The murder of Chloe Mestella was real all right. She was a beautiful young West Virginian prom queen from a wealthy farming family and she’d been raped and murdered in her own bedroom while her parents entertained downstairs. It was a savage murder. Marty had read the details and winced. She was real. Chloe was a real girl, not a character from Nick’s imagination. She was real and she was dead and Nick was still not over it. Marty had to consider why that might be.

He tried to forget about it, but his curiosity and the media’s obsession with a rubber heiress called Kitty who was stalked on the day that Nick turned up with her photograph on his phone wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t get to grips with what he was thinking. Maybe, Nick had killed Chloe out of rage and jealousy. Maybe Nick had killed Kitty. He couldn’t be sure: Nick was a delusional paranoid - fantasy was his modus operandi. It was all just coincidence, right?

Marty felt better when Nick didn’t turn up for his session. But later even that got to him. What if Nick was watching him? Marty was a self-confessed, T-shirt-wearing coward. He wanted to run away and hide. He wanted to tell his wife. He wanted her to look after him again, to sort out the big problems.

His wife appeared from the bathroom. She was smiling as she struck a pose in her underwear. She was still gorgeous to look at - all dark eyes and lush dark hair. He’d just stopped seeing it. Somehow, the woman that all other men would still drool over had become too available to him. His eyes had glazed over.

He smiled up at her and put his arm round her waist. She moaned a little as he moved his hands over her soft skin. This was just what he needed, a little afternoon of relaxation. He kissed her stomach as she ran her fingers through his thinning hair.

She pushed him back on the bed. She wanted to please him. That had been her undoing. Wanting to please a guy like Marty. It had spoiled him, no question. She unbuckled his belt with a flourish and unzipped him. A minute passed and her expression changed from that of a sultry mistress to sadness and disappointment. Marty lay there feeling a sweat form on his brow. What the fuck is happening, he was thinking as he tried to bring to mind all the sexy things he’d ever thought, but all he could see was Chloe and Kitty Hunyardi. Fuck! This hadn’t happened before. Not ever! Fuck me, he pleaded, not with her, it’s not fair.

His wife raised her head. Her face was a picture of self-loathing. ‘I just don’t attract you any more, do I, Marty? I’m sorry.’

Marty looked at her in despair and shook his head. ‘You do, I promise you, you do. I’m just ...’ He reached out to her and tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

‘I bet this doesn’t happen with your lovers, does it?’ She stared at him and he had nothing to say. The look of disgust on her face would remain with him for life.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

East Harlem, 7-Eleven

November 27, 2.23 p.m.

The air outside had dipped a few degrees and the sky had darkened. In the gloom, Harlem looked more deserted than ever. Only a few stragglers were about, propped up by steel fencing posts and drinking direct from the bottle.

Tom Harper and Eddie Kasper drove to the 7-Eleven. This was Lottie Bixley’s last known location. According to the statement of Lottie’s brother, she had left her two young children in the apartment while she went out to get cigarettes. It was only a five-minute walk on foot, through some dangerous territory if you were the wrong type of person or just happened to meet the wrong type of person. If Lottie Bixley had been in a hurry, she might have taken one of the many side alleys and who knows who she might’ve met.

‘What do you make of it, Eddie? How did Lottie’s killer take her? What’s his style?’ asked Harper, tapping on the Buick’s cheap plastic dash.

‘Posed as a john, probably.’

‘Dangerous for the kids, isn’t it?’ said Harper. ‘Given that she wanted to clean up her act. She would’ve returned home if she could have. The 7-Eleven was a short walk. If she’s going to jump in a car with a trick, she’s going to make sure someone is with the kids, and she’d thrown Carl out.’

‘Maybe,’ said Kasper, nodding to some tune in his head.

‘If she’s not going to get in with a john, either someone took her by force, or maybe she knew him.’

‘That’s a big jump, Tom. You got any evidence on that piece of bread or you just going to eat that big surmise sandwich all by itself?’

‘I’m just casting around, Eddie.’

‘We’ve taken one big fucking leap from a walk home to a known associate.’

‘Hey, that ain’t such a big leap.’

The sedan drew up outside the worn-out 7-Eleven store. An old white van was parked right across the kerb. ‘Parks like you do, Eddie.’

‘Sure does, but I got a shield says I got a right to do it.’

Graffiti was scrawled across the metal shutters, tagged by hundreds of young artists. In the centre was a cartoon of a half-naked blonde, winking. The legend on her panties read The only Bush you can rely on.

The detectives approached the store. The door jangled. A small intense-looking guy in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants was sitting on a box of tinned peaches, pricing some tubes of syrup. A big guy in a red top was standing at the counter counting coins.

‘How you doing, bro?’ said Kasper. ‘You in charge here?’

The big guy shook his head. ‘I ain’t in charge. Mr Marconi is the man.’ He pointed at the guy in the Hawaiian.

‘Mr Marconi?’ called Eddie.

The short man stood up and looked Eddie up and down. ‘What the fuck do you want - fashion advice?’

Kasper smiled. ‘Calm down, feller. We’re cops. Just want to ask a question or two.’

At the mention of cops, Mo shivered and stepped back from the counter. They had found him out once before, all those years ago. But he had been careful this time. He edged backwards as Benny Marconi gave the two cops a wide sardonic smile. ‘Just what I fucking need, a couple of New York’s finest.’

Kasper laughed and turned to Harper. ‘See, he likes us.’

Harper didn’t smile. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. Can I ask you a couple of questions?’

‘Sure. What else do I have to do? This is my store - you get it?’

‘We get it, Mr Marconi,’ said Harper. ‘Listen, we’re investigating the disappearance of a woman by the name of Lottie Bixley. She was on her way to this store around Thanksgiving, early morning. Do you work Thursday nights?’

Benny nodded sarcastically. ‘Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.’

‘Well, maybe you can help us. Have you seen this hooker around and about?’ Tom Harper handed him the photograph of Lottie Bixley. It showed a smiling woman about 110 pounds, blue eyes, aged eighteen - beautiful.

Benny looked at the photograph. The detectives waited. He continued to look. ‘Pretty girl. It’s a fucking shame,’ said Benny, handing the photograph back.

‘Did she come and buy anything?’ Kasper went in so close that Benny could smell his breath.

‘Back off and I might give you something. Anyway, the answer’s no. I never saw the girl. Or maybe I did. I see girls like that all the time. I got nothing to say.’

‘How about the big guy?’ said Harper.

‘Try him. He’s slow, but if he saw her he’ll remember all right.’

Tom Harper walked across to the big guy. Redtop was visibly shaking and standing with his back hard against the wall. ‘Hey there, no need to worry. What’s your name?’

‘Mo.’

‘Okay, Mo, I just want to show you a picture.’ He handed him the photograph he’d taken from Lottie’s brother.

Mo looked at the photograph. The detectives waited. Mo continued to look. Harper looked at the suitcase beside the till. It was a large brown leather case. ‘What’s the case for?’ he asked.