Mirror Man E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

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

Seitenzahl: 576

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

**'A masterful blend of action, suspense, and emotional depth' **⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real reader review 'The suspense just builds and builds' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real reader review 'Am addicted to this series and they keep getting better. This had intrigue and suspense until the last page. Love it' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real reader review The third novel featuring DCI Jack Hawksworth asks the question: is one life worth more than another? Police are baffled by several deaths, each unique and bizarre in their own way – and shockingly brutal. Scotland Yard sends in its crack DCI, the enigmatic Jack Hawksworth, who wastes no time in setting up Operation Mirror. His chief wants him to dismiss any possibility of a serial killer before the media gets on the trail. With his best investigative team around him, Jack resorts to some unconventional methods to disprove or find a link between the gruesome deaths. One involves a notorious serial killer from his past, and the other, a smart and seductive young journalist who'll do anything to catch her big break. Discovering he's following the footsteps of a vigilante and in a race against time, Jack will do everything it takes to stop another killing – but at what personal cost for those he holds nearest and dearest?

Leseprobe

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BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK

For Nigelle-Ann Blaser, Lesley Thomas and a host of other lovely readers who never gave up hope over the last decade that DCI Jack Hawksworth would return in a new story.

This one’s for you.

PROLOGUE

Bristol, April 1992

Colin looked at the four girls in his life: all beauties, in his opinion, from his 48-year-old wife to the 16-month-olds in the twin pushchair. Each of them shared a golden-headed colouring but his daughter, mother to the twins, was the prettiest of all and had a reddish quality to her hair that in the right light looked like a bronzed rose. This was his only child and she had made him proud from the first squishy kiss she’d planted on her daddy’s lips. A spirited child and independent from an early age, she’d impressed him with her decisive manner, taking responsibility for all her decisions, good or indifferent.

Her choice of husband – a slightly rumpled and distracted university lecturer, a decade her senior – had not been who he’d imagined would catch her heart, but he’d proven himself to be not only faithful for the years of their marriage but loving, too. Colin could wish no more for her in her private life. Professionally, he had hoped she would take all that bright intelligence from her double degree and pour it into a career that might reach the highest echelons. But she’d chosen a quieter, less visible life of motherhood, redirecting her interest in medicine into a Master of Psychology. Now she counselled battered women from violent homes and marriages. She hadn’t let him down; in fact, she was making him prouder, being one of those silent achievers who didn’t go for glory, status or money, but served her community diligently… and made a difference to people’s lives.

Colin felt blessed by the quartet of females who orbited him. His every waking moment was about them: providing for them, looking after them, offering advice and being the main male in their lives. His daughter was back from the brink of despair at losing the professor to an aggressive cancer, which had taken him to his grave within six months of them learning of its existence. It would be a blow for anyone, but being left behind with twin one-year-olds was daunting, even for his capable child.

He’d suggested she come to live with them for a while, but the offer had fallen on deaf ears. She’d smiled and reassured him that learning to go it alone was the way forward, and would set her girls up to be strong and independent too. She promised to visit often and would consider moving back up to London to be closer to them.

On that wintry day those four sunny smiles appeared all the more vivid for the moody sky, bare trees and threat of rain. They asked him to come but he had some work to get done. All rugged up with beanies and scarves and quilted coats, they looked like a roly-poly gang and he felt touched by the way they all turned to wave from the gate. His emotions swelled and he realised these were moments to cherish, not to avoid due to work commitments.To hell with those, he thought, in an uncharacteristic moment of selfishness.

‘Hang on, everyone. I think I will come,’ he said, laughing at the exaggerated sigh of his wife.

‘I told you,’ he heard her say to their daughter.

‘Oh, Dad! Hurry up,’ she said, laughing. ‘We want to beat the rain.’

He listened with a smile as his wife distracted the babies, singing about Incy-Wincy Spider and the rains coming down… the same rhyme they’d sung to their daughter. That time really didn’t feel that long ago. He struggled to pull on his wellies, muttering for his family to be patient as they yelled from the gate. Finally he stepped out, equally rugged up, into the wintry early evening for a stroll to tire the girls out so they’d sleep well tonight.

His wife linked her arm with his. ‘I love this smell just before the rain.’

‘Petrichor,’ he remarked.

His daughter cut him a wry glance. ‘Hear that, girls?’ she teased. ‘Grandpa tells us this smell of impending rain is called petrichor.’

‘You can make fun, but I can’t help but have an enquiring mind,’ he replied in a lofty tone to make his wife giggle. ‘It’s the ground moistening, releasing various organic compounds and producing that lovely earth scent to tangle in our minds.’

His daughter inhaled. ‘Well, I just know it smells like happy childhood.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely, dear,’ her mother said with a smiling sigh. ‘I hope our granddaughters will have happy memories to lean on.’

‘We’ll make sure of it,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘I’m glad they weren’t old enough to understand the hard bit of losing their father, but we’ll fill their lives with wonderful memories.’ He looked over at his daughter and felt suffused with affection on seeing her grinning nod of gratitude. She’d worked so hard to push her own grief down so her children wouldn’t feel her pain. ‘We’d better not go the long way. It will get dark soon,’ he continued absently. ‘And the temperature will drop rapidly.’

‘You held us up,’ his wife accused him, but not meanly.

The road narrowed as they began to skirt the lovely expanse of park they’d arrived at. He could see plenty of dog owners shared much the same idea and were hoping to give their pets a quick run before the impending rain.

‘Rather a lot of dogs around,’ he warned, noting two large animals gambolling about. Their owners were distracted, chatting. Meanwhile, another dog nearby was barking madly at them.

‘Dad, you’re always so cautious.’

‘You can’t be too careful. Don’t want to frighten our girls and have them terrified of dogs.’

‘All right, let’s keep to the pavement, then,’ his wife said. ‘We can track all the way around.’

He dropped back as the pavement narrowed, allowing his wife and daughter to walk ahead and pausing to study a magnificent rose garden that was now delivering its reward. He was aware of them looking back at him. ‘Don’t wait. I’ll catch up,’ he said, and they moved on and away from him.

He inhaled the scent of several blooms and, just as he was deciding life couldn’t be more blissful, he heard the screech of tyres.

It happened so fast, he couldn’t have reacted, couldn’t have done anything to change what occurred, or its outcome.

The four-wheel drive hit his wife at an angle first.

