Reminded me of ice-cream.’

‘I can hear that you hated it.’

‘That’s not true. I just need to gear up to wearing mint and pink stripes.’

‘Well, someone has to try and break you free of schoolboy blue. I bet you’re wearing that now.’

‘I’m naked actually. You interrupted something.’ She squealed – as he’d hoped she might – and he laughed with delight that he could still do that to her. ‘I’m not, I promise. I can’t help that I favour old-fashioned colours.’

‘Just like Dad. Are you still listening to Roy Orbison?’

‘Now and then.’

‘Break free, little brother. Come on, come over here for a few weeks. I’m all alone so I can give you one hundred per cent, undivided attention. There’s so much we can do. Shopping for shirts, for instance.’

‘Soon, I promise.’

‘Now!’ she urged.

‘I can’t. We’re in the middle of something here.’

‘Nasty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ooh, what? Really gruesome, you mean?’

‘I’m afraid so, just like the stuff you love to read but with none of those smart-talking, whip-cracking, brilliant know-all women solving the murder.’

She sighed. ‘I miss you.’

‘I wish you were closer, too. Why couldn’t you have married a Spaniard, or we’d have even coped if he was French.’

‘You know me, never do things by halves. Listen, I have something to tell you.’ She sounded suddenly serious.

‘What’s cooking?’

‘I am. And I’ve got a fat little bun in the oven.’

It was his turn for a pause as this sank in. ‘A baby?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Yes!’ she screamed across the thousands of miles that separated them. ‘But not just one bun.’

‘You’re having twins?’

He heard her begin to weep. ‘Two beautiful babies, Henry. Can you imagine? I just wish Mum and Dad were around to share this with me… and you’re so far away, damn it!’

It broke his heart that he couldn’t hug her. ‘Come home, Amy.’

‘I can’t,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Rob needs me here too, and he’s so excited I can’t shut him up.’

‘When am I going to have nieces and nephews?’

‘By June, we think.’

‘Well.’ He blew out his cheeks, overwhelmed by this happy family news. ‘My congratulations, old girl. And to Rob. That’s it, I was trying to summon the energy to cook but now I’m definitely going to get drunk instead.’

‘Well, someone has to! Robert must be the only Australian bloke who doesn’t drink.’

‘To Pinky and Perky, then.’

She laughed and he was glad to hear it. ‘And if they don’t resemble sweet, chubby pink piglets, to Bleep and Booster,’ she said.

‘I’ll have to insist upon those names as godfather.’

‘Godfathers have to be present at the christening, Henry.’

‘That’s a promise.’ He counted off the months in his head until the babies would be six months. ‘I’ve got roughly a year, right?’

‘Don’t you want to see me enormous?’

‘I want to see you with Pinky and Perky in your arms.’

‘That’s a date. Next April let’s say you’re coming to Sydney. I’ll take you to a game and you can see football played by real men who run straight into each other – none of this rolling around on the pitch in agony because their toe’s been trodden on or they’ve chipped a fingernail.’

It was a familiar dig but he didn’t rise to her bait this time.

Instead he laughed, blew her a kiss. ‘Love to you both. Now leave me, woman. I have a bottle or two of riesling to consume.’

She kissed him back. ‘I’ll ring again soon because I know you won’t ring me.’

No sooner had they hung up than the phone rang again. Jack assumed it was his sister again. She often did this – thought of something almost immediately after saying goodbye and rang directly back.

‘What about Jack and Jill,’ he said, ‘if it’s one of each?’

‘Sorry?’ It wasn’t Amy. ‘Is that Mr Hawksworth?’

‘Yes, it is. I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

‘This is Traute Becker. I’m on the floor below you – apartment two?’

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Jack heard the German accent that no amount of living in Britain could eradicate. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Hawksworth, but I need some help. My husband is away and it seems there’s been some sort of power failure. I’ve rung the power company and it’s not the grid, you see. It’s something local, they’re saying.’

