He said, ‘I’m sorry to have to drag you out to the airport on such a foul night. I’m sure you’d far rather be at home with your daughter.’

She gaped at him for several seconds before managing to say, ‘My daughter? How...?’

He nodded towards the pink dummy still pinched between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Just an educated guess, DS Hooper, and I can see by your reaction that I’m correct.’

Stevie managed to stop the dive her right hand made for her left, a reflexive attempt to cover her naked ring finger. Fuck him, she thought. If he wants to read me, let him. Let’s just hope he’s as accurate at reading our killer. She looked down at his fine leather brogues as she struggled to regain control. A small suitcase and a laptop bag seemed to be his only luggage.

‘If you have your things, Sir, I can take you to the hotel now. Inspector McGuire was hoping to meet us in the bar a little later on to go over the case, if you’re not too tired.’

‘The sooner I can get started the better. Lead the way.’

When she turned, she glimpsed her reflection in the darkened terminal window. She looked confused and ill at ease, quite unlike her usual self. As she led the way to the exit she hoped the shiver running up her spine was not as obvious as it felt.

2

The success of the manhunt will depend upon the strengths and weaknesses of the team sent out to capture him.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

Monty stepped into the welcoming ambience of the hotel lobby, pausing to roll his shoulders in an attempt to untangle the knots he’d felt tightening since the beginning of the press conference. His pause also allowed the woman who’d been following him to catch up. She almost crashed into him when she stepped from the revolving door, filling the air in the lobby with an incongruous mixture of wet wool and Coco Chanel.

‘Michelle, what a pleasant surprise,’ he said, showing no pleasure at all. Tracking him through the rain and sacrificing an expensive coiffure was a sign of desperation for a woman like Michelle. He’d give her five minutes.

‘You obviously need to talk, though why you couldn’t ring for an appointment beats me.’ He took her elbow and guided her towards a cluster of potted ferns in the corner of the hotel lobby.

‘I should have known I’d find you in a hotel.’ She glanced at her image in the gilt-framed mirror on the wall and her look of scorn turned into a scowl as she attempted to fluff her hair.

Monty raised his eyebrows. ‘Haven’t I already warned you tonight about the folly of making assumptions?’

Her hand dropped. She faced him head on. ‘You made a fool of me at the press conference.’

‘I merely beat you to the punch.’

‘Someone has to speak in the public’s best interest. People are getting hysterical, Monty. Perth hasn’t been so traumatised since the Birney murders. The public want answers. They want to know that they can trust their safety to the police, that the killer will be caught.’

‘Rekindling public hysteria over the Kings Park murders isn’t going to help us catch this killer.’

With a soft smile and a hand on his arm she tried a different tack. ‘Come on, loosen up. You and I both know there’s a lot more to this than meets the eye. I’m onto something, Monty, I’m nearly there, with just a little help from you—’

‘What are you onto? I’m in no mood for game playing.’

She dropped her hand and hardened her tone. ‘What I’ve discovered will stir up an ants’ nest for the police, but given the right incentive, I might be able to carry out the necessary damage control.’

‘And what might that incentive be?’

‘To-the-minute updates on the case.’

‘You get that anyway.’

‘Don’t give me that crap!’

‘Michelle, you know we have to be careful about the information we give out. We can’t warn the killer we’re onto him.’

And that wasn’t the only reason, Monty thought. Once, in happier times and in a private moment, he’d speculated with her about the rumours he’d heard about the KP murders, only to find a distorted version of his words staring back at him from the paper the next morning. She must have waited for him to fall asleep before emailing the pressroom.

‘That old cliché?’ she said. ‘You know damn well they use it as a cover-up for their own corruption, incompetence at the very least. You hinted as much the last time.’

‘Okay, okay, maybe in the past, but with a new team...’

‘For God’s sake pull your head out of the sand, Monty. You still have the same moronic porker at the top of the pile!’

‘Things are different now.’

Her gaze fell to his feet, she gave an unladylike snort. ‘And I see you still have that same old pilot’s briefcase. I’m surprised you never threw it away, but I suppose if the catch still works, why bother—you were always a believer in function, not form.’

Michelle bent at the knees and flicked the catch. Monty watched her hand creep to the file he’d prepared for De Vakey, allowing her to get as far as caressing the edge with her fingertips.

‘What’s this about?’ she said, licking her lips like a lioness eyeing an antelope. His hand clamped around her wrist. She yelped. Heads turned in the lobby.

Michelle hissed her breath through her teeth. ‘Get your hands off me.’

A suited gentleman he presumed to be the hotel manager approached. Monty rose to his feet, pulling Michelle up with him and flicked his ID at the man. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Please call security and have them escort this lady from the hotel. She’s a known troublemaker.’

Michelle’s eyes widened and Monty waited for the explosion. She didn’t disappoint. Whirling to face the manager she said, ‘That’s a pack of lies! You saw him, didn’t you? You saw what he did?’

The manager put a hand lightly on her arm and said something in a placatory tone before turning to Monty with a look of helplessness.

Monty shrugged and picked up his briefcase. ‘She’s your problem now, mate.’ He gave Michelle a calculated wink and turned in the direction of the hotel lounge.

***

Stevie seemed to be the only one in the lounge who noticed the ruckus coming from the lobby, and even to her it was no more than a minor rip in a tranquil sea. A woman’s agitated voice, gruff masculine tones, then Monty’s silhouette in the entrance. As he scanned the tables, the air around him was soothed by the gentle strains of Gershwin from the baby grand in the corner.

‘Inspector McGuire?’ De Vakey queried.

Stevie nodded and let out a silent sigh of relief. Waiting with the profiler had been awkward. She’d had just about enough of De Vakey’s penetrating gaze and invasive questioning for one night—now it was Monty’s turn.

Monty ordered from the bar then ambled over to join them. She made the introductions and they exchanged small talk until his drinks arrived: a beer and a tomato juice. He fumbled around in the pockets of his suit coat for a plastic bag of dried chilli and added a generous pinch to his Virgin Mary. He didn’t touch the beer.

De Vakey gave Monty a subtle nod of understanding, reinforcing Stevie’s earlier impression that there was a lot more to the man than a handsome face and a Geelong Grammar accent. Monty liked to practise his self-control—so what. But what else had De Vakey picked up on? She found her foot tapping a rhythm totally unrelated to the melody from the piano and had to force herself to stop.

‘Has DS Hooper filled you in on the details, Sir?’ Monty asked.

‘Please, call me James. I’m a civilian consultant, not a policeman. Let’s dispense with the formalities.’

‘Suits me,’ Monty said. He removed the file from his briefcase and glanced around the lounge as he did so, ready to keep it from prying eyes if necessary. ‘It’s all here,’ he said, sliding it across the table to De Vakey. ‘Bar a few test results we’re still waiting on.’