He straightened in horror to watch her loop into the air and hit a wall, coming to rest in a broken splay of limbs and oozing blood. Shocked at the scene that was like a clip from a B-grade movie and frozen where he stood, he looked back open-mouthed to where his daughter and grandchildren were supposed to be, but they were no longer there. Though it happened in a few heartbearts, he felt as though he were taking in events in horribly slowed-down motion. He could see the expensive French pushchair that had held the girls so safe lying crumpled and smashed fifty feet or so away. He could see the pompoms of their beanies poking out from the top where they were still strapped in, no longer safe but motionless, their baby faces rearranged by the scrape of tarmac. Further on, still driving a drunkenly woven path, was the beastly chunk of metal on wheels pulling his daughter beneath it like a rag doll, that rosy hair far redder than it should be, now matted with her blood.

As Colin took in the impossible scene, this same-sourced blood began to flow glacially slow and just as cold in his veins. He could see someone running to a telephone box, presumably to dial 999. They would find only corpses among Colin’s family – he didn’t need to touch any of them to know that they were dead. There was so much blood, and the four bodies remained inert. But he could see movement in the big car that had wrought this murder.

He began to run, heedless of cars and people but vaguely aware that the traffic had stopped to form a ghastly silence, into which poured the distant sound of sirens. He yanked open the door of the Land Rover and dragged the sobbing man out, pulling him with unimagined strength to flop like a landed fish on the tarmac.

He could smell the fumes of alcohol coming off the man and didn’t care what he was screaming – his apologies, or why he was so intoxicated that he had mounted the pavement and killed four magnificent females. He ignored the rough road scraping against the man’s limbs as he recklessly hauled the driver around the vehicle to where his daughter lay trickling blood.

Before Colin could force the blubbering man to stare at his broken child and his family’s stolen future, he could feel arms pulling him back, and his shocked gaze caught sight of the bottle green of a paramedic’s uniform.

‘Let me past, sir, please,’ one said – a man.

Another, a woman, gently pushed on his chest. ‘Let us do our job, sir.’

‘That’s my child underneath there,’ he yelled. ‘My grandchildren, in that pushchair. And over there’—his voice broke on the words—‘my wife.’

He heard gasps and sounds of sorrow but they were meaningless. His life was meaningless.

How would he ever give it meaning again?

1

LONDON, MAY 2006

Amy Clarke smiled at the two men on the other side of the bar. She’d not seen them around previously; most people who came into the pub were either locals or obvious travellers on their way through to somewhere else and this was simply a convenient stop. These two blokes looked like neither. One, a few years older than her, she reckoned, was wearing a military-coloured parka, which struck her as an oddity because it wasn’t so cold today; most customers had mentioned the delicious spring day. His companion had to be at least twenty years older; unshaven, a smoker, going by the tin of tobacco he slammed on the counter, and there was something shifty about his gaze, the way it scanned the room constantly. They ordered two pints of Carling, which she dutifully delivered with another smile, this time simply to be polite. They paid with coins, which was curious too. The younger one counted them out right down to pennies, not at all awkward about it either.

‘What’s your name, then, gorgeous?’ he asked, raising his remarkable eyes of a clear grey that demanded her attention.

She hated having to go through this dance, found the chat-up tedious but part of the job. ‘I’m Amy.’ She cut quickly back to business. ‘Will you be eating today, gents?’

‘What’s on?’ Grey Eyes asked with a lazy grin, his gaze brazenly roaming her body.

Amy deflected it, pointing to the chalkboard. ‘The Guinness pie is a specialty.’

‘Expensive,’ the older one drawled, looking up from his lager.

‘Does anything come with it?’ Grey Eyes asked, his tone loaded with innuendo.

‘Bit of salad,’ she replied, determined not to show any expression other than impatience.

‘We’ll have two sausage rolls, served with another of those big smiles of yours.’

She gave him a look that said she doubted he could afford the latter, but, not to be deterred, he gave her a wink. Amy wondered how they’d be paying for their lunch, given they were down to pennies, but it wasn’t her concern. She would mention it to the manager nearby though.

‘Can we pay after, luv? Might have another of these,’ the older one said, all but draining his glass, and she noted him leering at her breasts.

Prats! she thought.

As the good-looking barmaid moved away, Davey glanced back at Don and shrugged. ‘What?’

‘We’re supposed to be casing, not flirting.’

Davey swallowed a sizeable draught of his lager. ‘Great tits. Makes me horny.’

‘Don’t let your dick get in the way of business, son.’

‘Yeah, you’ve probably forgotten how to work it.’

‘Watch your mouth, kid.’ Don made a hissing sound through his teeth but seemed at ease with the gentle insult. ‘Besides, she’s way out of your punching range. Those tits were brought up around money. She’s not your usual choice of slag, Davey.’

‘I don’t date sluts,’ he replied. Don sneered otherwise. ‘Did you see how she smiled at me?’

‘She’s been trained to smile at punters.’

‘I guess, but some of us transcend the average punter.’

‘What’s that word?’ Don chuckled. ‘Trans-what?’

‘I heard it in a movie, looked it up. I like it. Means I rise above the average.’

‘You think so?’

‘I looked in the mirror this morning, Don. I’m in my prime. Got to take it whenever I can.’

That made Don laugh into his beer. ‘You’re an arse, Davey. Now focus, eh?’

‘I already have. No marks in here.’

Don nodded slowly. ‘Just old fogies, I agree. Bad time of day.’

‘What about the houses nearby – what’s it… Oak Walk?’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the side door.

‘Nah, they’re too open, son. I think we should do a reccy of those big houses at Parkside that back onto the woodland. Much easier to hide; get in from the park. There’s got to be some easy pickings up there – jewellery, money, phones that we can lift. Won’t take much to snatch and easy to cart, convert.’

Davey nodded. It was well away from Enfield Shopping Centre, where all the action was, but if they were in a hurry, they could run through the park back down to the station and jump on any train. He sighed his agreement as Amy reappeared carrying plates to their end of the bar.

‘Careful, they’re hot,’ she warned.

‘You’re hot,’ Davey quipped.

She gave him a sidelong gaze of fake despair. ‘Don’t want you to burn your tongue.’

He grinned. ‘Depends where my tongue is.’

‘Hey, watch yourself,’ an older woman said, sidling up next to Amy. ‘None of that in here.’

Davey held out his hands in a plea of defence. ‘I’m just kidding. No offence.’

Amy blushed, glancing at the older bartender. ‘None taken.’

