He saw the reporter’s email address at the bottom of the article. It was time to go public. That had always been his plan.

His fingers started to tap on the keys, soft clicks that echoed in his tiny office.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack’s movements felt sluggish as he read the words on the screen. He had thrown together Dolby’s article, questioning why the killer was still at large, a rehash of facts from the press conference mixed in with the article he had submitted earlier. It would appear in the paper in the morning. He had just opened a second bottle of wine and his vision was starting to swirl, fingers moving clumsily over the keys as he headed to the Blackley Telegraph site to check for the latest comments.

He took another drink of wine as the page loaded, his name writ large at the top, and saw that snipes at Jane’s father had taken over from sympathy. Some had even found a racial angle, putting forward one ethnic group as potential suspects. Jack knew that the comments were moderated, but Dolby usually took a relaxed view because he knew that bile kept the page counter turning.

He was about to shut down the computer when it flashed up that an email had arrived. He went to the inbox, expecting an offer for bogus medication, but instead there was a message entitled Blindness.

He started to read:

You’re writing the wrong story, Jack Garrett. So another woman has died in Blackley, just the daughter-whore of the town’s biggest thug. My message to him is that you’ve wrecked lives too, so how does it feel now? Both fathers. Both sinners.

Spot the link, win the prize, because they won’t, I can guarantee it, those special boys in blue. Yes, spare a thought for the girl in the woods who gorged on the floor, but don’t think too long, think then of Daddy at last feeling the pain.

Jack put down his drink, surprised. That was strong stuff. He checked the email address. It was a Google address, so it would probably be hard to trace the owner.

He sat back and tugged at his lip. Crime reporting certainly attracted its fair share of oddballs, from those who sat at the back of court, just for the public viewing, to those who sent out paranoid emails without a second thought. But why the reference to gorging on the floor? And what was the link between the two victims? The police had hinted that they were random, that all women were in danger.

Jack looked around for a notepad, and felt a familiar tremble of excitement in his fingers. If the police were holding facts back, he needed to know.

He pressed the reply button and typed, Gorged on the floor. What do you mean?

He clicked send and drank some more wine, wondering what the reply would contain. He didn’t have to wait long.

Good to see that you’re alert, Jack, but this is just for you and me. If you tell the police, I’ll know. I’ll hear the whispers. But what about a poem, an ode to Jane:

What is this that I can see,

Cold icy hands taking hold of me,

For Death has come, you all can see,

Hell has opened a gate to welcome thee,

He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,

He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,

He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,

And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.

Jack took another drink of wine. It seemed like the story had taken a new twist

Chapter Seventeen

Light streamed through the open curtain, making Jack groan. He lifted his head off the pillow and the bed seemed to shift. He shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of wine, and he could still taste it as he smacked his lips.

He put his hand out, expecting to feel the rise and fall of Laura’s body, or the spread of her dark hair across the pillow, but she wasn’t there. He squinted at the alarm. Eight o’clock. He flopped back onto the pillow. Everything felt heavy, and quick movements sent flashes of pain through his head. He lay back and listened for the sounds of Laura downstairs, chatter with Bobby or the noise of the hairdryer, but there was only silence.

He tried to think through what had happened the night before. He couldn’t remember Laura coming home, but he remembered her weight against him in bed, her naked skin, warm and close. Yesterday’s clothes were discarded on the floor and he could smell the flowery haze of her perfume spray.

He clambered out of bed and shuffled to Bobby’s room, just to check that he was awake. He wasn’t. His dark hair peered out above his England football duvet, a remnant of his World Cup mania from the year before. Jack rubbed his eyes. He would have to rush now, and he didn’t feel much in the mood for speed.

Jack nudged Bobby gently until he stirred and then pointed at his school clothes, set out by Laura.

‘Time to get moving,’ he said, although his voice still had a slur.

It was going to be a slow morning.

Laura threaded her way through the Incident Room, her coffee in her hand, the smell of stale booze hitting her, the remnants of the trip to the pub the night before, everyone more bleary-eyed than the previous day. Mornings were always the toughest part of a murder investigation, because they were no nearer the killer and hours of uncertainty lay ahead.

As she got to Joe, he looked up and smiled. ‘Did you get in trouble for being back so late?’

‘Jack was all tucked up when I got back,’ she said, and returned the smile. ‘I enjoyed myself. Thank you for making me go.’ She took a sip of coffee and then nodded towards some sheets of paper in front of Joe. ‘Is there anything new?’

Joe looked down and then shook his head. ‘Not much to get excited about,’ he said. ‘Just last night’s calls, and unless Don Roberts had a change of heart overnight, all we’ll have today is tips from friends.’

‘So when was Jane last seen?’

‘Last Saturday,’ Joe said. ‘A routine night out, she was supposed to go to a friend’s house. There was a group of girls waiting for her, but she never showed up. They called her house but Don said that he didn’t know where she was and told them not to worry. They went out and forgot about it. Some of her friends texted her, but didn’t think much of it when they didn’t get a reply.’

‘They don’t seem like close friends,’ Laura said.

‘They were used to the disappearing act,’ Joe explained, as he reached for a photograph. ‘It seems like the ex-boyfriend wasn’t that ex.’ He passed her the picture of a young man, good teeth and skin, dark hair teased over his forehead. ‘Adam Carter. They were making like single people, but they weren’t, because they were still an item. They just had to keep it quiet from Don.’

Laura picked up the photograph. ‘Why is that?’

‘We’ll find out later,’ he said. ‘But that’s why Jane’s friends weren’t worried, because they thought she was with Adam.’

‘So is Adam a witness or suspect?’

‘Everyone’s a suspect,’ Joe said. ‘All we know about Adam is that he’s just finished university and is trying to find a job. Jane’s friends seem to like him, but I suppose that doesn’t mean too much.’

‘But if he’s anything to do with Jane’s death,’ Laura said, ‘he’s done it as a copycat, to make us think that Jane was killed by Deborah’s killer. How would a young student find out so much about Deborah’s murder to pull that off?’

Joe smiled. ‘I didn’t say he was high up the list.’

‘At least we’ve got a list,’ Laura said, looking at the picture and then tapping it against her hand. ‘What about her workplace?’

‘The same as with her friends,’ Joe said. ‘She didn’t show up, and when they called home, they spoke with her father. The same answer as before, that he didn’t know where she was but not to worry.’