Now he stood on the narrow pavement, further along the lane, looking down at the bend in the stream where Morris Eddings had been dumped. They were still hunting down the missing MP3 player, but just being here convinced him that this was the work of the same killer. Once again, just as he’d felt in Oxford, he was struck by how good a spot this was for an attack.

There was water nearby, and the body had been left partly submerged, greatly compromising any evidence that the forensics team might otherwise have been able to retrieve. The location was secluded – a sheltered dip beside the stream would be ideal for a killer who needed time to go through his victim’s pockets. And there were plenty of different ways in and out of the place. The lane itself was an obvious choice, but Harland had seen signposts for footpaths that struck out through the trees, or the killer could simply have followed the course of the stream.

Thoughtfully, he clambered over the fence and picked his way down towards the bank. This was where it had happened. Just a few yards away – not that far to drag the body but it would have required a bit of physical strength to get the deadweight over the fence. A few moments’ respite – plenty of time to exchange souvenirs – and then just roll the remains into the water.

Harland closed his eyes. He could see the photos in his mind – the same stream that lay in front of him, only now there was a body sprawled in it, the back of a broken head gleaming wetly above the dark water . . .

His mobile was ringing.

Opening his eyes, he took the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Mendel.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. Can you talk?’

‘Yeah, just taking a walk in the country,’ Harland said. ‘What is it?’

‘We just had a call from Hampshire Police,’ Mendel replied. ‘They managed to track down that MP3 player – it was in a box of stuff they’d sent on to Eddings’ sister.’

Harland nodded to himself.

‘That’s good. Once we have that, we’ll know if Eddings is another link in the chain.’

‘Thought you’d like to know,’ Mendel said. ‘Anyway, sorry to bother you on your day off.’

‘It’s okay – I wasn’t doing anything.’ Harland gazed down at the stream. ‘See you tomorrow.’

He slipped the phone into his pocket again, then turned and made his way back up the slope.

25

Friday, 10 August

Some bastard had parked in his space. Harland gripped the steering wheel angrily, revving the engine and lurching the car onward, past his house. Nowhere to park – that was all he needed right now. He eventually found a spot on the opposite side of the street and manoeuvred into the kerb behind a large white van. He switched off the engine and sat for a moment, waiting for his breathing to slow down, for the red mist to pass over. It wasn’t a big deal. Not really.

He locked the car and trudged back down Stackpool Road, his eyes taking in a series of front rooms through gaps in curtains, people on sofas and the flickering glow of televisions. Next door’s garden looked bright and cheery, with colourful pink flowers neatly bordering a large red-leaved bush. The space in front of his own house was an untidy no-man’s-land of cement paving and weeds. With nobody caring for them, the little shrubs had choked and withered, but that had always been Alice’s thing. He had neither the understanding nor the inclination to restore them.

He unlocked the door and went inside, irritably tugging a sheaf of flyers from the letterbox and screwing them up in his hand. Somehow they taunted him, reminding him that the house was empty.

Except it wasn’t.

She was still here, haunting every room. Usually, he tried to distract himself, thinking of work, staying out late until he was tired, or wretchedly stoking the lustful feelings he had for other women. But her presence was everywhere, joyful and sad, eager and shy, an eternally outstretched hand that he could never hold again.

He sighed and placed his keys in the bowl, the noise of metal on porcelain stark in the silence, then walked through to the kitchen.

They told him that it would get easier, that the pain would diminish with time. But it didn’t. Yes, he had developed coping strategies, cheap tricks to try and push her from his mind, but he wasn’t stupid. It didn’t matter what clever names they gave their techniques – at best he was deluding himself, at worst he was betraying her.

He took a beer from the fridge and closed the door. There was a small snapshot of the two of them together that she’d stuck to the door with a magnet. He paused, staring at the image, the two faces smiling out at him from the past. They’d been in Devon when it was taken – a weekend away, walking along a quiet beach, their whole bloody lives ahead of them. He took a deep breath and stared at Alice, her long blonde hair golden in the sunlight, her lips smiling, her eyes full of mischief. And him beside her, his head leaning in against hers, laughing at something she’d said. He envied his former self, and hated who he’d become. She’d be so disappointed.

He turned away from the memories, walking over to the counter and rifling through the drawer for a bottle opener. Even here, so many little utensils that he’d never used, more of her things that had been left behind to torture him. He closed his eyes, knowing that there was no escape from it. Not tonight.

He needed some air. Wrestling with the top bolt, he unlocked the back door and took his beer out into the enclosed garden, where he sank down wearily to sit on the steps. Lighting a cigarette, he slumped against the door frame and fought back the first tears that welled up in his eyes.

Not here. Not yet. A quiet smoke and a drink first, just to calm the nerves.

He sat there, utterly alone, watching the cigarette slowly turn to ash between his fingers. In his darkest moments, he flirted with the thought that it might have been better if they’d never met. It wasn’t just that he’d have been spared the pain of loss – it was the fact that his future was suddenly stripped of hope. He’d found the person he was meant to be with, and he’d lost her. Now, the best was behind him, and all that remained was regret. Once again, an appalling sense of guilt washed over him and he pushed the idea away. Such thoughts were beneath him.

The smell of a barbecue came to him from one of the nearby gardens. He could hear voices, but they were some distance away. Sighing, he got to his feet and went indoors to cook.

There seemed little point in eating, but somehow he forced himself. A reluctant concession that he made to her memory – what she would have wanted. Some evenings it was a way to pass the time, to distract himself, but that wouldn’t work tonight. He settled on a simple microwave meal and switched on the TV while he waited for his food to cool down. The voices from the screen dispelled the oppressive silence, but he was under no illusions. This was going to be a bad night.

Later, when everything was neatly put away, he stood in the hallway, looking up the stairs to the dark landing. He felt so tired, but it was a weariness that sleep couldn’t touch. Reluctantly, he placed a hand on the end of the banister and made his way upstairs. The thick carpet that had once seemed so homely now muffled his footfalls, creating an unwelcome hush as he paused outside the closed bedroom door, then slowly turned the handle.

The door swung silently inward and he followed it into the stillness of their old room. Pale sun streamed in through the lacy net curtains that she’d chosen, the last light of the day glowing on one side of the bed and casting long shadows across the floor.

Everything was just as she’d left it – clothes in the wardrobe, make-up and skincare products on the dressing table, a pretty little jewellery box next to her bedside lamp, on top of the book she’d been reading. He’d resisted every offer of help, every kind suggestion to clear things up. Nothing was different, except for the ugly web of cracks in the mirror he’d made on that first night back here. He’d not slept in this room since.