‘You can head off now, Amy. Shift’s over.’

‘Bye, Amy,’ both men said in unison.

‘Ready to pay, lads?’ They won a glare from the middle-aged woman in charge. ‘See you tomorrow, luv,’ she called over her shoulder.

Except she didn’t.

Fate, predestination, the way the chips fall, destiny… or plain, horrible luck, Amy would never know what led the two strangers from the bar to turn up at her house a few hours later as the sun was slipping away from the day. She was not followed; she knew that because she stopped to chat to not just one but two of her neighbours from different streets, and she’d faced the hill the men would have had to walk down if they were following her.

So it was chance – random bad luck, she later decided – to have Davey Robbins and Donald Patchett cut through the woodland of Grove’s End Park to follow the fence lines of the houses in Parkside that backed onto it. The cover of bushes and trees was perfect for would-be thieves. Her parents were at work, her brother at school, but Gran was home with her.

They were sharing a pot of tea as the light turned a deep golden in the conservatory that backed onto the large, open-plan kitchen that her parents had built onto just six months earlier.

‘It’s so lovely here,’ her grandmother remarked, sighing at her first sip of tea. ‘That breeze through those French doors is delicious.’

Amy had to agree. The renovations had added a glass box to the back of the house, giving the family a new living space that opened up the garden into their daily life. Watching the birds go about their business, noting the bulbs pushing up throughout April, now a chorus of bright colour, or spotting a squirrel… it was like a whole world they’d been ignoring all these years. ‘I’m glad they didn’t sell up. I would have hated to leave this house. And summer’s going to be brilliant. Why don’t you come and live here with us?’

‘No, I think your mother has enough on her plate with her busy job and busy life.’

‘But you could always be home for Tom after school. He’s got another three years, and it must get lonely in that cottage.’

‘I’m never lonely, darling. I love where I live, and I have plenty of friends. Are you worried about going off to university?’

‘A little. I’ll miss it here.’

‘You’re a close quartet, Amy dear, but broaden your horizons and don’t look back. Your parents aren’t going anywhere – your dad’s clinic just gets busier and your mother’s skills seem to be in more demand than ever. Everything will remain as you leave it and you can come home often. Besides, Tom says he likes the idea of being an only child.’ At Amy’s expression, her grandmother giggled. ‘Only teasing. Brighton isn’t that far away and it’s such a lovely town to be studying in. I’ll visit.’

‘Promise?’

‘Of course,’ her gran said, easing herself up to refresh their pot of tea. ‘Grandad used to take me there for a naughty weekend.’

The thought of her grandparents frolicking in bed was a thought too far, but the notion was interrupted by a metallic sound that made them both turn and look down the garden, which backed onto the glorious woodland of Grove’s End Park enjoying the last licks of daylight.

Davey nodded. ‘This one looks like a goer.’

Don agreed. ‘Those back doors are just an invitation,’ he sneered, a cruel smile twitching at the edges of his mouth, which held a thin, half-smoked cigarette he’d rolled himself. He sucked back on it and flecks of tobacco lit and drifted away on the light breeze as the paper burned down to his nicotine-stained fingers. He flicked the butt carelessly into the undergrowth, ash scorching the dancing head of a bright daffodil.

Davey ducked. ‘Fuck!’

‘What?’

‘Someone’s there.’

Don risked a look, on tiptoe on the fence strut they were balanced upon. He squinted to see the woman near the kettle. ‘Aw, it’s an old lady, Davey,’ he grinned. He tapped his friend’s parka pocket. ‘Nothing this won’t fix.’

Davey felt the heaviness of the wrench push against his side. He hadn’t planned to use it on a person when he’d grabbed it this morning at Don’s nod. He’d figured they’d use it to smash into somewhere if their shoulders weren’t strong enough to force a side door.

‘We don’t know if there are others upstairs,’ he hissed.

‘There aren’t, Davey. We’ve been standing here for twenty fuckin’ minutes and it’s getting colder now the sun’s going. We need to get going before I freeze.’ Don was right; they were not in any position to debate this. ‘If we don’t pay Big Al, you know what’s going to happen, don’t you, Davey?’

He nodded.

‘Say it, so we both hear it and understand.’

‘He’ll cut off a finger for each day we’re late.’

‘He’ll cut off a finger from each of us for each day. We’ve only got today if we’re going to fence the stuff tomorrow. Big Al is expecting us on Friday. What will happen, Davey, if we don’t turn up to have our fingers cut off?’

‘He’ll kill us.’

‘Right.’

Davey hesitated. ‘Do you really think he would, over a couple of thousand?’

Don cut him a look of intense exasperation. ‘I’ll explain this one more time, son. Big Al maims, tortures and kills just on principle. It wouldn’t matter if we owed him fuckin’ sixpence. To him a debt is a debt. We would be the example he’d use to frighten others. We knew the terms when we took the gear.’

Davey sighed and steeled himself. ‘Let’s go.’ In a nimble move, he leapt up to the top of the fence, balancing briefly before jumping down onto the grass, kicking over a watering can.

‘That’s done it, son,’ Don said in a resigned voice, landing at his side as Davey reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrench.

Amy had to refocus to be sure it was the two men from the pub. She recognised the olive-green parka first before registering that it was the flirt and his dirty-looking sidekick. Before she could stop her, Amy’s gran was out on the porch steps demanding to know what they were doing there.

‘Gran, get in!’ she warned, pulling at her elder’s arm.

It was no good. The older woman was already advancing on the pair. ‘How dare you! What do you mean by—’

Her gran never finished her objection. Amy watched the older guy grab what Grey Eyes was holding and swing it, then watched the woman she loved spin with the force of the blow and crumple onto the stone steps with a crunching sound that spoke of broken bones. Gran fell like a doll made of cloth, as though she had no substance to her body. And as she lay lifeless, the world seemed to still. Both men stopped and stared. Amy’s scream was trapped in her throat as she saw a trail of bright blood snake its way from under Gran’s head and leak down one step and then another in a slow but determined flow.

The violence was so sudden, so shocking. Her mouth still open with confusion and disbelief, she turned to the men, who appeared as startled as she was.

‘Well, that’s done it, Don!’

Before Amy could regain her wits, the man she now knew as Don was pointing a filthy finger her way. ‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth, bitch, and we won’t kill you too.’ He pushed past her into the house.

Amy moved towards her grandmother but Davey grabbed her, squeezing her arm fiercely to spin her back towards the house and shoved her in his friend’s wake.

