She grunted in response.

As his car pulled away, Kim sighed deeply. She had to let the case go. The fact that Wendy Dunn had allowed her children to be sexually abused made her jaws ache. The knowledge that those two little girls would be returned to their mother sickened her. That they would again be in the care of the one person who was supposed to protect them would haunt her.

Kim threw the used rag onto the bench and lowered the roller shutter door. She had family to visit.

THREE

Kim placed the white roses in front of the gravestone that bore her twin brother’s name. The tip of the tallest petal fell just below the dates that marked the duration of his life. Six short years.

The flower shop had been aglow with buckets of daffodils; the flower synonymous with Mother’s Day. Kim hated daffodils, hated Mother’s Day, but above all, she hated her mother. What flower did one buy for an evil, murdering bitch?

She stood upright and gazed down at the freshly mown grass. It was hard not to visualise the frail, emaciated body that had been ripped from her arms twenty-eight years earlier.

She ached to recall a memory of his sweet, trusting face, full of innocent joy and laughter; of childhood. But she could not.

No matter how many years passed, the rage never left her. That his short life had been filled with such sadness, such fear, haunted her every day.

Kim unclenched her right fist and stroked the cold marble as though she was smoothing his short black hair, so like her own. She desperately wanted to tell him she was sorry. Sorry that she couldn’t protect him and so sorry that she couldn’t keep him alive.

‘Mikey, I love you and miss you every day.’ She kissed her fingers and transferred the kiss to the stone. ‘Sleep tight, my little angel.’

With one last look she turned and headed away.

The Kawasaki Ninja waited for her outside the cemetery gates. Some days the motorbike was 600cc of pure power that transported her from place to place. Today it would be her salvation.

She put on her helmet and pulled away from the curb. Today she needed to escape.

She rode the bike through Old Hill and Cradley Heath, Black Country towns that had once thrived with Saturday shoppers hopping from the stores to the market and then the cafe for a weekly catch-up. But now the brand names had moved to out-of-town retail parks, taking the shoppers and the lively buzz with them.

Unemployment in the Black Country was the third highest in the country and had never recovered from the decline of the coal and steel industry which had boomed in Victorian times.

The foundries and steelworks had been demolished to make way for trading estates and flats.

But today Kim didn’t want to tour the Black Country. She wanted to ride the bike, hard.

She headed out of Stourbridge towards Stourton and an eighteen-mile stretch of road that wound its way to the picturesque town of Bridgnorth. She had no interest in the riverside shops or cafes. What she wanted was the ride.

At the black and white sign she accelerated the bike. The anticipated shot of adrenaline ripped through her veins as the engine came to life beneath her. She leaned into the machine, her breasts against the fuel tank.

Once unleashed, the power of the bike challenged every muscle in her body. She could feel its impatience and agitation in wanting to explode. And at times she was tempted to let it.

Come on, get me, she thought as her right knee kissed the ground on a sudden, sharp turn. I’m waiting, you bastards, I’m waiting.

Just now and again she liked to taunt the demons. She liked to goad the fates that had been denied when she hadn’t died beside her brother.

And one of these days they would get her. It was just a matter of when.

FOUR

Doctor Alexandra Thorne circled the consultation room for the third time, as was her custom prior to a meeting with an important client. To Alex’s knowledge, her first patient of the day had achieved nothing remarkable in the twenty-four years of her existence. Ruth Willis had not saved anyone’s life. She had not discovered a miracle drug, or even been a particularly productive member of society. No, the significance of Ruth’s existence was for Alex’s benefit only. A fact of which the subject herself was blissfully unaware.

Alex continued her inspection with a critical eye and lowered herself into the chair reserved for her patients; and for good reason. It was crafted of brain-tanned Italian leather which gently caressed her back and offered reassuring comfort and warmth.

The chair was angled away from the distraction of the sash window, instead offering the patient a view of the certificates adorning the wall behind the reproduction Regency writing table.

On top of the desk sat a photograph turned slightly so the patient could see a handsome, athletic man with two young boys, all smiling for the camera. A reassuring photograph of a beautiful family.

Most important for this particular session was the eyeline view of the letter opener with its carved wooden handle and thin long blade that graced the front of her desk.

The sound of the doorbell sent a shiver of anticipation through her body. Perfect, Ruth was right on time.

Alex paused briefly to check her own appearance from toe to head. Three-inch heels added to her natural height of five foot six. Her long, slim legs were encased in navy, tailored trousers with a wide leather belt. A simple silk shirt enhanced the illusion of understated elegance. Her dark auburn hair curled at the ends in a sleek, tidy bob. She reached for the spectacles in the drawer and fixed them on the bridge of her nose to complete the ensemble. The prop was unnecessary for her vision but imperative for her image.

‘Good morning, Ruth,’ Alex said, opening the door.

Ruth entered, personifying the dreary day outside. Her face was lifeless, shoulders drooped and depressed.

‘How have you been?’

‘Not too good,’ Ruth answered, taking her seat.

Alex stood at the coffee maker. ‘Have you seen him again?’

Ruth shook her head, but Alex could tell she was lying.

‘Did you go back?’

Ruth looked away guiltily, unaware that she’d done exactly what Alex had wanted her to do.

Ruth had been nineteen and a promising student of Law when she’d been brutally raped, beaten and left for dead two hundred yards from her home.

The fingerprints from the leather rucksack that had been torn from her back had revealed the rapist to be thirty-eight-year-old Allan Harris, whose details had been in the system for petty theft in his late twenties.

Ruth had faced an arduous trial that had seen the perpetrator sent to prison for twelve years.

The girl had done her best to put her life together but the event completely changed her personality. She became withdrawn, left university and lost touch with her friends. The subsequent counselling had been ineffective in returning her to any semblance of a normal life. Her existence consisted of going through the motions. And even that frail façade had been destroyed three months earlier when she’d passed a pub on the Thorns Road and seen her attacker leaving with a dog by his side.

A couple of phone calls had confirmed that Allan Harris had been released on good behaviour after serving less than half his sentence. This news had driven the girl to a suicide attempt and the resulting court order had brought her to Alex.

During their last session, Ruth had admitted to spending every night outside the pub, in the shadows, just to see him.

‘If you recall, I did advise against going back when we last met.’ This was not a total lie. Alex had advised her not to go back, but not as strongly as she could have done.