For now he was happy to indulge her. It smoothed the way for the next part of his plan. So he would have to spend a few pounds

—so what? All that would end soon enough. Then she’d learn the hard facts. She’d learn what it was really like to be Vida. Now there was a woman; a proper lady. She hadn’t been interested in his money—she’d had plenty of her own.

But meeting Patsy Lumis again meant shelving work for the day, and that was a real pain. He’d have to explain himself—make some excuse and grovel. He hated that; it was demeaning, and he hated his job—he hated being taken for granted.

He’d spend the morning preparing. There was a lot to do. His special place had to be perfect for its next inhabitant. Still, women like her were hard to find, so, in the end, it would be worth it. He’d clean up a bit, make it smell sweet, and clean his instruments. The thought of wielding all that stainless steel once again, with purpose, made him excited. He could feel that special thrill. He flexed his fingers.

Dentistry was difficult to learn, but he had to master it. How else was he going to impress Vida? It was a skill she greatly admired.

She’d spoken a lot about her own dentist, about the work she’d had done. He wanted to be good at it too, so he could keep things as she wanted them. A smile like Vida’s took a great deal of maintenance, and he’d hoped to be a lot better at it by now but there were always unforeseen difficulties. With the first one he’d not thought it through; he’d not thought about the blood or the saliva and so he’d botched it completely.

They fought too and screamed. But he got around that by strapping them down. He cut out all the crying and pleading by stitching their swollen, ugly mouths tight shut. He didn’t do it nicely, either—no painkillers. He’d quickly realised that he enjoyed watching them suffer. He derived a whole heap of pleasure from putting them through it. To that end he always used thick string or garden twine—the kind with wire running through it—to seal those soft, fleshy lips that always bled so much and swelled so hideously. The thought made him chuckle.

He couldn’t rationalise it to himself. On the one hand he loved the sound of those American accents, so much like Vida’s. On the other, he hated the recriminations, the name calling; the violent language they all spouted. And, of course, he knew very well that none of them was really Vida, and that always made him angry, because he tried really hard. He fixed their hair and makeup, provided the right clothing, and of course, the perfect teeth to match Vida’s lovely smile. But he never quite pulled it off. When he grew angry he assuaged it by treating them cruelly. He preferred the mouths to be silent. They were far easier to deal with—particularly afterwards, when he could use their bodies for his sexual pleasure.

He closed his eyes. Yes, he was wicked, truly wicked, and he needed saving from himself. Vida could save him. If she’d agree to be his, then all this would end and he’d be happy. But the bitch would have nothing to do with him. That made him angry. It made him want to do those dreadful things to the girls. It was all her fault.

They’d agreed to meet in Manchester again. She wanted to go to a restaurant in Chinatown for lunch. He dressed a little more casually this time: smart pants and a good shirt. He topped it all off with his leather jacket, and set out to catch the train.

She was waiting for him in St. Peter’s Square. She ran to his side and kissed his cheek. A little keen for so soon in the relationship, but who was he to complain? He liked it.

She talked non-stop; a load of rubbish. She complained about the course she was on, her tutors, and the crappy accommodation she had to live in. Jack tried to be sympathetic. He made all the right noises, but sympathy just wasn’t his style. In an effort to shut her up, he held her hand and pointed to the restaurant he was taking her to. It would be easy to silence her once he got her to his place.

The restaurant was an upmarket, rather expensive eatery that was sure to impress. He knew her weakness now. It was obvious because she made no secret of it. She was a gold digger. So—Jack would promise her the jackpot.

“Jack, you’re so good to me!” She took his arm and pulled him along the road towards the entrance. “I’m so hungry. Can we have like one of those banquet things? You don’t know what it’s like being a poor ol’ student.” She batted long dark lashes at him. “My Mom says I’ve got to manage. She says if I can’t, then I’ll just have to come back home.” She pouted. “You don’t want me to have to do that—do you, Jack?”

No, he damn well didn’t. He’d done all the planning and preparation for her. This one wasn’t going anywhere.

“If I had a man who really liked me, who’d look after me, then I’m sure I’d stay.”

“In that case I’ll just have to take good care of you.” He put his arm around her waist as they walked. She was an open book;

shallow and grasping—well, she’d pay the price for that soon enough. “You can come to mine. Have a bit of a break—tomorrow night.” He bent down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll pick you up. Pack a few things. I’ve got plenty of room. I’ll send out for some food. We can eat and drink and have a good time getting to know each other.”

Chapter 10

“Here.” With a flourish, Julian Batho handed Imogen a piece of paper. “The firm that manufactured the orthopaedic plate is called

‘Partridges of Birmingham’.”

Imogen Goode was sat at her desk poring over some paperwork.

“You looked it up?” She hardly dared to believe her luck. “And you actually found it? How did you do it?”

The forensic scientist played nervously with his glasses and gave her a dismissive shrug. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d really slogged to find the information for her. He liked her; he liked her a lot. All he needed now was the courage to tell her and then ask her out.

And that was the problem. Forensic science was one thing, but asking an attractive woman for a night out was beyond him. She was so perfect, so pretty, so completely the opposite of him. Tall and clever he might be, but he was no looker. It leeched at his confidence.

“It was a little easier for me. I know who the main manufacturers are in this country so I tried them first. The number you’re looking for is in that batch there.” He pointed to the paper.

“If you ring them they should be able to tell you which hospital they went to.”

“I owe you, Julian. DI Calladine will be pleased too. We need this, we really do. We’ve got another one this morning. The DI and Ruth are with Doc Hoyle now.”

“I know. I was there earlier, helping the doctor. I’ve got a whole lot of samples to work on, so I’d better get back to the lab. I’ve got to go to the undertakers. The hearse she was found in needs going over with a fine toothcomb. I’ll be in touch if I get anything else.”

He smiled at her.

“When this is sorted I’ll take you out for a slap-up dinner,” she promised. “Don’t let me forget!”

No he wouldn’t. It was a start. When the time came he’d make sure he had a raft of suggestions ready so she didn’t try to wheedle out of keeping her side of the bargain.

* * *

Imogen rang the manufacturer right away, and found out that the plate had gone to a local hospital.

“I’ve found it, sir!” She practically shouted down the phone to Calladine. “Well, I had a little help from Julian, but we’ve got the info on the orthopaedic plate.”

That was the best piece of news Calladine had heard all week—apart from finding Cassie Rigby.

“You’ll never believe it but she was treated locally too—at the Infirmary in Central Manchester. I’ve rung them, and the records people are digging out the details as we speak.”

“Great work, Imogen. Thank Julian for me too. Did the records people say how long?”