I slipped it on. Before I knew it, she was buttoning me up like a schoolboy.

She fastened the top button and gazed up at me, well inside my personal no-fly-zone. Her eyes glazed, mischievous, sexy, her scent netting me like a helpless mackerel. ‘Get in there,’ I ordered myself. Instead, inexplicably, I spouted a line of Larkin poetry.

‘But they were fucked up in their turn. By fools in old-style hats and coats.’

‘You read it!’ She smiled, her eyes ignited, loving. A seal formed, somewhere, inexplicably. Everything had changed. She leaned in and kissed me, hard. She pulled away only after several seconds, smiling coyly. The earth tilted.

‘Well he’s like Morrissey aged seventy, isn’t he? What’s not to love?’ I laughed.

‘Friday night, would you like to come round for dinner?’

‘I’d love to,’ I said, but the moment had fled. ‘Now I really must go. I can’t drive like this. I’ve got to find a bus. Good night.’

I clung onto various parts of the door until it opened, bundled my body out and focused hard on putting one foot in front of the other.

My car looked so inviting. I put the key in the lock, then told myself not to be stupid and walked on. I slowed before crossing the road. Behind me, footsteps stopped suddenly. I pretended not to notice. Halfway across the road I stopped dead. A single footfall echoed behind. I spun around.

No one. I sniggered. The pot had made me paranoid.

I turned and walked on, my ears on high alert. Feet click-clacked in time with mine, but on the other side of the road. I stopped. They stopped. My chest froze. I was being followed.

I walked on, heart pumping like a thresher. How the fuck had Rogan found her? Had he followed me here? Had I put Gabby in danger? I badly wanted to teach Rogan a lesson. The cowardly fucker had floored me once, from behind. It was time for payback. I came to a skip. Walking on the spot, I peered in and grabbed hold of a brick. I rounded the front of the skip then launched three giant strides across the street.

‘Hope you like the taste of masonry, fucker,’ I roared.

A high-pitched scream stopped me dead in my tracks.

I spun around to where it had come from. A woman stood next to a bin holding a rubbish bag, jaw hanging.

I scanned the pavement. Empty.

‘Fuck,’ I said, jogging back the way he’d come, checking left and right. That scream had given him the second he needed to duck in somewhere.

Now I had a decision to make: should I tell Gabby that Rogan may have tracked her down, or should I just hope the weed had been playing tricks on me?

Chapter 18

Clapham Police Station, South London

Friday, August 9, 1991; 12:00

At noon on the dot, Shep strode into the incident room.

‘Morning Guv,’ we all bleated.

That simple tribute turned his stride to swagger. He looked scalpel-sharp in a gunmetal-grey woollen suit, Italian for sure, a sky-blue tie, pressed white shirt and shiny black brogues. You could tell he was a man worshipped and served by his dear wife.

Earlier, Mick and Colin – the detective sergeants seconded from Shep’s team – introduced themselves. Stout, with a bushy moustache and side-parted mousy hair, Mick could only be a cop. Balding, tall Colin looked more like an accountant or a tax inspector.

Officers of varying rank slunk in like wounded strays. I recognised the Big Dogs, Barratt and McStay, who took my statement, and the piss, the day after Marion’s murder. They didn’t even recognise me. The grunting psycho who did so little to help yesterday pointedly blanked me. I recognised a couple more from the Feathers. They acknowledged me with the faintest of hostile nods. I understood. They were hurting. Our arrival had endorsed their failure to catch Marion’s killer. We were a rubber stamp stain on their proud record.

‘Sorry I couldn’t get in first thing,’ Shep addressed the room. ‘Detective Sergeants Mick Mulroney and Colin Gibson have come across with me on this. Stand up and say hello, gentlemen.’

They stood up and grunted

‘And we’ve a newcomer. Where are you, Acting DC Donal Lynch?’

I stood up.

‘Welcome aboard, Lynch, probably not the best name for a cop in some of our rougher estates.’

The laughter – thin and forced – spelt tough crowd.

Shep dipped another comedy toe in the freezing water: ‘I met an American cop once called Lou Tennant. Can you believe that?’

Silence.

Quicksilver Shep changed tack.

‘Okay, so we don’t have a weapon. We don’t have a witness who heard the incident or saw any suspects on Sangora Road.

‘We’ve run all the prints found at the scene: none matches anyone with previous convictions or any potential suspects.

‘The lab has come up with nothing else from the crime scene.

‘CCTV shows nothing.

‘We don’t have a motive: according to colleagues, friends and family, Peter and Marion were blissfully happy. Neither has any enemies or buried skeletons. Peter has no history of violence and a watertight alibi for the day.

‘In short, we’ve got no witnesses, no forensics, no weapon, no motive, no suspects.’

His new underlings shuffled awkwardly and murmured. The hectic chaos of the incident room told me they’d been living, eating, smoking and drinking Marion’s murder for over four weeks now, without a result. Shep was gambling that they’d respond to a good old-fashioned half-time rollicking. He was smashing metaphorical teacups against dressing room walls.

‘All this points to an opportunist, says Professor Richards, a maniac on the loose with a knife and a hatred for women, a Lone Wolf Killer who has escalated to this level of violence … unhindered by us blundering cops.’

Nice touch, I thought, driving a wedge between Professor Richards and ‘us blundering cops’.

‘The Prof’s Lone Wolf Killer is a curious chap. He will have stalked Marion for a few days, maybe even weeks, learned her movements. But on the day he decided to kill her, he didn’t stalk her. He waited with his trusty murder kit on Sangora Road, for her to come home from work. Somehow, he talked his way or barged his way into her flat. Ever the gentleman, he let her pick up her post first, before following her up the stairs and stabbing her forty-nine times.’

‘DS Shepard, with respect, that is a rank over-simplification of the stranger killer theory,’ barked McStay, the Scottish terrier.

‘That may be so, but you see I didn’t study psychology or forensics or any of that stuff. I didn’t even go to university. I’m an old-fashioned cop. As you all know, before the computers and the psychologists, we were taught to look for two things: probability and motive. And we all have a pretty good record at this, let’s not forget. So let’s deal with probability first. We all know the stat – virtually all murder victims know their killer. Random attacks are extremely rare. That’s a fact.

‘That leaves motive …’

Shep was playing every card he had. I’m just a workaday cop like you, I don’t understand all that high-falutin’ psychology stuff, I just catch baddies like we used to in the good old days, before computers and mandatory solicitors and taped interviews and internal disciplinary procedures.

Shep made a big play of producing the piece of notepaper from his pocket.

‘This was found hidden in Marion’s handbag yesterday. I’ve confirmed that it’s a match for her handwriting and I’ve spoken to the intended recipient.’

The room leaned forward as one.

‘This is a letter Marion was writing to an old school friend who now lives in Glasgow. Allow me to read you the content.

‘Dear Andrea, I’m so thrilled that you’re coming down to London and staying with us. I really need to offload to someone about Karen. I could write pages but I would rather wait till I see you. Obviously don’t mention it to any of the girls. Last time we got together of course she was there and everyone was saying how nice she seemed. I felt like shouting ‘no she isn’t! You don’t know her!’