I stand up. ‘Is there a way you can legally stop me from going where I want provided I don’t break any laws?’

‘No.’ He doesn’t move from his seat, but a hand snakes across the desk and lifts the telephone. A button is pressed on the console before he puts the receiver to his ear. ‘When did you last hear from Steve?’

He listens with an inscrutable expression on his face then fixes me with a stare. ‘Last we heard from Steve was an hour and a half back. Everything was okay then.’

‘When’s he due to check-in next?’

The chief’s face takes on a sheepish expression. ‘There’s no fixed schedule.’

‘Then at least get someone to message him that I’m going to be in the area too.’ The last thing I want is for some overeager cop to put a bullet in my back by mistake.

He nods. ‘Is there nothing I can say to stop you going out there?’

The click of the door latch is my answer.

By the time I’ve reached my car, I have a growing feeling that I’ve just been played.

56

I pull into the parking lot of the Nature Reserve where Oberton works and head towards the main building. Behind me the Mustang’s engine is ticking. If it was human it’d be gasping for breath.

Entering the long, low building, I find the ticket kiosk and push to the head of the queue, ignoring the loud protests of a Canadian-sounding woman with more than her fair share of dewlaps. The woman issuing tickets is a regular at the Tree and recognises I’m not being rude for the hell of it.

I memorise her instructions on how to get to where Angus Oberton will be working. As I thank her and make for the door she’s pointing at, the Canadian woman steps in front of me to share her indignation. And halitosis.

I don’t bother to hide the involuntary recoil my body gives as she gets into my face. ‘Excuse me, young man, but it’s about time you learned to show some manners and not barge your way to the front of a queue like that.’

Contenting myself with the knowledge that if she’d been male I’d have knocked her unconscious by now, I put my right hand on her right shoulder and start walking forward.

The move is designed to either force her backwards or spin her enough to allow me past.

Something in my eyes must tell her I’m not going to take her nonsense as she yields before I’ve taken a second step.

I can hear her shifting her aim onto the girl in the kiosk and offer thanks she hasn’t tried to follow me.

It only takes me a few seconds to make my way through the back rooms of the centre. I find the exit door and turn the handle with care.

I wonder if I should don one of the ranger uniforms hanging from a peg before going outside. Deciding against it, I go outside and find myself on a worn trail through dense bushes.

There’s a vibration in my pocket. When I retrieve my cell, I see I have a new message.

ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I KNOW I’M ONLY YOUR MOTHER BUT IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF SUCH DETAILS.

As usual when reading her messages, I’m not sure whether to smile or to launch the cell into orbit.

I settle for sending back the happy emoticon. I don’t like using them, but I know she despises them with a hatred she normally reserves for politicians and rap musicians.

As I advance forward, I assess my options. If the killer is already stalking Oberton, seeing me approaching his target will scare him off. In a similar vein, if I try to find a good vantage point to watch over him, I could either warn the killer of my presence or stumble across him.

I’ve no problem with an encounter, but I’m realistic enough to know the killer is too clever an opponent to be found by chance. The likelihood is he’ll be aware of me coming and will set an ambush.

There’s no point in cursing myself for not having thought about this on the journey here. That can wait. I follow the trail until I reach the end of the cover afforded by the bushes and shrubs.

The trail winds through the scrubland but I can follow it with my eyes. It goes towards a low valley between two hillocks. According to the kiosk girl, Oberton should be working in a cleft a few hundred yards into the valley.

I look over the terrain hoping I’ll see something to inspire my next move. I see plenty of sage brush amid the sparse rocky ground but not a lot of cover.

Decision time beckons me. Waves me forward into making a choice.

Covert or blatant?

As I take a half step to my right with the intention of trying to sneak into a good vantage point, I hear a scream.

It’s not one of excitement or laughter. It’s a scream of pure terror.

Instinct takes over my body. Legs and arms pump as I race towards the scream. My eyes are scanning the public areas I’m racing towards. Rapidly they assess the body language of everyone I see. I ignore the turned heads of people looking to identify the screamer. It’s the rigid stance of the horrified I’m looking for.

My heart sinks when I find her. A girl of about twelve is wrapped in what I assume are her mother’s arms. Her mouth is wide open as more screams pour forth, while her eyes are screwed tight in case they again see whatever made her scream.

I hear soft words of comfort. Gentle questions about what’s wrong but I don’t hear anything from the girl except screams.

I can guess what has caused her distress. It’s what I steel myself to look for now. Angus Oberton. The latest victim.

The mother takes steps backwards rather than letting go of her daughter. I approach them – my intention is to guide the mother so she doesn’t trip. A man sprints around the corner.

My fist is clenched and travelling back ready to surge forward, when I see the concern on his face.

He sees the cocked arm and lifts his own hands.

I drop my fists but his stay raised as he advances towards me.

This is the last thing I want. Right now I’m more concerned about finding whatever made the girl scream than fighting anyone.

‘Olly. It’s okay. He’s helping us.’

The hands go down as Olly embraces the woman and girl.

‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ He bends his lanky frame so he’s on a level with the girl who has her face buried into the woman’s neck. ‘What’s up, Harriet?’

She doesn’t answer him. Her head saws back and forth. Another scream escapes her lips, this one longer and more piercing now her brain has had time to process and embellish whatever caused her screams.

I catch the mother’s eye. ‘Where was Harriet when she first screamed?’

She points at a seat cut from a tree stump.

‘Wait here, please.’ I walk over to the seat, conscious of the fact that if Oberton has been killed, this family is next in the killer’s sights.

Standing by the lump of rough-hewn wood, I rotate through three sixty degrees but find nothing. I stoop until my head is at much the same height as Harriet’s would have been. I repeat my sweep.

Still I see no cause for her terror.

Thinking like a pre-teen, I climb onto the seat and stand on its highest part.

Before gaining enough balance to straighten up, I see the cause of her terror. The sight of Angus Oberton’s mutilated body elicits a sharp gasp from me, despite the fact I’m expecting to find something horrible.

It’s bad, as savage as Kira’s death, with none of the finesse shown to Evie Starr.

Oberton is in a kneeling position. His head is three quarters severed from his body. A flap of skin holds it upside down with his nose pressed against his breastbone.

Below the white stubble on his head a large gash has opened his stomach. Blood covered hands appear to have tried and failed to hold in the slippery coils of intestine.

The wooden handle of a long knife sticks out from a belly swollen by years of unhealthy eating.