The woman – Ivana Hanzha – was lying on her back on the double bed, her naked body drenched in blood from a number of different stab wounds, several of which had been aimed at her genitals. She was young, and even now Bolt could see she’d been pretty. Her eyes were closed and there was a peaceful expression on her face that belied the savagery that must have invaded her last few minutes. Her arms had been pulled up above her head, the wrists handcuffed to the wrought-iron bedstead. The handcuffs used were the old-fashioned, chain-link style – the same type that The Disciple had used in his second attack six months earlier. The roll of duct tape used to restrain Mr Rowan was also similar to that used by The Disciple, but it was the two long lines of blood smeared on the far wall, meeting at one end like the sides of a triangle – as if the killer had been trying to paint something but had been disturbed – that confirmed it for Bolt. He knew exactly what it was the killer had been trying to paint. The Disciple left a bloody pentacle on the wall of every murder scene; it was his grim calling card, and he would have done it here if Amanda Rowan hadn’t come home when she had. He also noticed that the little finger on Ivana Hanzha’s left hand was still there, meaning he hadn’t had a chance to remove it as a trophy.

Bolt took one last look at the bodies, thinking that this was the indignity of violent death. You were left on display while the living worked around you. You were photographed and inspected, then finally cut up on a pathologist’s table. You were no longer human. Instead you were little more than a puzzle to be solved by those who didn’t know you, and a slowly fading memory to be kept, and possibly treasured, by those who did. The sight left him feeling deeply depressed. Here were two people who’d been making love and enjoying each other’s company without a care in the world. There was even a bottle of red wine and two half-full glasses. They might have been committing an infidelity but, even so, they’d been alive. Excited. Now they were nothing.

He turned away. ‘It’s our man,’ he said to Mo as he walked back onto the landing, wanting to get some fresh air before nausea joined the depression.

‘We think he came up here and waited until they were in bed together before he carried out the attack,’ said Black.

Bolt nodded; usually The Disciple waited until his victims were asleep before striking. Once again, it seemed as if he was getting braver, and potentially more foolish. ‘We’re going to need to see the CCTV footage, Matt, and I’d also like to know what time the camera out the back was tampered with.’

‘We can do that, no problem. Are you sure this is him?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Bolt. ‘It’s him all right.’

When he and Mo were outside the back door, Bolt took a series of deep breaths, trying to cleanse himself of the stink of death.

‘Are you all right, boss?’ asked Mo who, like DCI Black, didn’t seem to be that badly affected by the sight of murder victims.

Bolt sighed. ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

Mo looked around. ‘You know, he took a big risk last night, chasing Amanda Rowan like that. He was lucky. He won’t always be so lucky, and he may well have left clues behind this time.’

‘I want to be the one who nicks this bastard,’ said Bolt. But, in truth, he wanted to kill him. Someone as savage as this man simply didn’t deserve to live. He didn’t deserve to grow old in a relatively comfortable prison with a TV in his cell and access to the Internet, funded by the taxpayer. Bolt had never been a supporter of the death penalty, but in the case of The Disciple, he’d make an exception.

‘You can’t let it get to you, boss,’ said Mo quietly. ‘I know it’s hard and I know we’re under a lot of pressure, but we’ll get him. And I reckon this might be the turning point.’

Seven

THE FIRST THING Mike Bolt thought when he saw Amanda Rowan in her hospital bed a few hours later was that she was a very attractive woman, especially considering what she’d been through. He’d already been told that she was thirty-eight – nine years younger than her husband – but she could easily have passed for five years younger than that. She had the slender, healthy appearance of someone who keeps fit but doesn’t have to try too hard at it, with tanned, unblemished skin, and shoulder-length black hair that looked like something out of a shampoo advert. She had nice eyes too. Big and brown, the kind that a certain type of man always falls for.

Bolt stopped, feeling bad suddenly for even thinking about what she looked like. She’d already been told that her husband was dead, and it was clear that she’d been crying, but when she looked at him and Mo, it was also clear that she was in full control of her emotions.

Bolt introduced them both, and they took seats next to her bed. ‘The doctor said you were okay to speak with us,’ he began. ‘I’d just like to say on behalf of us all that I’m very sorry for your loss, and we really appreciate the fact that you’re willing to speak with us. We want to arrest whoever did this, and we will.’

Amanda Rowan managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you. Have you any idea who it might have been?’ Her accent was well-educated Home Counties and there was an underlying lightness to her voice that gave Bolt the impression that, in normal times, she laughed a lot.

‘It’s too early to draw firm conclusions,’ said Bolt, ‘but the killing bears certain similarities to those carried out by The Disciple. I’m assuming you’ve heard of him?’

The colour drained from Amanda’s face, and she ran a hand across her brow. ‘Yes . . . Yes, I have. Jesus.’

‘You were very lucky, Mrs Rowan,’ said Mo. ‘If it was The Disciple, then you’re the first person to survive one of his attacks.’

‘I saw a woman when I went upstairs . . . Was she . . . with my husband?’

‘We believe your husband was at home with a woman, yes,’ said Bolt without hesitation, wanting to soften the blow but knowing he couldn’t. ‘She’s been tentatively identified as a Miss Ivana Hanzha. Did you know her?’

Amanda shook her head. ‘No, but I knew George was having an affair. I found out by accident a few weeks ago. I was going to confront him about it.’ She sighed. ‘But I suppose I was just waiting for the right opportunity. He was meant to be away on business in Manchester last night.’

Bolt wondered what it was like for her not only to have lost her husband, but also to know that he’d spent his last hours with another woman – and then to have almost died in a savage attack. Under the circumstances, she was holding herself together incredibly well.

He asked her to give them a detailed account of what had happened from the moment she’d arrived back to when she’d nearly been hit by the car, letting her speak without interruption. It made for a chilling story, but the lengths to which the killer had gone to try to catch her still bugged him. Why take such a huge risk when he’d already had his fun with George Rowan and Ivana Hanzha?

‘Can you tell us anything about your attacker that might help us identify him?’ asked Mo when Amanda had finished speaking.

She thought about it for a moment. ‘A tattoo. He had a tattoo on his left forearm. I saw it when I was hanging from Mrs Naseby’s window. She’s okay, isn’t she? Mrs Naseby?’

Bolt nodded. ‘She’s very shaken, obviously, but otherwise unhurt. She’s a feisty woman.’

‘Poor thing. Thank God she’s okay.’ Amanda looked down at her hands and Bolt could tell she was struggling hard not to cry again.

‘Can you describe the tattoo, Mrs Rowan?’ asked Mo. ‘Take your time. It could be very important.’

Amanda swallowed and looked up. ‘Well I . . . I didn’t really get a good look at it. Obviously I was concentrating on trying to escape. It was dark green, I think, and sort of a curved pattern.’ She paused and frowned. ‘That’s about as much as I can tell you. I’m sorry.’