At the back of the darkroom was another room, more of a large cupboard really, which held the remnants of her former life. She knew what was inside and she hesitated. She felt her throat tighten as she turned the door and pushed. A dry mustiness invaded her nostrils, causing her to sneeze a couple of times. She wiped her nose on her sleeve as she reached for the light switch. The bulb flickered for an instant before it came on.

Arranged around the wooden shelves were a number of clay heads, images of the dead that she had brought back to life. Lifeless eyes stared out at her, reminding her of the cases she had tried to forget. No matter how hard she had tried to push them away the memory of creation remained in her hands.

Under each clay sculpture was a label. Here was KEELINGWARD, HOWARD; PATRICK, BENJAMIN JOSEPH; WREN, CATHERINE; JOHNSON, JENNIFER, names that she had only come to know after she had pieced their faces back together. Before their remains had come to her they were unknown, lost, unclaimed. But she had been able to give each of them an identity, fashioning likenesses out of what little remained. Without her – or at least without people like her – they would still be without names; individuals lost, sometimes unloved, existing in a kind of limbo, a nothingness situated somewhere between sudden death and due remembrance.

The sculptures on display were victims. She had chosen to store the reconstructions of career criminals, rapists and serial killers out of sight in a series of cardboard boxes. Those monsters did not deserve to be seen.

She moved a step ladder and placed a foot on its bottom step when she thought she heard a noise from outside. She felt her heart race. She listened hard. It was just the crash of the waves. Nothing more. She built up a slight sweat as she lifted a couple of boxes out of the way. She placed the ladder underneath the shelves and started to climb. She would only need to raise herself to the third or fourth step in order to reach up to the shelf. That was if her memory served her correctly.

She pushed herself upwards, gripping the sharp metal edging of the shelves as a support. She ran her hands over the rows of boxes arranged on the shelf. She was certain the case would have been filed under his, not her, name - Gleason, not Veringer. Killer, not victim.

She reached out and took hold of the box, pulling it towards her. Steadying herself, she climbed down the ladder and put the box on the floor. She looked at it for a moment before picking it up again and carrying it into the darkroom.

She placed it on the trestle table and eased off its lid. She pushed her hands down into it and felt the form inside. Was that a curve of the lip she was touching? She pictured Gleason forcing himself on those girls – on poor Cassie – and then remembered a fragment of the dream. The one where a clay tongue was pushing itself into her mouth.

Instead of relinquishing her hold – she wasn’t going to wuss out now - she gripped it tightly and brought it out. A life-size bust of Gleason, the image that she had formed with Cassie’s help. She turned the clay model towards her and compared it to the man. Not a bad likeness at all. In fact, she had to admit there was something uncanny about it. There was the high forehead, the square jaw, the large, straight nose, the deep set eyes, the pock-marked skin. Cassie had also felt the ear stud in his right ear and the distinctive scar that ran from the right temple down across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. In addition to the physical resemblance she had also managed to capture something of his soul, or perhaps the lack of one. The model stared out at the world with the same indifference, the same cold blankness that she had witnessed in Gleason.

She carried on looking at the clay model, thinking perhaps that it might offer up some sort of a clue. But Gleason in death was just as uncommunicative as he had been in life. The only time she thought she gained an insight into his character was when Cassie was giving evidence and talking about what he had done – how he had degraded her - that night. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she related how he had sodomised her. Kate had looked over to Gleason to see a sly smirk playing across his face.

‘You bastard,’ she said to herself. ‘You fucking son of a bitch.’

She reached out to take a swipe at the model, only stopping herself at the last minute, hitting her fist on the table instead.

‘I’m going to find you,’ she said through the pain of a smarting hand. ‘I’m going to get you, you fucker. Just you wait and see. I’m on your case now.’

21

As soon as he stepped into the room he was attacked by voices. The fifty reporters gathered in the media centre of the Parker building, in downtown LA, were all eager to get the story. Be the first. Even if some of their theories were way off the mark. If not downright insane.

‘Detective Harper? Can you confirm that this is the work of a satanic cult?’ shouted one reporter.

‘A site on the net quotes a source close to the investigation as saying that Gleason never died,’ said another, a line taken up by a third.

‘That the government kept him alive for experimentation purposes – a brain scanning program to look at the minds of serial killers - and that he’s now escaped. What are your thoughts on this?’

Karen Cain stood at the front of the podium and gestured for some kind of order.

‘Detective Harper will answer your questions in due course,’ she said, turning to him, ‘but first he’s going to read out a short statement. Detective Harper?’

As Josh took a sip of water he looked out at the mass of faces. He scanned his audience for one that looked if not friendly then at least familiar. He recognized the booze-reddened face of the veteran crime reporter Al Denning from the Herald. And there was Katie Williams from the news channel WSLA. And of course the beautiful Cynthia Ross herself. An image of her naked body flashed into his mind. It had been nothing more than a one night stand, he told himself. But what a night. Obviously he had never told Kate. He took another sip of water and then stood up.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman. As you know, my name is Detective Josh Harper, and I’m heading this investigation. I’m here today to try and enlist your help. We are currently seeking a violent serial offender who is extremely dangerous. I’d like to call on all of you to try and do everything in your powers to bring this criminal or criminals to justice.

‘As you may have read, on the morning of January 25 Dr Kate Cramer, former forensic artist who worked closely with the LAPD, discovered a 15-month baby girl in the water off Malibu. She tried to rescue her, she gave mouth-to-mouth, but the baby had already died. The child had been snatched from the home of Joe and Susan Gable.