‘I have to call an ambulance,’ she pleaded, her voice high, panicked.

‘No point,’ Don said with remarkable heartlessness, as he opened drawers and cupboards, rifling through her family’s stuff, tossing the contents onto the floor.

‘Let me at least get a blanket for her, please!’

‘She’s not fuckin’ cold, luv,’ he replied. ‘She’s dead.’

Tiring of the conversation, Davey pushed Amy backwards against the kitchen bench, noticing how, as she grabbed it to steady herself, her shirt stretched against the breasts he’d admired.

The itch, which he hadn’t scratched in a couple of weeks due to being troubled by Big Al’s threats, reasserted itself. Sex would calm him. Right now, the need to relieve that particular desire was only adding to the stress. If he could get rid of that, he might think more clearly. He needed a woman’s body against his own; something soft and real to pound out his fears against.

‘I know what you’re thinking, boy,’ Don cut into his thoughts, growling next to Davey’s ear for only his hearing, ‘but right now, we must do what we came here for. But I’ll tell you what, Davey, if you can find me at least two thousand quid’s worth in five minutes, I’ll let you do her. Find the goods!’ He flung a backpack at Davey. ‘Fill it.’ Don turned his attention to Amy, and Davey was further aroused to see his friend grab the girl by the breast. She sucked back a breath of pain. ‘I’ll stop if you help me find what we need. Phones, laptops, jewellery.’

‘My granny,’ she began, realisation pushing past the shock, tears helplessly streaming. ‘Er…’

‘Got any cash, luv?’ Don pressed. ‘We only need two thousand.’ He squeezed harder. ‘Get going, Davey!’ he snarled over his shoulder.

Davey ran upstairs to begin ransacking.

Don smiled his hideous sneer. ‘Listen, darlin’, I’m cold and tired. I don’t care that your granny’s dead; a man’s going to cut off my fingers if I don’t give him two thousand quid.’

‘My phone’s over there.’ She nodded to the coffee table.

‘Good, we’ll do this together, shall we?’ He grabbed her convenient ponytail and watched how it bent her with pain. He pulled harder and she straightened. ‘Nice and obedient, Amy, that’s how I like it. Now, phone into the bag. Oh, good, that looks new. Now, Mummy’s jewellery?’ Amy led Don upstairs to her parents’ bedroom and into her mother’s walk-in wardrobe, which Davey had already discovered. Don gave a low whistle. ‘Fancy,’ he cooed. ‘I told you, boy, about those tits, didn’t I?’

Davey grinned, watching Don let go of the girl, knowing she was too frightened to disobey them now.

‘I’m thinking Daddy might have a safe stashed somewhere, eh, luv?’ Don wondered.

She looked back at them bewildered, her thoughts wandering again. Davey backhanded her with vicious speed and force. Amy collapsed to the plush cream-coloured carpet, her snotty nose leaking onto it. Davey picked her up and over the top of her sobs explained what she needed to know. He was privately enjoying watching her fear; it was making him hard… and he knew she could see his arousal.

‘Listen, Amy. Be sensible. Help us and this will be over.’

‘Not for Gran.’

‘Yes, that’s a shame. But she was old and you’re young and gorgeous…’

‘Aha!’ Don said, gleeful. ‘I knew it. Here’s the safe,’ he said, pushing aside her mother’s long coats and gowns that hid her father’s safe. ‘Okay, luv, I need the code. If you don’t give it to me in your next breath, my friend here will not only rape you, but I will kill you afterwards. Are we clear?’

She nodded, looking sickened. A welt on her cheek had begun to deepen in colour. It was probably fractured.

‘Zero eight four eight nine two,’ she said.

Don felt the door of the safe click open. He rummaged inside it, tossing aside documents and files, before giving a whoop. ‘Cash, Davey. Delicious cash. Count it!’ He threw it at Davey, who duly counted it while Don fixed Amy in place with his narrow-eyed leer.

‘Just shy of eighteen hundred,’ Davey said, sounding joyful.

‘Well done, Amy,’ Don praised her, reaching back into the safe to upend ring and bracelet boxes.

‘Doesn’t my phone make up enough with the cash?’

‘Ah, luv,’ Don said, almost sounding sympathetic. ‘This is just some extra security for me and Davey here. Aw, look at this beautiful stuff, son. We’re done.’ He glanced at Davey and checked his watch, returning a resigned nod. ‘There’s just one more thing, luv. My friend really likes you.’

She looked back at Don, sullen but defiant.

‘Ooh, Davey, watch this one. She’s going to fight you.’

‘Not if you hold her down, Don.’

After wriggling free of her bonds, Amy made a teary 999 call on the home telephone. Two ambulances and a couple of police response cars arrived with flashing lights and sirens squealing. A police dog unit was in tow and headed off to find the trail of the men, but the two criminals were by then already on their way, using the parklands to get as far from the scene of the crime as they could before changing into a new set of clothes they’d hidden earlier that morning; they’d figured it would be a good way to dodge the street cameras. The dogs and their handlers found the domestic bins on the street where the clothes were thrown but then the trail went cold, after Davey and Don had split up to make their separate ways into central London and to its east.

With Davey wearing a bandage on his cheek, they’d paid their dangerous creditor a visit a day early to settle their account. Big Al had nodded, impressed; told them he’d do business with them anytime they needed. Their mistake was to fence the jewellery a day later, by which time an accurate description had gone out on the missing goods and the usual suspects were raided.

They’d also underestimated Amy’s fighting spirit and her good memory.

She’d been badly beaten, her face unrecognisable. So many bones fractured because she’d fought them with every ounce of strength she possessed. She’d been raped by both men and left in her parents’ bedroom, bleeding and broken, but with three nails full of DNA belonging to Davey Robbins. They also had no idea that Amy was an artist; in her rage she had drawn very good likenesses of both men. Don’s illustration was particularly illuminating. The police had them locked up within forty-eight hours, their fingers intact.

Nothing was intact for Amy again.

2

London, MAY 2007

He opened the new bag of coffee beans and inhaled, relishing the toasted aroma that his favourite brand of arabica gave off. Tipping the contents into the grinder’s basket, he enjoyed the satisfying clatter of the oily rubble, awaiting the revolution of the burrs that would allow them to perform the alchemy that hot water and their grinds could achieve.