‘What does that mean?’ Jack might bake but he was no handyman. None of his lights were on to check, he only now realised, but the fridge was humming quietly and the phone worked.

‘Something in the basement, I presume. A switch we throw back on.’

He liked the singsong nature of her voice and the way ‘something’ came out as ‘somesing’ and ‘throw’ sounded more like ‘srow’.

‘Oh, like a trip switch?’

‘Ja, ja, that’s the word he used.’

‘Would you like me to take a look?’ Sounded like the right thing to say even though it would be the blind leading the blind.

‘Ja, I would. I don’t want to go down there alone, if you please.’

‘No problem. But I don’t think it’s the basement, Mrs Becker. More likely your own circuit box, because I can hear my fridge so I’ve got power. Give me a few moments and I’ll be down.’

Jack met Mrs Becker outside her door and she let him into her apartment, using a torch to light their way. She made polite apologies, which he tried to wave away. He wondered if the other apartments were still powered. He knew old Mr Claren was staying in Scotland for a few weeks with his daughter because Jack had agreed to clear his postbox. Damn, he thought, I must do that.

Mrs Becker seemed to read his mind. ‘Mr Claren’s post needs clearing. He’s not back until the end of this week. Here we go. Is this what you mean?’ She pointed to a box on the wall.

‘That’s it,’ Jack said, hoping that his basic knowledge would bring light back to Mrs Becker’s place. ‘I think we flick this switch.’ He did so and her apartment flickered instantly back to life.

‘Ah,’ they said together and congratulated one another.

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Hawksworth. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, feeling quite the hero. ‘Any time.’

‘Can I offer you something?’

He tried not to smile at that word again. ‘No, really, Mrs Becker. I’ve just returned from work and I’m ready to call it a day, if you don’t mind. I was just heading into the shower when you rang,’ he fibbed, eager to be on his way upstairs.

‘Okay. Come visit some time when Mr Becker is back.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Jack walked to the door.

She bustled behind him. ‘By the way, have you welcomed our new neighbour yet?’

Jack felt instantly ashamed again. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Ja, you should. Nice lady, shame about the chair.’

‘Sorry?’

She shrugged in that European way. ‘She has the chair, you know, with the wheels.’

‘Oh.’ He understood.

‘Ja. Should we go and check, do you think?’ Mrs Becker wondered aloud. ‘Perhaps her lights have gone too. A good chance for you to say your hello before a welcome feels awkward, no?’

‘Er…’ Jack scratched his head. He really didn’t want to, neither did he think it was necessary, but Mrs Becker looked determined. She was the building’s obligatory busybody and clearly about to use him as her battering ram into the new tenant’s property. But without her, Jack wouldn’t know much at all about the little bits of cooperative administration he should be involved with, from exterior painting to care of their gardens. ‘Okay, let’s go together. She may not like a strange man knocking on her door in the evening.’

The lift worked perfectly and Jack suspected it was only the first level that had been knocked out, for some reason. They ascended to the top floor. Mrs Becker chose the door knocker over the less intrusive and clearly lit bell. She knocked again a few moments later and was answered by a voice calling out that she was coming.

The door opened. ‘Yes?’ said the new occupant, looking sideways at them because her wheelchair and a door opening inwards was a bad combination. ‘Can I help you?’

Mrs Becker smiled but said nothing, so Jack filled the void.

‘Hi. I’m Jack Hawksworth. I live in the apartment below you, and the trip switch went off in one of the other apartments. We thought we should do the neighbourly thing and check all was okay with you. This is Mrs Becker, by the way.’

The woman in the wheelchair beamed and Jack felt drawn to the warmth of the smile. ‘How kind. Um, all’s well here, but thank you.’ She reached out her hand. ‘I’m Sophie. Sophie Fenton.’

