‘What is it?’ asked Harper, bluntly.

‘The information is from the local police in Guerrero Negro, Baja. They have just found a body of a young woman in some dunes – the Dunas de Soledad. Missing three fingertips.’

‘Fuck,’ said Harper. ‘Sounds like the work of our guy, alright. Get onto them straight away and see what else they have in way of information. If they’ve identified the body or if they have any more forensic information.’ He suddenly felt guilty for the way he had spoken to Reeves. ‘But going from what Reeves has just told us it seems unlikely.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Helen.

Harper felt now was the time to share his information. He started to walk around the room, slowly.

‘As you know since the last time we were all here together one of the men we thought was a potential suspect – Charles Garrison – was murdered on the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Bludgeoned to death with a stone or a rock, it seems. That’s not to say he wasn’t the one. He could have murdered Sara-Jane and killed that young girl in Baja. Indeed, he may have sent Cassie Veringer that package and cut out the tongue of that homeless man and then snuck into Weislander’s home, before finally becoming a victim of crime himself. However, although that sounds like some kind of justice I think it’s highly unlikely.’

He paused and turned to Jennifer Curtis. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Curtis?’

The two of them had been discussing the crimes, going over and over them. Harper knew something wasn’t quite right. They had been making one fundamental mistake from the start. The revised theory, however, was even more disturbing.

‘Yes,’ she said, standing. ‘And from my experience it seems we are dealing with two different types of crime here. Let’s start at the beginning. Dr Kate Cramer finds a dead baby outside her house. Cassie Veringer is sent a package of fingertips. Then Jordan Weislander finds that tongue in his icebox. They are all warnings in a way, symbols of things that could be taken from them if the killer or killers so wished. And all the recipients of these grotesque gifts were intimately involved in the search for, arrest or prosecution of Gleason.’

‘Yes, I think we’ve established those facts,’ said Helen, slightly piqued that Curtis was on her feet and enjoying the audience.

‘Okay, so moving things forward,’ said Harper, aware that the relationship between the two women was hardly a smooth one. ‘Curtis, can you explain the way these crimes were committed? Perhaps that will help us see things a little more clearly.’

‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘It seems as though each of these crimes was executed in an extremely cold, clinical manner. Sara-Jane Gable was taken from her cot and left to drown in the ocean. When Dr Cramer found her there was not a mark on her small body. Interestingly, from looking at the incision marks on the fingertips that were sent to Cassie Veringer and from those on the human tongue sent to Jordan Weislander it seems like there were incredibly precise. In all three cases we are talking about a criminal mind which is not only calculating, but clinical as well.

‘Now look at the case of Charles Garrison, whose blood and brains were found scattered around the scene. That crime was committed in a fit of anger or passion, almost an orgy of violence, if you will. There was nothing distant or clinical about that attack.’

‘So what are you saying?’ asked Helen.

Harper stepped forwards once more. ‘What we think – and it’s only a supposition at this stage – is that although all of these crimes seem to centre around Gleason, perhaps they are not the work of one man.’ He paused again, and swallowed. ‘We think this bears the hallmarks of two very different killers.’

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as each member of Harper’s team tried to take in the implications of the suggestion. Harper realised that one murder investigation – even with the help of the latest hi-tech forensic techniques – was hard enough. Now, suddenly, they were expected to try and solve two complex investigations, both of which had elements that overlapped with the other. It wasn’t as easy as just trying to separate two mixed up jigsaw puzzles. That would have been hard, but it was achievable. No, this was something quite different. It was the vague, seemingly unknowable common ground between the two sets of crimes that worried him. If there were two killers at large – and the more he thought about it the more he became convinced that what Curtis said was true – then did they operate together? What was their motivation? And what bound them to Gleason, a man who had been dead seven years? As he tried to find the missing link his brain began to cloud. A shot of pain hit his left temple. He couldn’t take any more in today. He had to get some rest.

‘Let’s call it a night,’ he said. ‘I think we could all do with some sleep.’

Before going back to Jules, however, he had to speak to Kate and find out what on earth she thought she was doing. Why couldn’t he simply forget her?

19

Kate couldn’t sleep. Every time she was on the point of abandoning herself to the darkness something made her jump, jolting her back from the promise of forgetfulness. There was no point. She wasn’t going to rest. And she still felt nauseous. She sat up in bed and switched on the light. She checked her cell. It was 1:14. She had three missed calls. An envelope symbol flashed on her screen. She hit the voicemail button. It was from Josh. For a moment, as she heard the sound of his breathing, she hoped he was about to say that Jules was a mistake, that he wanted her back. Then he started to speak.

‘You can’t just leave it alone, can you? Jesus Christ, Kate, what were you thinking? And taking along Cassie? Don’t you think both of them have been through enough?’ He paused as he swallowed his anger. ‘Anyway, when you get this message, call me. I’ll be up late. We’ve got to talk.’ Another pause. ‘Hope you’re okay. Bye.’

She felt a rush of shame flash through her. Perhaps bringing together the two women wasn’t the best of ideas. After all, Cassie and Roberta had both lived through hell. Then her temper kicked in. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? He wasn’t the one who had found a dead baby. He wasn’t the one who had taken delivery of a package of fingertips. Neither had he been raped and nearly killed by a fucking psycho. She reached for her phone and dialled his number.

He answered immediately.

‘Josh, it’s Kate.’

‘You got my message? Honestly, Kate. What the hell do you think –‘

‘Oh, just leave it. You’re full of shit, do you know that?’

He sounded shocked, hurt. ‘What the –‘

‘Can’t stand it when you’re not involved, can you? Hate it when you can’t play Mr Hotshot Detective. When you’re not at the centre of it all. Well, let me tell you there’s a world out there that exists very happily without you.’