This was a ritual for DCI Jack Hawksworth. Ever since his last trip to Australia to see his sister and her family, now living in Melbourne, coffee had taken on a new dimension for him. No longer did he swallow the muddy slurry from vending machines for something warming; now well-brewed caffeine had become a passion. Having tasted the delicious version of a piccolo in the Italian quarter of Melbourne – where unshaven men stood behind hissing, steaming machines twisting buttons and pressing levers that ultimately delivered a shot like liquid liquorice, topped by a layer of caramel-coloured crema – he now prided himself on attaining a similar magic at home.

He sat back now at the small breakfast table, satisfied with this morning’s brew. His laptop was open to read the news but he ignored the screen and instead stared out of the window and across the concrete complex of his temporary home. He’d worried this place might turn him melancholy but contemplated instead that life was looking up. Moving into this apartment while he decided where to live had been wise. And while its architecture seemed to contradict everything he might normally respond to, he enjoyed its convenience and ease. These last few weeks had been coloured by a watershed sense of arriving at peace. Two relationships in a row with intelligent women, both characterised by bright personalities and beauty, had ended horribly. How could one person have such poor luck as to have two lovers who were enmeshed in crime? Anne McEvoy had notoriously emerged as a woman on a revenge spree for a gang rape in her childhood; she’d killed all but one of the perpetrators but in the process had effectively changed Jack’s life, especially as he’d never stopped loving her.

Then along came Lily. The sensuous florist had entered his world by chance and a sense of hope had begun to simmer. He had liked Lily enormously, although they both knew the relationship was doomed. Her Chinese parents had arranged a suitable marriage to a surgeon, but that was not the pain in his heart. The hurt that would never leave was that Lily never got to live her life. It had been snapped out by the sinister Maartens, and Jack had spent a year now trying to regain his faith in himself; he felt he had failed both these women.

He sipped the coffee, allowing its richness to fill his senses and move him away from the past. Tapping the space bar, he watched the screen brighten and he read the headlines and their articles. Most disturbing was the report that a three-year-old child called Madeleine had gone missing during a family holiday in Portugal; he couldn’t imagine a more terrifying scenario for a parent. He wondered how the Europe Desk that he headed up at Scotland Yard might be drawn into the case. There would be a media circus to contend with, and Jack began to imagine the emotional energy building within police from both countries, which would be about to explode. Moving on, he scanned the usual depressing facts: Manchester United had won yet another Premier League title, and Britain had come joint second to last in the Eurovision Song Contest. He sighed.

Jack shifted to the newspaper; if technology continued the way it was, he imagined that one day he might read the news via his phone – now what a crazy world that would be. He shook his head, feeling old, and kept turning the pages; he was now simply scanning, thinking about a second coffee, knowing he should probably get to work. He’d only had the briefest of sleeps, having left the Europe Desk in the small hours and not been able to drift off happily, so he’d been up by five for a run. He checked his watch; it was nearing eight. He was about to close the paper and start his day when a brief caught his attention.

Jack’s forehead knitted with disgust, the good buzz of just moments ago beginning to ebb away as he read that Rupert Brownlow had been released a week earlier; that he was not giving interviews, had done his time and now just wanted to get on with his life.

‘Rupert, you bastard,’ he murmured, recalling the case. He hadn’t worked on it, but the detectives who had were broken for a while; certainly, the paramedics first on the scene had been collectively traumatised. Four children, two forty-something adults, two seniors – one in her seventies and an older man in his eighties – plus a couple of beloved dogs had died that day, not quite eight years ago, because spoilt, rich, arrogant Rupert Brownlow had been enraged that his girlfriend had dumped him for some other pimply private-school sixth-former. He’d taken some drugs and swallowed more alcohol from his family’s drinks cabinet than a youth of eighteen should at ten in the morning. Then, in his drugged, drunken teenage version of wisdom, Rupert had taken his father’s tomato-coloured Range Rover and gone wheeling around London, a police car and a police bike ultimately on his tail. They finally caught him but not before half-conscious Rupert had ploughed into a suburban street in Potters Bar, ending lives through his selfish hellraising. He’d served just over three years of his appallingly short seven-year sentence.

‘Amazing what money and a lenient judge can do, eh?’ Jack remarked to the universe, feeling a punch of despair on behalf of the families who had lost their loved ones and would now know the killer was back out to pick up the threads of his life, repair the gaps and move forward in his twenties… contrite perhaps, but still wealthy. Meanwhile those families would likely never escape their loss and move forward, as Brownlow could.

Jack gave a growl, knowing the police would bear the brunt of public scorn, when in fact it was the legal system that had let folk down.

He stood, resigned to get on, hopeful that today they might get news on the careful operation presently underway in Brussels, which was a joint effort by British, French and Belgian task forces. This was an important one for Scotland Yard’s counterterrorism unit, of which he was second-in-command for the International Liaison Section.

As Jack was rinsing the shampoo out of his dark hair, in need of a trim, which he would tame with a firm brush, he heard his phone ring. He reached for the Nokia that was balanced on the basin and stepped away from the showerhead, his other arm grabbing a towel. Eyes stinging slightly from the suds, he answered.

‘Morning, Jack?’ It was his old super, Martin Sharpe, now Acting Chief Superintendent of the Homicide and Serious Crime Branch at Scotland Yard.

‘Morning, sir. This is a surprise.’

‘Have I caught you at an awkward moment?’

‘No, sir. Well… just showering. Hang on.’ He put his head briefly under the water again to rinse properly and then, in a slightly muffled tone as he dried his face, he returned to Sharpe. ‘Are you well, Martin? Family okay?’

‘All fine…’ He sounded hesitant.

‘Except?’ Jack encouraged him, turning off the water.

‘I’ve got something.’

He waited, but Martin was prepared to wait too, it seemed. Jack began towelling dry. ‘All right, spill it, sir.’

‘Three corpses. All murdered, we believe.’

‘Related?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘Where?’

‘Finsbury Park, another in Eastbourne, a third in Birmingham.’

‘So…?’ Jack frowned, perplexed.

‘Two different counties as well as London and we can’t tie them together, I admit. However, their bizarre nature has set off alarm bells. Heads of CID have agreed that the Met should coordinate investigations rather than risk another Ripper.’

Jack blinked with surprise at the mention of Sutcliffe, who still haunted police ops and indeed changed the way they approached major investigations. He decided to leave that alone. ‘Bizarre in what way?’ Jack opened the mirrored cabinet and reached for the deodorant, before filling the basin with hot water. ‘Sorry, sir, hope you don’t mind if I keep getting ready.’

