The watcher crouched behind rubbish bins overflowing with a fortnight’s stinking detritus. The warm weather had come early to Cambridge this year and was causing him some discomfort. He stealthily changed his position, eased his limbs and averted his nose, trying to catch a fresh breeze down the alleyway. At least he had something pleasant to distract and occupy his other senses.

He allowed his gaze to be drawn back to the two girls standing, arms around each other’s waists, teetering on the edge of the pavement. Well, why not? Everyone within a hundred yards of them was staring at the couple. Skimpy skirts with low-slung belts glinting with silver discs, boob-tubes, and stiletto heels-the summer uniform of the Cambridge Working Girl. You couldn’t get away any longer with calling them “prostitutes.” The public felt more comfortable with the delusion created by the use of the innocent-sounding “girls,” and “working” suggested reassuringly that they might even be paying income tax.

This pair were shouting cheerful insults and invitations at the drivers of cars braking for the bend where they’d positioned themselves. Unsuccessfully so far. Most had slowed dramatically to look at the girls; some had leaned over and shouted encouragement or lascivious promises. None had suggested serious business. The watcher shook his head in an expression of knowing irony. What else did they expect? On a Saturday afternoon, these blokes had other things on their mind. They were on their way to a football match. And not just any match-the next Cup round was being played at the local ground up the road. Sex would always take second place to football. Breathing took second place to a Cup fixture.

To relieve his boredom, the watcher indulged in a little fantasy. Blonde or redhead, if he had the choice? Any man’s first impulse would be towards the blonde. Tall and slender with a cloud of shoulder-length fair hair, she looked like the angel on his grandma’s Christmas tree-until she opened her mouth. He shuddered with distaste as the angel let rip with a stream of obscene invective in exchange for a white-van man’s provoking comments. Wherever had she learned such language? His granny would have known how to deal with her! Coal-tar soap and the cupboard under the stairs! Vicious old trout, his gran. He winced at the memory. But she’d have stood none of this nonsense. He almost looked furtively over his shoulder, fearing still the old lady’s challenge. “ Gary! Is that you skulking by the bins? Come out at once and show me your hands!”

Gran wouldn’t have thought much of the redhead either, but she was Gary ’s choice. Not immediately as attractive, but you’d probably have a more interesting time with this one. Shorter, more rounded, with all the cockiness of a backyard robin. Shantelle, she called herself. That was her street name. Her friend was Christalle. He’d heard them calling to each other when one or the other went off round the corner for a coffee. Enjoying the game. Stupid, really. Who did they think they were kidding? With their unblemished complexions, smooth limbs, and freshly washed hair, no one but a fool would take them for real tarts. The pros on this beat had empty eyes, raddled faces, and strawky hair, and they covered up the needle tracks with long sleeves and jeans. Still-their male clients were pretty damn thick and self-deceiving… they were easily dazzled and incapable of thinking twice about the genuineness of what was on offer. They’d buy a lottery ticket, bet on a horse, pick up a blonde by the roadside, and always believe it was nothing but their due. Their lucky day.

No surprise there, but the question that niggled him was-why weren’t these two chancers being seen off with the usual territorial aggression by the regular girls? Granted, there’d been many fewer working the streets in this part of Cambridge since the murders had started. Most had sought shelter in the safe houses opening up in the quiet residential streets off Eastern Avenue and the ones left pounding the pavements were grouping together in twos and threes for some sort of protection. When one was picked up and driven off, her friend would ostentatiously write down the number in a notebook. The clients objected and there’d been a fracas or two resulting in even less activity on the street.

The regulars were not in evidence today. Warned off? Or stunned by the latest murder-the fourth of what was beginning to look sickeningly like a series. A corpse had been dragged out of a ditch to the south of the city, yesterday. Strangled, like the others.

They were beginning to call him the Clock Killer. Some clever dick brought in from the Metropolitan Police had plotted the dumping grounds, or the “deposition spots” as they called them these days, and come up with the theory that the man responsible was working his way around what would look like a clock face with Cambridge at the centre. The first girl had been killed and left in the Fens to the north at the number twelve on the dial. The second had been found in a country lane at ten past, the third south of Newmarket at twenty past, and this latest, due south on a golf course by the Gog-Magog hills. And all equidistant from the red-light area where they’d been picked up. Ten miles.

The brainiac from the Met had treated the media to a learned explanation of the compulsion that led to a villain choosing his spots with such (literal) clockwork precision. The watcher gave a thin smile. He knew better. These days every Tom, Dick, and Harry watched CSI programmes. Profiling, DNA analysis, trace evaluation… there were no more professional secrets. But the police went on assuming their man was an out-of-control noddy. The truth was, he was probably well clued-up about crime-location diagrams, comfort zones, crime-commission intervals, and all the rest of the semi-scientific garbage. The watcher knew exactly what the perpetrator was up to. By sticking to a prearranged pattern, the killer was sidestepping any attempt at analysis and concealing his base. He needn’t be the local man they had projected. He could be any London man with a map. It was as simple as that.

The media had caught on to the clock face, of course. The headlines had screamed out the question: Who will be the 40-minute victim? Is time running out for number 5? The Cambridge Observer had printed out a diagram plotting the crime spots radiating out from the red-light zone and, in heavy type, the number 8. It hadn’t taken much calculation to work out that west-southwest, ten miles distant and right under the number 8, lay the innocent, sleepy village of Foxfield. Sleepy no longer. The local inn was stuffed to the gunwales with press and police, tripping over each other in their fervid expectation of the next crime.

The watcher’s smile widened. Not much chance of an abduction given the level of surveillance. A smart bloke, the killer would no doubt call it a day and turn his attention to another town. Peterborough, perhaps? Lively scene up there, he’d heard. Unless an unmissable opportunity presented itself here. He glanced again at the two girls by the roadside and calculated the risks. Just how vulnerable were they? He noted the CCTV camera above his head. Trained on the girls. A hundred other cameras covered every inch of this street. And, on the tree-lined road parallel to and behind the main avenue there was a mobile police headquarters van parked on a patch of waste ground. Only a complete idiot would fall to the lure offered by these gaudy girls.

Decoy ducks. Police detectives, both. They weren’t risking much. Trained in unarmed combat, the pair of them. The watcher was a big, strong lad but he’d have thought twice about tangling with them. And the girls were secure in the knowledge that every shrub, every dumpster, and every corner had a police constable lurking behind it doing nothing but watch them. Overkill. Waste of time.