But it was something. Their one witness description of a potential suspect had mentioned that he had a tattoo on his left forearm. Bolt leaned forward in his seat. ‘And you can’t tell us anything else about him? You didn’t catch a glimpse of his face? Any other features? Did he speak at all?’

Amanda shook her head. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. As I said, I was desperate to escape. Did the CCTV camera catch him on film? We’ve got cameras at the back and the front of the house.’

‘We’ve got him captured on film, yes, but at the time he was wearing a mask and dark clothing, which isn’t a huge help.’

‘I’m sorry. I haven’t really got anything else.’

‘And you didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously near your home in the days, even the weeks, leading up to the incident?’

Again she shook her head, but Bolt was leaning forward, impatient suddenly. ‘You say he chased you through the house, and even through your neighbour’s house, even though she was there at the time . . .’

‘He did. Ask her if you don’t believe me.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rowan, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but I’m struggling to understand – if there was no way you could identify him – why the killer took the time and trouble to chase you into a neighbour’s house, risking everything, when by rights he should have been thinking of escape. If this is the work of The Disciple, then it’s showing a reckless side to him we haven’t seen before.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him, but you seemed to think it was.’

Bolt and Mo exchanged glances. They’d discussed the apparent recklessness of the killer’s actions before they’d come in to interview Amanda. Mo had been convinced it was The Disciple, and he’d be even more convinced now; Bolt had thought it highly likely. He still thought it was highly likely. But he wasn’t certain.

‘Are you aware of any reason why someone might want to hurt you?’

Amanda looked puzzled, as if she couldn’t believe he’d ask her a question like this. ‘No. I don’t have any enemies. I’m just an ordinary person.’

‘What about your husband? Do you know why anyone might target him?’

‘No.’ Her tone was tinged with just the faintest hint of exasperation. ‘We’re ordinary – sorry, we were ordinary people. We’ve got money, yes. My husband has – God, I’ve got to stop doing that – had a very good job. We’ve done well, and we’ve put money aside, but we’re not billionaires. And his job’s boring . . . He doesn’t have any enemies, as far as I’m aware.’

Bolt knew this was true. Before they’d come here, he and Mo had checked up on Amanda and her husband, and there was indeed nothing in either of their backgrounds to suggest that they had any enemies at all.

They asked a few more questions, went over events once more, before Bolt finally brought the interview to a close. Amanda looked exhausted, and he thanked her for her time, and put his business card down on the bedside table, wanting to tell her that she’d get over her loss, but just managing to stop himself. It had been ten years since Mikaela had died, but he still hadn’t got over his loss, and he doubted he ever would.

When they were back in the hospital car park, Mo turned to him. ‘I know we’ve got to cover every angle, boss, but this has got to be the work of The Disciple. You agree with me, don’t you?’

Bolt nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I think it is, but we’ve got to look at the possibility that it might be a copycat killing. It’s in the public domain that The Disciple tortures and murders his victims. It’s also known that he’s likely to have tattoos. So someone could be wanting to make it look like the work of The Disciple. It’s happened before. Remember that case of The Night Creeper? He killed four women, and they thought he’d murdered a fifth, but it turned out to be someone trying to make it look like his work.’

‘Course I remember, but let’s be honest. Under the circumstances, it’s unlikely. Firstly, this fits his MO perfectly. I know there are some aspects of it out in the public domain, but not that many. No one knows he paints Satanic symbols on the walls, or that he disables his male victim with a knife wound, like he did to George Rowan. They don’t know he ties the male victim to a chair – usually with duct tape – and makes him watch. The point is, I don’t think a copycat killer could possibly have faked it that well, not unless he had inside knowledge of the investigation, and that’s hardly likely, is it? Just because the killer acted recklessly, that doesn’t mean it’s not The Disciple. He may be less in control than we think. Which is a good thing.’

Bolt smiled as they reached the car. As was often the case, Mo had convinced him. They’d worked together a long time and he trusted his colleague’s judgement. ‘I know, you’re right,’ he said, getting in the passenger side. ‘And I really hope he is out of control, because after this we’re definitely going to need to get a break soon.’

Their break came two hours later at the end of a tense press conference at Reading Police Station, jointly chaired by Bolt and DCI Black. Like Mo Khan, the media were already convinced that the latest killings were the work of The Disciple, and the reporters wanted to know how close the investigating team were to catching him, now that he’d struck on four separate occasions. Bolt hadn’t wanted to give too much away, and his answers had been carefully worded. But they were clearly too non-committal, because the questions from the floor became steadily more hostile. What were the police actually doing to find The Disciple? Why were there so few clues to his identity in an age when there’d been so many technological advances in crime fighting? Was it time to change the people at the top of the investigation?

Eventually, mercifully, it ended, and as Bolt left the room with Black, Black’s mobile rang. He took the call, motioning for Bolt to hang on, his whole demeanour growing steadily more excited as he spoke to the person at the other end.

‘What is it?’ asked Bolt as Black came off the phone.

‘The SOCO team have found traces of two different blood types in the bedroom where the murders took place,’ explained Black, ‘both reasonably fresh. Which wouldn’t normally mean anything, except for the fact that Mr Rowan and Miss Hanzha share the same blood type. So someone else bled in there in the last twenty-four hours.’

Bolt smiled. ‘And since Mrs Rowan was out all day, it’s likely to be the intruder.’

Which, for the first time, meant they had DNA.

Eight

Today 15.45

AMANDA WAS JUST putting on her jacket when there was a knock on her front door.

She didn’t get many visitors and there was no way she was going to open the door without knowing who was on the other side of it, so she crept back upstairs and peered down from her bedroom window like a suspicious old lady.

A short young man with neatly trimmed red hair stood on the doorstep. It was DC Andy Baxter, her liaison officer from Highlands CID, who lived a few miles up the road, and who liked to come by to check all was well with her more often than Amanda thought was strictly necessary. Today – probably because it was a Saturday – he was dressed in jeans and a windproof jacket, rather than his usual suit and tie.

Amanda moved back out of sight. Although she liked Andy – he was an easy-going enough character – she’d only seen him yesterday, and she was beginning to think he was developing a crush on her; not that he’d ever show such a thing, with her husband dead only a few weeks. But the point was, she didn’t think she could handle sitting with him drinking tea while he made small talk. It was possible, of course, that he had some news, but if it was that important, he’d almost certainly have phoned ahead. She’d wasted enough time today already, trying and failing to start her book, and she needed to get out and breathe some fresh air. Andy was an unwelcome delay.