‘Not if it gets you in faster.’

Jack winced. So it wasn’t just advice being sought. He should have known it was coming.

‘I’ll need you on this one, Jack.’

‘Martin,’ he began, hoping to appeal to the mentor he treated with the same affection as a father, on the slim chance he could wheedle out of whatever it was that his old boss was about to lay at his feet. ‘I’m at the pointy end of a huge operation that’s taken almost a year to come to fruition. I’ve been working on—’

‘I know about it… not the Secret Squirrel stuff, of course, but I know you’ve been doing a sterling job as deputy head at Counter Terrorism International Liaison. I know your French counterparts especially enjoy working with you and, in particular, Mademoiselle Bouchard at the embassy is impressed by you.’ Sharpe let that hang. So, Martin knew about Sylvie. Jack smiled. Couldn’t hide much from the old fellow. He soaped his face and began shaving. He waited. ‘Are you there, Jack?’ he heard his superior ask.

‘I don’t want to return to my previous role, sir, to be honest.’

‘You wouldn’t be returning to your previous role.’

‘I see,’ he said, relieved. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘How does Detective Superintendent sound?’

That was unexpected. Jack didn’t know whether to feel elated or cornered. ‘I hadn’t put in for a promotion.’

‘Don’t be coy, son. You’ve earned this and deserve it, but I need you heading up this operation.’

His super was playing with semantics. Not precisely the identical role because he’d have more status, but still heading up a major murder investigation… if it was one. ‘There must be half a dozen qualified—’

‘There are,’ Sharpe interrupted, becoming testy. ‘But none as experienced as you.’

‘For what?’ Jack genuinely couldn’t see why he was the best fit.

‘For taking on a serial killer.’

The words hung between them. Jack flung the razor into the soapy water and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You’ve admitted there are no similarities.’

‘Not with the actual killings, no. And not with the MO either.’

‘I’m sensing a but,’ Jack said, realising he was not going to win this one. He stared at the man in the mirror, the former poster boy for Scotland Yard who had caught two serial killers in back-to-back dramatic operations that had almost claimed his life and that of his best DI, but had also carved away a chunk of his heart and his faith in humanity. ‘Where’s the similarity, Martin?’ he demanded.

‘The victims. They’re all convicted criminals.’

Jack’s expression changed to one of intrigue. ‘Dead cons?’ he said.

‘It’s the only link we can make. But I have a good nose, you’d agree?’

Jack nodded. ‘And you’re smelling something bad.’

‘That’s right. My office, soon as you can.’

Sharpe gestured to a seat once they’d shaken hands. ‘Good to have you back, Jack.’

‘Am I officially back? This is an order, is it, sir? I have no say?’

‘It is and I’m sorry.’ His boss had the grace to look genuinely sympathetic. ‘We need you on this one.’ He pushed a couple of files across his desk.

Jack opened them to look at crime scene photos, pathology reports, all the other relevant documentation, taking time to have a cursory glance through the material. Martin didn’t mind the brief silence, even fielding a call – one that involved Jack.

‘Yes, he’s with me now. We’ll start the ball rolling this afternoon. No. Absolutely no media. Not yet – we’re not ready to discuss anything outside of these walls… unless some wily journalist makes a connection. But as I’ve told you, sir, there’s nothing to join the dots yet, in my opinion, but we’ll see what our boy turns up. Yes, I’ve mentioned that to him, sir. No, I doubt it did. You know Jack.’ He smiled humourlessly as the person on the other end spoke. ‘No, sir. Nothing yet, other than my twitching gut, Commander,’ he confirmed.

Jack looked up, waiting for Martin to conclude his conversation.

Sharpe put the phone receiver down. ‘He hopes you’re happy with the promotion. So?’ he said in a weary voice, nodding at the files.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘Just a bit tired. I thought I’d hate retirement. My wife assures me she’ll keep me busy… there are cruise brochures stacked next to our bed.’

Jack smiled in sympathy.

‘Curiously, I’m feeling ready for it now – retirement, that is, not the cruising. Can’t see myself in slacks and plimsolls.’

‘They’re called sneakers these days,’ Jack quipped.

Martin chuckled. ‘I like to use those words to annoy the grandchildren. Seriously though, can you see me in a polo shirt, strolling a ship’s deck and impatiently awaiting happy hour?’

‘I really can’t.’ Jack grinned. There was a poignant pause between them. ‘You’ll be missed, sir.’

Martin nodded. ‘Until then, we have this problem,’ he said, gesturing towards the files in Jack’s hands. ‘I am not going anywhere until this is sorted. Talk to me.’

Jack blew out his breath. ‘Nasty,’ he agreed. ‘Julian Smythe, in for manslaughter… only got five years for beating his wife senseless. He was out in less than three years. Got off lightly,’ he remarked, his eyebrow lifting.

‘Well, I agree until you find out he was killed by being all but cooked to death.’ Jack flipped over the page as Martin spoke. ‘The coroner summarised the pathology report that the perpetrator likely poured several litres of freshly boiled water over his head before setting him on fire.’

Jack shook his head, giving a low whistle of awe. ‘That goes beyond vicious. Even the heavy guys in Vice wouldn’t be bothered with that… unless they were torturing him for information.’

‘From all we can tell, he wasn’t connected with any known crims.’

‘The dead men weren’t in the same prison, were they?’

‘No. And Peggy never made it to prison.’

‘Doesn’t sit right with you, sir?’

‘Does it feel odd to you? One of London’s well-known madams, who we’re certain was running an even bigger online prostitution racket, apparently commits suicide with an overdose while sitting next to a tree in Finsbury Park?’

Jack waited, as he could tell that Sharpe was just drawing breath.

‘… in the middle of November!’

‘All right, I’ll admit that’s beyond odd, but I’d have to study the victim, understand the circumstances.’ Jack frowned, pondering. ‘So no prison involved here?’

‘Should have been. Peggy Markham was acquitted two years ago for the crime of procuring a girl under sixteen for unlawful sexual intercourse.’ At Jack’s frown, he explained. ‘She was accused of allowing a client to practise his particular deviancy on a fifteen-year-old. The girl died.’

‘That’s a long bow you’re drawing, putting Markham in with these two.’

