He assessed her coolly, as if she were a specimen that he had only ever encountered before at a distance. As he approached, she smelt a mixture of stale sweat and cheap bourbon.

‘Look, lady,’ he said, walking around his desk and dropping his 200-pound frame into the chair. ‘I don’t know what you want, but let’s not talk shit here. You don’t need a room. If you needed a room you’d go and check in at the Marriott, the Hilton or one of those other places on West Century Boulevard. Even if you were on a budget – which from your two hundred dollar jeans I doubt very much - you wouldn’t chose to come to this shithole. Why would you?’

She played with her purse, nervous now.

‘What are you? You’re not a cop, I can see that. Let’s see. A private investigator? No, way too classy for that. I got it - you’re a goddamned reporter. What you after? I might be able to help – for a small exchange of some sort.’

‘You’ve busted me,’ she said, smiling. She thought of Cynthia Ross. ‘Yeah, I’m a journalist – freelance - working on a story for the Times.’

‘So how can I help?’ he said, standing up again, and coming closer.

‘I’m Gruen, by the way, Dave Gruen,’ he said, stretching out his hand. The touch of it – all slimy and wet – made Kate think of an enormous carp her dad had once caught when they’d gone on a fishing trip. She couldn’t bear the thought of it wriggling in her palms and so when he had given it to her to hold she’d tossed it back into the water.

‘Hi, I’m Donna. Donna Davies.’ It was the name of a friend from high school.

If he laid a finger on her she would – what? What could she do? She needed that information.

‘I’m trying to find a Robert – or Bob, Bobby – Gleason. I believe he’s staying here?’

‘That’s right, honey.’

‘Could you tell me which room he’s in?’

‘Could do.’

Kate started to open her purse.

‘Look, I can’t stretch to much – this is my own money here – but I can give you – what? – twenty bucks?’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘Okay – what about thirty?’

‘Fifty.’ It was not so much a request as a statement. ‘I don’t like to do this – it’s against my principles – but if I do give some info to a reporter then it’s got to be worth my while, you understand.’

‘Okay, then. Fifty it is.’ She grappled for the money. ‘Here it is. Two twenties and a ten.’

As she handed over the money she felt his fat fingers stroke the underside of her palm.

‘Which room?’ she said, pulling away from him.

‘No need to start acting up, lady,’ he said. ‘Only trying to be nice and friendly.’

‘Where’s the goddamned room?’

‘Number 27, second floor, right at the end.’ She tried to recall whether the disc with 27 etched into it had a key attached.

‘Is he in?’

‘I think so.’ He went to look behind the desk. ‘Yep, his key’s not here so I guess he is. So go straight up, but don’t tell him anything about our – arrangement, okay? Oh, you’ll have to take the stairs, though. Elevator’s out of order.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ she said, walking away from him.

She took out her cell to check she still had a signal. There was another missed call from Josh.

As she climbed the poorly lit stairway she felt herself growing more anxious. She tried to take a deep breath, but it was useless. Fear began to tighten her throat like a noose around her neck. She could always go back, take Cassie’s advice and call Josh or 911. But that would give Josh the satisfaction of solving the case when, from what she could gather, he’d done fuck all. No way.

Because she was so afraid she deliberately forced herself to walk quickly down the gloomy corridor. She couldn’t quite believe she was standing outside room 27. On the other side of the door was the man who wanted to harm her, possibly even kill her. She raised her hand and knocked. She couldn’t hear anything from inside. Was he out? Could Gruen have been wrong? As she lent forward to put her ear to the wood, the door opened.

She reared back to see a tall, white-haired man, youngish, with white skin and pink eyes. He looked like a ghost. It was a moment before Kate realised he was albino. He didn’t seem surprised to see her standing there at his door. In fact, his eyes didn’t seem to register any emotion whatsoever.

‘I know who you are,’ he said. His voice was gentle, almost like a whisper.

Just as Kate opened her mouth to speak he reached out and pulled her into the darkened room. She tried to resist, but his grip on her arm was too strong. He clamped his hand over her mouth. She felt her lips press into her teeth and tasted blood. He pushed her into a chair and clamped a pad over her mouth, securing it with brown sticky tape. Then he tied her hands behind her back with a piece of rope.

It took her a while before her eyes adjusted to the gloom – the blinds looked like they had never been opened, and the only light in the room came from the soft glow of candles. She wished she had just sat there quietly with her eyes tight shut. What she saw turned her insides to liquid.

The room was some kind of temple devoted to a dead serial killer. Gleason was the god, the albino the ultimate worshipper. Wherever she looked she was confronted by photocopies of the face of Bobby Gleason, some which had been blown up so that his image nearly covered a whole wall. There were headlines from newspapers, tracking the case from the first killing in 1992 to Gleason’s arrest in 1997, the subsequent trial and imprisonment until his suicide in 2000. Arranged around the walls were cut-outs of the faces of young women, women Kate recognised as Elizabeth Ventura, Jane Gardener, Teresa Collins, Frances Silla and Tracey Newton. Gleason’s victims.

On a piece of paper tacked to the ice box in the corner of the room was a list of everyone involved in the case. At the top was her name; next was Cassie’s.

‘You’re even more beautiful in person than in the pictures,’ he said. Again his voice was ethereal, almost insubstantial. ‘Sorry,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Robert Gleason, but you can call me Bobby.’

Kate grunted.

‘He was a great man. Truly, he was. Cut down in his prime. He would have gone on to do even greater, better things if he’d only been given the chance.’

As he walked towards her Kate felt as if she were shrinking into herself, tensing her body as if to protect herself from some kind of approaching predator.

‘But you had to ruin it, didn’t you?’