‘Then what? How did you end up at his hotel?’

‘When I was up there, he put this little bit of paper in my hand without anyone noticing. It said “CALL ME AFTER THE SHOW”, with a number on it.’ She was starting to look slightly sick.

‘And you did?’ Carmella prompted.

Roisin looked at her mother’s set shoulders in her flowery housecoat. ‘I know it was wrong. I know it was asking for trouble, but I honestly thought it would be OK. I mean, he’s so famous, surely he wouldn’t risk doing anything mental . . .’

‘What about your friend – Scarlett? Did she come with you when you went to meet him?’

Roisin shook her head. ‘Her older sister was there, at the concert. We were meant to be going home with her after, but I told them that I’d bumped into my auntie and my cousins who live round the corner, and they’d take me. Shawn said on the phone not to worry about getting home, he’d get a car for me, but I wasn’t to tell anyone and I was to come on my own.’

‘Did anyone ask how old you were?’

Roisin looked sheepish. ‘Yes. One of his bodyguards. But I . . . I—’

Her mother interrupted, a harsh edge to her voice. ‘She had a fake ID saying she was eighteen. And she looked different then. You wouldn’t believe the phase she was going through. Right little skank she looked – bleached hair, ridiculous heels and enough make-up it’s a miracle she could even open her eyes. If her da and me had seen her before she went out dressed like that, we’d never have let her go. Never!’

‘I’ve not worn a scrap of make-up since that night,’ Roisin said quietly. ‘Or heels, or short skirts.’

Poor girl, thought Carmella. The sort of rite of passage that no girl ever deserved.

‘So that’s one good thing that came out of the whole sorry business,’ said Mrs McGreevy sanctimoniously, polishing the already-gleaming kettle. Carmella suddenly felt desperate to get Roisin on her own. She clearly wasn’t going to say what really happened, not with her mum there being all judgemental.

Roisin looked up, anguished. ‘If he has done it again, will I have to go to court? They’ll kill me – if my name gets out, they will actually kill me, I’m not joking.’

Her mother’s hand stilled on the disinfectant spray.

‘Who will, Roisin?’ asked Carmella gently, wondering who she meant. Hammond? The band? Shawn’s family?

‘OnT fans!’ Roisin wailed. ‘They’d hunt me down and kill me, I know they would! Some girl got glassed in the face by four fans just for getting her picture with Shawn – can you imagine what they’d do to me if I helped get him sent to jail?’

She was weeping now, so Carmella got up and fetched her the box of tissues – housed in some sort of hideous pastel knitted cosy thing – on the windowsill. Interestingly, Roisin’s mum made no move to comfort her daughter.

‘Listen,’ Carmella said kindly, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about that now. It’s very unlikely, and if the worst happened and you did, your name would absolutely be kept out of the press, you have my word on that. Now, how about I walk you to work? If we go now, you won’t even be very late, and we can talk on the way.’

Without your mother listening, she thought. Then I can find out what really happened.

Chapter 25

Day 8 – Patrick

Patrick hauled himself out of his bronze Prius and made his way through the station car park, passing Winkler’s white Audi and noticing the gleam of the paintwork, the alloy hubcaps, the licence plate bragging that this car was brand new. Winkler had been banging on about his new motor for weeks, and Patrick couldn’t help feeling a clench of envy, especially when he peered through the window and saw how immaculate it was. No crumbled Wotsits on the carpets; no half-chewed Haribo stuck to the seats; no discarded toys in the footwell. Bonnie had systematically wrecked the interior of Patrick’s car and he needed to take it to one of those valet places, where silent Eastern European men would render it spick and span – until Bonnie got in it again. Still, it was all worth it, wasn’t it? He’d rather have crisp crumbs mashed into his upholstery than live Winkler’s shallow existence. Rather get a big goodnight hug from his daughter before settling in front of the TV for an evening of – albeit currently awkward – conversation with Gill, than live Winkler’s life: pumping iron at the gym, then heading to bed with his latest desperate woman.

He sighed. He hadn’t been to the gym in months, and when he tried to do press-ups at home Bonnie would invariably leap screeching onto his back. And going to bed with desperate women . . . well, there was ‘exciting’ desperate and there was the other kind. By the time Patrick reached the building, his mood had dropped from grumpy to foul.

Winkler was hanging about in the corridor, chatting up the custody sergeant, the two of them falling silent when Patrick walked past scowling, a fresh burst of laughter following him down the hall. He was in a good mind to go back there, ask them what was so fucking funny. But he was distracted by the beep of his phone. Carmella? He was eager for news from Ireland. But no, it was Gill, asking what he wanted for dinner, even though he’d only left her company an hour ago. He very much doubted he’d be home before midnight – she knew that – and he felt irritated, then felt bad for being irritated. He knew she was nervous today because she had a meeting with her chambers about going back to her previous job in a month or so. He badly wanted Gill to resume her work as a barrister, even though it would cause more nightmares with childcare, because he believed that if she returned to work, she would begin to regain her old self, and the nervy, anxious woman he lived with would become his strong and capable wife again. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple, but surely it would be a start? Something had to give. Because at the moment he was happier at work, dealing with Winkler and dead teenagers, than he was at home.

He replied to Gill as he sat at his desk, saying he’d grab a takeaway later, not to worry, and wishing her good luck with the meeting. He ended the text with a single kiss (there were four kisses on Gill’s message) and then sent a text to Carmella, asking her how it was going. He hated waiting around like this.

He also felt antsy because at the moment they only had this one line of inquiry, if you didn’t count Winkler’s strand of the operation – which he didn’t. He knew from bitter experience how dangerous it was to focus on one suspect, to have tunnel vision in a case. In 90 per cent of investigations, the obvious solution was the right one. The prime suspect did it, the odds worked out. Human behaviour was depressingly but reassuringly predictable. But sometimes, as in the Child Catcher case, it was like trying to fathom a magic trick: misdirection, sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors. Right now, all the evidence seemed to be pointing towards one person, but Patrick lived in fear of Plan A going tits up when you had no Plan B in place.

He opened his Moleskine notepad, plugged his headphones into his computer and opened Spotify. This morning, even The Cure couldn’t lighten his mood. He needed something that would block out the chatter and ambient noise around him while not distracting him too much. Aural wallpaper. He clicked on an Elbow playlist and got to work.

At the top of the first page, he wrote ‘ROSE’, adding ‘JESSICA’ in the corresponding spot on the facing page. In a space in the middle he listed the similarities between the two murders.

OnTarget fans.

Users of social media/fan forums.

Caucasian, teenage (14/15 yo), lower m/c, state schools, average height/weight.