‘And yet I am. From all I’ve dug up, I can’t find a single reason for Peggy Markham to end her life. If anything, her empire was flourishing. She wasn’t sick, had no troublesome family – a son in Spain running a hotel keeping as much distance as he could between himself and his criminal mother, not to mention his criminal father, long dead. Meanwhile, she’d just dodged a prison cell that had her name on it. She should have been celebrating, not contemplating suicide.’

Jack blew out his cheeks. Martin was right; it was curious, but privately he wondered if his superior was simply reaching, keen to go out on a triumph. Even thinking that made Jack feel disloyal. Martin had never been someone who sought out the limelight, but he could feel the passion exploding from the other side of the desk.

‘What about Alan Toomey? Remember him?’

Jack shook his head.

Martin threw a file in front of him. ‘Read what happened to him.’

Jack obeyed and was soon enough looking up with an expression of disbelief. ‘So, where do I come in?’

‘I have to be sure, Jack. I’m not leaving for the great yonder knowing there’s unfinished business. Just take a look, would you?’ he appealed. ‘The oddity of these deaths and the vague commonality I sense in the victims are sticking in my craw. You’ve run the two most notorious murder cases in living memory, you’ve got the cred and the knowledge, and I want to put that to good use. So, I’ve been given permission to follow my hunch. Are there more dead crims we are yet to find or haven’t connected the dots to?’

Jack looked back at him, trying not to show his despair at being cornered into accepting the task, as Sharpe sat forward in earnest.

‘Jack, do you agree that these look and even sound like murders?’

‘Yes, to the two men.’ How could he not agree? No one would inflict those injuries on themselves. ‘But Peggy Markham… I’d need more time.’

‘Take it. These deaths have occurred over three years, so there’s no panic. Put together a small op – we don’t need the usual dozens. Keep it tight.’ The phone rang and Martin looked vexed. He pressed the button to the loudspeaker on the unit. ‘I said no—’

‘You’ll want to take this, sir,’ his secretary assured him. Martin glanced through the glass to where she sat, and Jack watched her nod firmly. Martin visibly sighed and picked up the receiver. ‘Sharpe here.’

Jack watched the man’s brow crease before he leaned his elbow on the desk and supported his head as though the burden of it was suddenly too heavy.

‘Where?’ was all he said before nodding. ‘All right, I appreciate the early information. Thanks, Doug.’ He put the phone receiver down and glanced at his secretary with a slight nod of gratitude before he looked at Jack. ‘Rupert Brownlow?’

‘Out last week, I heard.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘No justice there for the people he killed because he was dumped by his girlfriend.’

‘Does the Met think we should keep him under supervision now that he’s out? He’s an obvious target who’s going to be hounded by reporters and angry civilians.’

‘Yes, well, he doesn’t have to worry about being chased any longer. His corpse was found near Portsmouth seafront. Dragged behind a car like a ragdoll for quarter of a mile… or so the bloodstains suggest.’

Jack stared at his boss, eyes narrowing, taking a moment to process what this meant. ‘Hardly an accident then, sir.’

‘Believe me now, Jack?’

‘Is Joan available?’

Sharpe stood and grinned. To Jack it looked like a grin of relief. ‘Already moving in. Seventh floor. You know the pack drill.’ He extended a hand. ‘Thanks.’

Jack shook hands with the senior officer, knowing the gesture sealed his fate in regard to the European operation he was in charge of. ‘Who’ll take over upstairs?’

‘It’s all in hand. Seriously, Jack.’ Sharpe hadn’t let go of his hand yet. ‘I appreciate your help on this one. Then I can retire and know I left things tidy.’

‘Until the next time,’ Jack murmured but in a lighter tone.

‘That’s someone else’s watch,’ Sharpe replied. ‘Joan’s waiting for you.’

Jack nodded, fully resigned, and began his journey down from the senior corridors to the seventh floor, where his new operation was apparently already underway.

3

Sitting and waiting for his appointment, he amused himself by reliving the Rupert Brownlow killing. Amazing that he was like two men in one body. One half was perfectly respectable and leading a good, sound, empathetic life. But the darker half, which had emerged since the bleak day that changed everything, was capable of inflicting a terrible price on people whom he felt deserved it. He now considered these halves a team: two minds, two voices, one body. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a conscience – quite the opposite, in fact. It was his good conscience that led him to consciously partake in bad acts.

The news had only reached the papers this morning, but Colin knew his victim had taken his last breath two nights ago. Since he’d been old enough to hear stories and tell them, Colin had been able to live them with great detail and authenticity in his imagination. He used to make up games for himself and his friends to act out in the woodland around Enfield. He could see it all in rich colour: landscape, characters and action in minute detail. He was like a film director, giving his actors a brief and then they’d be off, he and his friends, scattering into their roles as spies, or soldiers, or cowboys and Indians. He could describe rivers to cross or mountains to scale, castles to storm or prisons to escape from, and his band of friends would listen wide-eyed and excited, because he was able to make each scene come alive for them.

Curiously, even though that talent nourished this new and murderous role, it was now occurring in reverse: Colin lived it first in the real world before he allowed it to unravel in his imagination. In real life it was always quick, focused, with no time to think on it other than to be sure tracks were covered, no clues left. It was only later that the replay could be watched, a movie unfolding in all of its lurid detail. There was no enjoyment in the death but there was satisfaction, which rode on a sense of relief and even a sort of evangelical righteousness.

And Rupert Brownlow had deserved every moment of his fate because he’d never shown contrition. What the court had witnessed was the hollow repetition of a scripted apology delivered by a criminal who, even in that period of supposed regret, managed to let his arrogance born of privilege ease through. Eight human lives had been lost because of his selfish joyride. It should have brought eight life sentences.

However, Brownlow’s sentence, when handed down, was lenient enough to shock the public, but that too was halved when he was let out early… quietly. Prisons were full, the pressure on the public purse was enormous, and all the do-gooders were riding on their high horses to let people like him out. He was young, good-looking, saying all the right well-rehearsed words of remorse, with all the ticks from prison psychologists to say this was a prisoner who deserved a second chance. Rehabilitated? My arse! No one had made Rupert Brownlow pay anything close to the debt he owed the victims’ families and friends, or indeed society itself, which shouldn’t feel safe as long as the justice system kept allowing people like him out early.

Would he reoffend? Who could tell? Probably not. Most could grasp that at the heart of the crime had been teenage irresponsibility fuelled by substances. But the do-gooders could only truly understand if one of their beloved had been a victim of Rupert’s casual disregard for others’ lives. Only then would they understand the depth of grief, the relentless pain, the life sentence that those left behind were now living. Why did a murderer who took one life go to jail for thirty years, while another who snuffed out eight lives only grind through a few years in an easy prison?

