‘Can I have your autograph?’ he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a pint of milk.

‘What?’ Harland stared before realising: ‘They showed the reconstruction on TV last night . . .’

‘And you didn’t fluff your lines or anything,’ Mendel commended him. ‘Mind you, don’t let the stardom go to your head.’

‘No risk of that.’ Harland took a mug from the cupboard and reached for the coffee. ‘The whole business leaves me cold.’

‘There are some silver linings, though.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, Pope’s been spitting feathers this morning,’ Mendel said quietly. ‘I reckon he’s gutted that Blake had you do the big TV thing. You know how much he likes the sound of his own voice.’

Harland smiled and took a sip of coffee.

‘Did you get anywhere with that list of Vicky Sutherland’s effects?’

‘I’ve got it on my desk. Want to run through it?’

‘Give me five minutes,’ Harland said, turning towards his office. ‘I’ve got to call somebody back.’

The phone rang five times, six, seven, then there was a rattle as it was picked up.

‘DI King speaking.’ He sounded out of breath.

‘It’s Harland.’

‘Ah yes, the famous detective. Saw you on TV last night.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Harland warned him. ‘Apparently it’s already a hot topic around here.’

‘Jealousy makes people say terrible things,’ King laughed. ‘Any responses to the show yet?’

‘Nobody’s mentioned anything, so I assume not.’

‘Can’t say I’m surprised. That beach looked a miserable place from what they showed of it.’

‘You have no idea,’ Harland sighed, lifting his coffee.

‘Anyway,’ King continued, ‘I’ve got something that I thought might interest you.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘Remember you asked about Erskine’s personal effects?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, we went back over the list, checking everything out, just to make sure that everything was legit, nothing was out of place.’

‘And?’

‘As far as we could tell, nothing else was missing. We went through all the usual personal items, wallet, cash, credit cards, and nothing seems to have been taken.’

He paused.

‘But something seems to have been added.’

‘I knew it.’ Harland put his cup down on the desk and leaned forward. ‘What did you find?’

‘There was a video library card,’ King replied. ‘No name on it, but we checked the number and it turns out it doesn’t belong to our Mr Erskine.’

‘Whose is it?’

‘It belonged to a Khalid Ashfar. Thirty-seven-year-old Asian man from Brighton.’

Belonged.

Harland sat back in his chair. It was just as they’d thought.

‘I’m guessing that Mr Ashfar is no longer with us?’ he asked quietly.

‘His body washed up on a beach six months ago – multiple stab wounds. At first, the Sussex boys thought it might have been racially motivated, but they never turned up anything specific in that direction.’

Harland turned his chair, gazing out through the rain-streaked window. Dark clouds were rolling in along the skyline.

‘Well, that’s three,’ he said after a moment. ‘Three that we know of.’

‘It looks that way.’

Harland reached across his desk for a pen and flipped open his notebook.

‘What was the victim’s name again?’ he asked.

‘Ashfar. Khalid Ashfar.’

Harland scribbled it down, frowning to himself.

‘And who are you speaking to in Sussex?’

‘Investigating officer was DI Charlotte Bensk. Want her number?’

‘Please.’

His mind was racing as he copied the number down. How far back would this series of killings go? And how far forward?

19

Wednesday, 4 July

Naysmith walked out of the car park, crossed the road and cut down an alley to the High Street. Shoppers drifted lazily across his path as he made his way up the slope, past the carved-stone Buttercross monument, admiring the white plaster and black beams of the Tudor buildings above the storefronts. There was a lot to like about Winchester.

Things had been unusually busy in the week since his initial encounter, affording the target several days’ grace beyond the minimum twenty-four hours that his rules demanded. The opportunity to pitch some major new clients had meant a lot of unexpected work, with an endless series of presentations and conference calls. On top of that, Kim had been upset after falling out with one of her friends and he’d decided to make a fuss of her yesterday – a romantic meal and some quality time in her favourite shops – to stop her dwelling on things.

But today was clear. The clients had everything they required, Kim was working in London, and he had the whole afternoon to himself. It was warm again, and he sipped an iced coffee drink as he climbed the hill towards the railway station, his thoughts fixed on the man he was searching for.

Who was he? And, more importantly, where was he?

So many people were victims of habit – living lives of dull repetition, doing the same things at the same times every day or every week. When he first started to play the game, he’d been amazed how many of his targets he’d found by simply returning to the same spot a day or a week later. Such dreary lives to end – they were practically mercy killings – but there was little challenge in those cases, and little satisfaction. And yet it was the logical place to begin and, as he had the opportunity, he resolved to retrace his steps and start with the narrow lane where he’d first spotted his target.

Beyond the pedestrian precinct, the hill became steeper, with narrow pavements edging their way up past bars and small shops. He continued his ascent to the wonderful old stone buildings of the Castle, where he crossed over to bear left up Romsey Road.

Now he could see the railway bridge before him and, coming into view, the familiar town houses of Clifton Terrace. Alert, his eyes studied every passer-by, looking for that particular brisk stride, that portly frame . . .

Once over the bridge, he stopped to check his watch – it was almost three o’clock, the same time he’d been here seven days earlier. He paused for a moment, his gaze following the footpath as it curved up under the trees. A young couple were strolling down the slope towards him, talking and laughing together. Naysmith waited for them to pass before he set off up the path. The girl had short hair that highlighted a slender and elegant neck; her boyfriend was broad and blond, with an easy manner. Absently, Naysmith wondered where they had come from and where they were heading . . .

When they were gone, he began to make his way slowly up the incline, taking his time to think as he went. A quiet little footpath like this wasn’t an obvious thoroughfare – it was a route for people who were familiar with the area, who lived or worked locally.

A smoky-grey cat with white boots and bib sat beside a small wrought-iron gate. Naysmith stooped to stroke it, looking through the half-open gate to the town house beyond it. Did his target live in this terrace? He paused and considered the welcoming facades with their doors painted red, blue or green, their gardens full of character. He looked at the rambling hedges, the romantic little pergolas woven with wild flowers. The cat rubbed itself happily against his hand. No, these places had a joyous charm that he had not sensed in those disdainful glances. He stood and continued up the hill.

Near its highest point, the footpath crossed the end of a quiet residential street. Naysmith paused there for a moment, standing quietly, trying to hear those receding footsteps from days before. It was possible that the man had been going that way, but once again something made him doubt it. His eyes lingered on the houses for a moment longer, then he turned and continued along the path. There seemed to be no CCTV cameras around here.

Now, the trees on his left cast out their branches to brush the high wall on the right, closing over him like a shimmering tunnel in the sunlight. He slowed as he approached the point where he’d made eye contact, stretching out his hand to caress the rough surface of the wall, his fingers sliding across the exposed pieces of flint, then dragging on rough mortar. It was pleasing to the touch, old and solid.