As she stepped down from the podium, reporters tried to manoeuvre themselves near to her, but she walked straight past, head down, out of the room. They followed her out of the Parker Center and down to her car, but to every question she answered no comment. In the safety of her car she opened her cell and dialled Cynthia Ross’s number.

‘We still have a deal?’

‘The interview?’

‘Sure, as long as you keep your side of the bargain.’

‘My editor’s waiting for the story. When can we talk?’

‘What about now? I’ll meet you at Coffee Sin on Wall Street in 15 minutes.’

22

Kate noticed her hand trembled ever so slightly as she turned the pages of the newspaper. She had a right to be nervous. After all, how did she know that she could trust Cynthia Ross? Would the reporter have broken her side of the deal and splashed the news of her pregnancy across the pages? Would she even go so far as to reveal the identity of the father? After all, her relationship with Josh had hardly been a secret. All she would have to do was make a few calls, talk to a few sources. Yet instinctively, she felt as though Ross – for all her ruthlessness, her burning ambition – would not betray her.

Partly it was something to do with the way Cynthia had looked at her during the interview, as if she really did understand how awful it had been for her to have found that dead child. But that could easily have been a trick, a technique Ross had perfected over the years to encourage her subjects to drop their guard. Also, at the end of the interview, when the tape recorder had been turned off, Cynthia had told her that she was afraid of having children. Not only because she was scared of the effect motherhood would have on her career, but also because she was not certain whether she was capable of devoting herself utterly to another person, even a baby. Kate had responded with a well-worn platitude, that she was sure she would change her mind once she had carried and nurtured her own child. But then Cynthia went on to tell her about her own mother – a highly intelligent woman plagued by manic depression, who had never showed her any love as a baby and young girl. Surely it was better, she said, to have no child at all than one you hated and resented? Kate was about to ask another question about her mother when Cynthia’s cell rang. She had to get back to the office. The news editor was waiting for the story. She thanked Kate for her time, promised her that she would quote her accurately and fairly, and asked whether she could ring her later that day to check the occasional fact. Kate had waited for a call, but there had been no contact, apart from a short email to tell her that the piece would be in the next day’s edition.

The first thing she noticed was the headline – ‘KATE CRAMER, FORMER FORENSIC ARTIST, WHO FOUND DEAD BABY IN SEA, IS PREGNANT’. She blinked a couple of times, feeling the bile rising inside her. She was so angry she could hardly bear to read the article, but her eyes fixed on a couple of paragraphs near the top of the story.

‘Kate Cramer, the forensic artist who worked with Cassie Veringer to create an accurate portrait of Bobby Gleason, the serial killer who targeted young women of college age, is pregnant, sources close to the investigation can reveal. A police source, who wanted to remain anonymous commented: “One of the theories we are investigating is whether there is a link between Ms Cramer’s pregnancy and the fact that she discovered the body of a young baby girl floating in the sea outside her beachside home.”

‘Kate Cramer, in an exclusive interview with the Times, called the late Bobby Gleason a “serial killer with a taste for the perverse and the sadistic”. Yet in many ways he was a coward, she added. “What he did to those young women was beyond belief,” she said. “He tortured, raped, sodomised and finally murdered them. Ultimately, he couldn’t face up to the reality of his own punishment and, in a final cowardly act, ended his own life.”

The article then went into more detail about the grotesque gifts received by Cassie Veringer and Jordan Weislander. Kate scanned the rest of the piece, which covered the background of the Gleason case, interwoven with some of the quotes she had given Ross the previous day. It ended with the words of the unnamed police source, who said:

‘It’s safe to assume that the macabre presents received by Kate Cramer, Cassie Veringer and Jordan Weislander are sinister omens. In each case, a person involved in bringing Gleason to justice has been sent a warning. What the future holds we do not know, but we are preparing for the worst.’

Kate threw the paper across the room. What the fuck was going on? Why had Cynthia betrayed her like this? And who was this source close to the investigation? She grabbed her cell phone and, in a blind rage, called Ross. She was so angry her fingers hit a couple of wrong digits. Incorrect number. Fuck. She tried to take a deep breath, and dialled again. She started to shout as soon as she heard Cynthia’s voice, but realised she had been forwarded to voice mail.

‘This is Kate Cramer. Can you tell me what the fuck is going on? Or do you want me to call your editor?’

She cut the line and then called Josh. Before she had chance to speak he asked her if she was okay. She was too angry to respond. He had seen the piece, he told her. He was on his way over. He’d be with her in fifteen minutes.

She went over and retrieved the crumpled newspaper from the floor. She felt her face burning as she read the article again. How could Ross be so irresponsible as to compromise the safety of her unborn child? It seemed likely that the person who killed Sara-Jane already knew about her desire to have a child. Would the news of her pregnancy change things? Would it make her even more of a target? As she ran a protective hand over her stomach, the direction of her anger changed, the focus shifting from Ross to herself. Fundamentally it was her own stupid fault. How could she have been so naïve as to trust her? And so much for her instincts. They had been way off mark.

She heard her mother walking through the hallway towards the kitchen. She quickly pushed the newspaper into the trash and took a couple of deep breaths. She didn’t want her to see her like this. She composed her face, tried to force a smile, but she knew that her mother would realise there was something wrong almost immediately.

‘Darling, I’m just going upstairs for my bath,’ she called out. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘Okay, mom,’ she said, suddenly consumed by relief. ‘Sure you don’t need anything?’

‘No, I’m fine. But I think there’s someone coming towards the house.’

‘It’ll be for me. Thanks.’