The office stinks and makes me feel a little ill. I lay a bathroom towel and some newspapers over my chair before sitting down.

I tear up a tissue, wad it up and stuff it into my nose. I plug in my cellphone, but it’s still not connected, so I wipe down the office phone with some wet tissues until it’s clean enough to use.

I phone my insurance company. It turns out I have life insurance, house insurance, contents and car insurance, but not the kind of insurance that allows for this. If a pipe had busted or the carpet caught fire, the insurance company would play ball. But when it comes to messy suicide, they don’t want to know. When I hang

up I look through the phonebook for a number I’ve never had

to call but I’ve seen perform over the years. The cleaning crew promise to come out today. They’ll replace what they can’t clean, which will include the office chairs.

When I get off the phone I look over the chair Bruce Alderman

was sitting on, then slowly I stand up and peer over the desk, as if I’m still expecting to see him lying there. All that’s there is a lot of blood. I sit back down and go through the phonebook. The first number I dial is for the wrong Martins, but the second one I get right, and Laura Martins answers the phone.

I explain who I am, and Henry Martins’ daughter remembers

me

‘So now you think differently,’ she says, ‘and another man is

dead. That witch killed them,’ she says, referring to her stepmother.

‘And the only thing on the news is these people who floated up in the water and the dead caretaker. What about my father? Why doesn’t he get a mention?’

‘They’re keeping the names out of the media for the moment,’

I say. ‘They have to, until they identify everybody’

‘Why my dad? Why choose him to take out and throw in the

water? Why not somebody else?’

‘It was just a random choice. The day the girl was murdered

probably coincided with your father’s burial.’

‘So it’s random? Just one of those things? Like a bad

statistic?’

There isn’t any answer that will satisfy her, so I don’t offer one.

Instead I push on.

‘Your father, did he own a watch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he buried with it?’

“I’m not sure. Maybe. I don’t really know’

‘Okay. Can you remember what kind of watch it was?’

‘Not really. It was old, though.’

‘Old?’

‘Yeah. He’s had it my entire life. Is it weird that I can’t remember if he had it when he was buried?’

I run some names past her but she doesn’t recognise any of

them. Then I thank her for her time. The Tag Heuer didn’t belong to Henry Martins, because it is ten years old at the most.

I switch my computer on and go through the file I was creating yesterday, tapping at the keyboard tentatively and barely touching the mouse because they have blood splatter on them. I head back into the Missing Persons website and look for young women who

went missing two years ago. Rachel Tyler’s name comes up again, and so do four others. I read the files. One of them was found two months later. The others have never shown up. I look at the photos. One of the girls was seventeen, another was thirty-two.

Could be both are in the ground in the cemetery. The seventeenyear-old, Julie Thomas, definitely shares some characteristics

with Rachel Tyler. Similar height, similar age, long blonde hair, both good-looking. Most serial killers have a type. Looks like I’ve found it, but to make sure I check for the reports of women who went missing six days earlier. There is only one. Jessica

Shanks was twenty-four years old and was reported missing by

her husband the day she didn’t come home from work. I read

through the details. The file hasn’t been reported as being closed, but I imagine sometime within the next twenty-four hours the

update will have been made.

I print out the photos, one for each of the girls. I sit them

side by side on the floor since I can’t use my desk. Rachel Tyler, Julie Thomas and Jessica Shanks. Without a doubt, the killer had a type. Somewhere in this database is another young woman to

complete the set.

I print out the files, and then I power down my computer

and unplug it all. I remove the tissue from my nose, then carry the computer down to my car: I don’t want it to get damaged by the cleaning crew, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Until all the blood is gone I’ll work out of my house.

When all the gear is loaded into my car, I return for the

whiteboard, which I wipe down with more wet tissues. I also

grab my cellphone. It has one bar showing on the power scale

— I should’ve bought a car charger too. I leave the easel behind and carry the whiteboard to my car, nodding at the people who

ask me questions on the way and ignoring their requests to stay and hang out a while to catch them up on all the gory details.

chapter fifteen

David the boyfriend lives in a house that is almost as run down as Sidney the retired caretaker’s. The place hasn’t seen as much in the way of paint over the last few years as it has rust and spiders.

The guttering has corroded away, the windows are covered in

grime, the weatherboards warped and unwelcoming. It’s in the

middle of dozens of others, each one in need of a handyman’s

touch or a wrecking ball. I can’t figure out how David still lives here. I can’t figure out how anybody could live here longer than a week. But maybe he likes it and it’s a simple case of me not getting it. Perhaps this is the stereotypical pop-culture way to live.

Derelict is the new black. Grunge is in, being broke is in, making sure the house you live in looks like crap is in. He doesn’t own the place, but rents it, like all the other students in this area, which means he slips easily into the day-to-day routine of not giving a damn about the condition of the property, and the owners know

one day they’re going to bulldoze or burn it down anyway and

don’t care as long as the rent is paid. This isn’t suburbia; most of the people living around here are university students struggling to survive. Rachel Tyler was a student. I can’t imagine her staying here for more than a few days before returning home to grab a

few things or a good night’s sleep or the chance to step out of a shower cleaner than when she stepped in.

A young guy with studs in his ears and lips and nose opens the door. He must have real fun going through the security foreplay before boarding a plane. He’s squinting because the cloudy glare is too bright for him. His T-shirt reads The truth is down there with an arrow pointed to his crotch. All of a sudden, the last thing I want to know is the truth.

‘David Harding?’

“No, dude, he’s not here.’

‘Where is he?’

The guy shrugs. ‘Studying, I think. Or sleeping.’

‘Sleeping?’

‘Yeah, man, you know, that thing you do in the morning after

being out all night.’

“I thought people slept in the night.’

‘What planet are you from?’

‘An older one. Does he sleep here?’

‘Yeah, man.’

‘So if he’s sleeping, could it be that he’s sleeping here right now?’

He seems to think about it. ‘It could do, I suppose.’

‘Then how about you put that university education of yours to

some good use and figure it out for me.’

‘Whatever, bro,’ he says, then turns and walks up the hallway, grabbing the wall twice as he goes to make sure neither it nor him falls down.

I take a couple of steps inside, figuring Stud-face here is happy for me to do so but simply forgot to extend the invite. It’s colder inside than out — probably an all-year-round feature of these houses. The air is damp, and the carpet, wallpaper and furniture could do with a permanent dehumidifier. There are posters on