The rage Colin had felt a dozen years previously had turned inward, provided fuel, given permission for him to take the vengeance for private pain.

‘Won’t be long,’ the receptionist said. ‘Doctor’s just having to take a phone call.’

A nod, a bright smile. He distracted himself by continuing the film unfolding in his mind of the day when killing that whinger Rupert Brownlow had been the sweetest of revenges. It had all fallen into place. Brownlow had been released on a Saturday and his wealthy family had organised to have him whisked off to the seaside. The darker self had called in sick on the day of Brownlow’s release, but he was owed so many days’ leave that they’d sounded almost pleased. It had taken a couple of days of stakeout but he didn’t mind; he rather liked the fresh seaside air as he observed the comings and goings of the house, until he saw Rupert emerge alone as evening was arriving. He noticed that the newly released prisoner had buzzed his hair to change his looks and had pulled up the hood of his nondescript dark sweatshirt, beneath which he wore a beanie. Jeans completed the ensemble that allowed Rupert Brownlow to look like every other callow young man who walked around Portsmouth seafront. Brownlow had been loaned, or perhaps had rented, a small Japanese car and drove with some awareness, sticking to the speed limit. Made it easy to follow him.

The plans were never elaborate but he’d learned with experience not to be too locked in. He’d discovered that flexibility was the key: being able to respond to the situation that rarely followed a script, no matter how carefully one might plot.

The silly bugger had handed him an unexpected gift by wandering along the seafront late that evening, with no idea that he was being followed. And here on the shingle beach – a fair trot from the popular Southsea pier – made for a perfectly distant and lonely killing ground. The houses were all set back from the beach behind the tennis courts, model village and golf club. The former inmate had made it as easy as he could by being alone on an otherwise deserted beach, on a particularly windy evening in spring when the nights were still dark and cold. Confidence is the key, he’d told himself so many times. Act like you’re meant to be there and it might mean any observer’s gaze slips over quickly.

He approached the youngster, crunching over the shingle to announce himself before he arrived. ‘Hello there. Are you all right? Forgive me for interrupting, but you looked a bit lonely and I couldn’t walk past without checking that you’re okay.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just want to be alone.’

‘Right… right. Aren’t you cold?’

Brownlow gave a low half-laugh. ‘I am actually, but I just wanted some peace and quiet.’

‘And it’s not my intention to spoil that, but out here you’re a bit exposed, lad. Can’t have you catching your death, can we?’ He chortled at that jest, which was purely for his own benefit.

Brownlow looked up and shrugged. ‘Your fish and chips will get cold.’

Good – he’d noticed, and the wind was blowing in the right direction to make sure he did. ‘Well, you couldn’t have picked a lonelier spot.’

Brownlow nodded absently.

‘Here, fancy a nip?’ He offered a flask. The liquor was laced with something that would help Rupert sleep.

‘No, thanks. I’ve sworn off the booze.’

‘Really? Awfully young to be making that promise.’

Brownlow gave a soft snort. ‘Yeah, well, if you knew why I wasn’t drinking, you’d understand.’

He’d risked sitting down, not too close to scare him off, but close enough to be friendly. He’d try again with the liquor if the moment presented itself, but he had a backup. ‘Is that so? Well, I’m a good listener. My name’s Peter,’ he lied.

‘Rupert. I’m one of the most hated people in Britain.’

‘Why would you say that?’ He kept his voice light, amused, as though what his companion was saying was impossible.

‘Well, you clearly don’t recognise me?’

‘Night is falling, young man, and I haven’t even looked you square in the face yet.’

Rupert turned to look directly at him. ‘Recognise me yet?’

He had shaken his head, pleased that Rupert didn’t recognise him either – but then why would he, out of context? Plus, he’d taken the precaution of the hat, the glasses. ‘No, but should I? You just look like a sad youngster who’s lost his way. What’s up?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I told you, Peter… Peter Jones. I answer phones for Lifeline, do my bit with Meals on Wheels and the like… I’m a community-minded person, and anyone sitting alone on a cold, windy beach as night draws in catches my attention. Here – the fish and chips are fresh and way too much for one. Want some?’

The lad shrugged. Who could resist the smell of fish and chips? Not Rupert, apparently.

‘That is a lot of food,’ Brownlow said as the paper was opened and the powerful smell of vinegar and salt hit them both.

‘I know. My eyes are always bigger than my belly,’ he said amiably. ‘And the odd thing is, the moment I bought it, I got indigestion. Here, you hold the food. I need to take a pill.’ He’d eased out a small bottle into which he’d put some harmless tiny sweets. ‘Eat up, Rupert.’

‘C’mon, they’re yours, man,’ Brownlow said, trying to pass it back.

‘No, really, I feel a bit ill. I’ll just have a nip of medicinal whiskey here to wash down my tablets,’ he said, pretending to swallow a swig but barely letting any of it touch his lips. He gave a sighing sound. ‘I should feel brighter in a minute or two. You have it.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. Maybe it will cheer you up and I can go home knowing I did my bit for the community this evening. Here, I bought a bottle of Coke too. It’s yours.’ He twisted the cap open.

‘Really?’

‘Check for yourself, untouched.’ That was another thumping lie. The soft drink was fizzing with Rohypnol.

He watched Brownlow eat the food, carefully ensuring he ate all the fish that had been doused with Rohypnol-laden vinegar too. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the drug to take effect. He watched with fascinated glee as Rupert drank the Coke as well. Double whammy. Wouldn’t be long now. The whiskey would have to be thrown away – a pity to waste it, but it too contained Rohypnol. He had backups for backups. That was his tidy, thoughtful way.

He’d need to kill some time before he killed Brownlow.

‘Tell me why you’re hated, Rupert.’

‘I made a mistake behind the wheel. The mistake cost lives and I’ve done my time for it but I’m not sure how to come back from the years I’ve spent in prison.’

‘Good grief. How long were you there?’

‘Nearly four years.’

Six months per death, he thought with disgust.

‘I was let out before my sentence was complete,’ Rupert explained, ‘and I just want to get on now, but I’m down here because my family thinks the newspaper and TV reporters won’t leave us alone. We have to let my early release die down a bit, wait for some other catastrophe to happen to distract people.’ He’d begun to slur.