‘So what happened next?’

‘We had what you’d call an intervention. Julie, Chrissie and me. We were her best friends. And we hated what was happening to her. Hated it. Luckily we managed to make her see sense.’

‘But the next thing, she was pregnant?’

Geraint Cooper nodded.

‘By Ryan Brotherton?’

He nodded again. ‘That’s when she finally left him.’

Anni frowned.That contradicted what Emma Nicholls had said. ‘Really?’

‘Really. He said he didn’t want a baby. At all. Under any circumstances. She did. Even his. So he decided she was going to get rid of it. And if she didn’t do it, he would. Forcibly.’

Anni swallowed hard, kept her face as straight as possible. ‘How?’ Her voice was slightly less calm than she wanted it to be.

Geraint Cooper held up his hands, clenched them hard. ‘With these.’

‘Right.’ She swallowed again. ‘And that’s when she left him.’

He nodded. ‘And that’s when he decided he wanted her back.’

‘What about the baby?’

He shrugged. ‘He wanted her more.’

‘So how did he go about that?’

‘Nice as anything. Charming, flowers, the lot. He’d changed, he was a new man, the usual.’

‘And did it work?’

‘No. Like I said, she had us with her now. We helped her be strong.’

Anni frowned again. ‘So he didn’t run out on her; she ran out on him?’

‘Right.’

‘And he didn’t like that.’

Geraint Cooper rolled his eyes. ‘He certainly didn’t.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Got nasty. Phone calls, mainly. Threatening ones. Horrible ones. What he would do to her if he got hold of her. What he would do if she didn’t come back to him. What he would do.’

‘If she didn’t come back to him.You keep saying that,’ she said. ‘I heard the story was that he left her. Is that not right?’

He shook his head, looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Some people may have been given that impression.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we wanted them to think that. It helped Claire. The three of us there last night, we weren’t just her friends. We were her support group. We kept her going.’

Anni said nothing, knew there was more to come.

‘Think about it. Isn’t it easier to say that you’re pregnant and single because your man’s left you rather than because you’ve summoned up the courage to leave him after he threatened to kill your baby?’

‘He actually said that? Those words? That’s what the phones calls were about? He threatened to kill the baby?’

Geraint Cooper nodded. And kept nodding. And all those tears he had been holding back started to break out.

Anni closed her notebook. She had everything she needed for now.

18

‘Thanks for doing this,’ said Phil. ‘Really appreciate it.’

Nick Lines shrugged; one case was much the same as another to him. ‘Not my decision to make. Those on high deem it high priority; I just act accordingly.’

Phil had done a background check on Ryan Brotherton, and with Clayton still not back and everyone else out on jobs, he phoned Nick Lines. The cadaverous pathologist had been as good as his word, doing both post-mortems in record time. Phil had wasted no time coming straight to the mortuary at Colchester General, where he had released DC Adrian Wren to take care of other duties.

Nick Lines’ office was, in contrast to the clean, sterile, stainless-steel efficiency of the cutting room, a mixture of professional clutter and personal effects. Newspaper articles pinned up on the wall, both serious and jokey, alongside schlocky film postcards, fifties sci-fi and horror. Superhero action figures struck ridiculous poses on shelves. Surprising things, Phil thought. But then it was that kind of profession. Nick Lines was clearly a surprising man.

As they spoke, a CD played in the background. Something gothic and baroque, Phil noted, yet tuneful. He couldn’t place it.

‘What’s this we’re listening to, by the way?’ he asked.

‘The Triffids,’ said Nick, throwing a CD case across the desk, pleased that Phil had asked but hiding his pleasure. ‘Calenture. Brilliant album.’

‘Right,’ said Phil, as he listened to lyrics about sewing up eyelids and stitching up lips. He didn’t ask any more. ‘The results?’

Nick nodded, opened a yellow file, sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers before him. Like a Bond villain about to explain his plan for world domination. ‘The same blade was used on both victims,’ he said, the words drawling, as if his findings had thrilled him to the point of inactivity. ‘About seven inches long, smooth, very sharp edge. Probably a hunting knife, something like that. Quite a heavy blade judging by the size and shape of the incisions.’

‘Could this knife have been used in the previous two murders? ’ asked Phil.

‘I think so,’ said Nick, nodding. ‘Of course I’ve only made a preliminary re-examination of the other two cases at this stage, but I think it’s fair to assume.’ He went back to his explanation. ‘The knife was actually used in different ways. Julie Simpson, the first victim, was stabbed with a sharp slash to the throat. Death wouldn’t have been long in coming.’

He paused for dramatic effect. The Triffids were singing about being blinder by the hour. That just reminded Phil that time was running out.

‘The second victim was dispatched in a completely different way. Physically restrained while a drug was administered.’

‘What drug?’ asked Phil.

‘Tests aren’t back yet, but my guess is introcostrin. It’s a neuro-muscular blocking drug. Controls spontaneous muscle movement during surgical procedures, usually given in very controlled doses.’ He sounded almost regretful. ‘However, this was administered in a much larger dose.’

Phil frowned. ‘How big are we talking?’

‘Very big,’ said Nick. ‘Paralysis would have been almost instantaneous.’

‘So that was for . . . what? To stop her moving?’

‘Larger than that,’ the pathologist said. ‘It would have stopped her breathing.’

‘Shit,’ said Phil. ‘Can we trace the drug? How easy is it to get hold of?’

‘It’s worth a try. If it’s local, you may be able to find it. But it won’t be easy. If someone’s taken it from a hospital, they’ll have likely covered their tracks. And if they got it from the internet, a counterfeit . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Phil made a note.

‘Was it accidental, d’you think? Giving her that much? Or did he mean to?’

Nick smiled. Like he had set a secret test and Phil had passed it. ‘That, in the rather overused and clichéd words of the Bard, is the question. My guess, and it’s only that, is that he didn’t mean to. He wanted her compliant. He then tied her to the bed. It was clear the drug had kicked in by then because there was very little abrasion on the skin against the restraints. She didn’t - or rather couldn’t - struggle. Then he got to work cutting the baby out of her. For that he used the same knife he dispatched Julie Simpson with.’

‘Could he have drugged her to keep her silent? Block of flats, people home . . .’

‘Very possible. Not easy to keep that kind of thing quiet.’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘How fast d’you think he worked?’ he asked.

Nick frowned.

‘Would there have been time for the drug to have spread to the baby? Would it have been removed still breathing?’

‘Speculation only, I’m afraid. There was very little finesse about the incisions. They were made quickly, which would suggest he was working towards a purpose. I’d say there’s a chance that the drug hadn’t reached the baby by then.’

‘So we can assume it’s still alive?’

Nick shrugged. ‘That would be my assumption.’

‘How skilled were they? I mean medically? Surgically trained?’

The pathologist mulled over the question. ‘Trained . . . no. Skilled . . . perhaps. They might have had a rudimentary grasp of what they were doing. They knew where to cut. But not a professional. An enthusiastic amateur.’