Jack took it, noticing the well-kept nails and the waft of his favourite perfume. Amy wore it sometimes, and although it was an old brand it was a classic. He was going to mention it but bit his tongue. It might come out as though he was flirting. Wheelchair-ridden or not, Sophie Fenton looked terrific with her hair tied carelessly in a ponytail and wearing baggy grey trackies, the hoodie unzipped just enough to reveal that she had smooth skin and, from what he could see, a very nice upper half. Sophie was now shaking Mrs Becker’s hand, her golden hair glinting beneath the lights in her hallway.

Jack shifted from one foot to the other, embarrassed that he was staring so long and hard. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘so again forgive the disruption, but at least we all got to say hello. I’m actually truly embarrassed it’s taken me so long.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with the smile she still wore. ‘It’s great to meet you both, and I hope the painters, removalists and all the banging around didn’t cause you too much grief as I settled in?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. In fact, I didn’t even know you had physically moved in until just before Christmas,’ he admitted, again reminded of the Christmas pudding.

‘I’ve been here since late November, but to be honest, you’re as much a stranger to me. I’m exceptionally good at remembering faces and I’ve not seen you coming or going.’

Jack felt the familiar surge of shame. ‘I don’t keep very regular hours.’

Mrs Becker was shaking her head. ‘I used to hear the previous owner’s loud music. You won’t be playing loud music, will you?’

‘Not when I can’t dance to it, no,’ Sophie said, stealing an amused glance at Jack after realising the humour was lost on Mrs Becker. He returned a slightly perplexed grin, captivated and yet somewhat disarmed by her directness.

‘Are you settled?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely. I’m no procrastinator. Would you like to come in for a coffee, or…’

He’d have loved to, but it wasn’t appropriate under these circumstances and not with present company in tow. He could feel Mrs Becker rocking on her heels, ready to barge in and snoop around the place. ‘Another time, perhaps?’

Sophie nodded and he hoped she had picked up that he was doing her a favour.

‘Well, hope to see you soon,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we’ll pass in the corridor, and don’t hesitate if you ever need sugar. Just bang hard on the floor with a broom or something and I’ll come running.’

It was a lame comeback to her kind invitation, the one he was already regretting turning down, but the wryness in her expression told him she appreciated his discretion.

She smiled. ‘Use the lift, then you’ll be sure to see me, although there’s not much room for more than me and my chair. You’ll all hate me.’

‘He runs up the stairs like a child,’ Mrs Becker said, poking a finger towards Jack. ‘Me, I walk the one flight. Can’t wait for the wretched lift.’

‘I promise to use the lift if it means we can meet,’ Jack said.

Blimey, I sound desperate, he thought instantly. It was true he hadn’t really connected with a woman in a long time. Oh, he’d dated often enough – too much, in fact – but hadn’t enjoyed any woman’s company enough over the course of an evening to want to see her again. But here was Sophie, face shiny and clear of make-up, daggy tracksuit, hair tied up messily, sitting in a wheelchair and talking to them from an awkward position, and in less than a minute or two he’d decided he seriously wanted to meet her again.

‘I’ll hold you to that. Nice seeing you – I’m very glad to know who my neighbours are,’ she said to Mrs Becker and gave him a final glance.

Jack wanted to watch that smile blaze all night, but instead he turned and guided Mrs Becker away.

‘Now, there’s someone who eats her parsley,’ Mrs Becker muttered as the door of the lift closed on herself and Jack.

He didn’t know whether to be confused or amused. He opted for poor hearing. ‘Pardon me?’

‘The teeth – beautiful, no? Lots of calcium. Good skin.’

He gave her a bemused look. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Becker. I’m glad we solved the problem,’ he said, grateful that his floor arrived swiftly. ‘My best to Mr Becker too.’

‘Ja, thank you.’

Jack returned to his apartment, took the phone off the hook and turned his mobile on to silent, then felt guilty and returned it to outdoors mode. He poured himself a slug of the riesling that was no longer quite as chilled, banished all thoughts of the case and instead focused his mind on Sophie Fenton and how he might contrive to meet her again.