‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Why would Don shut everyone out when his daughter was missing? Was his hatred for us more important than finding Jane?’

‘Maybe it is more complicated than that,’ Joe said. ‘People who behave in that way often have something to hide.’

‘What, you think that Don Roberts might be involved?’

‘I don’t know, but we have to look,’ Joe said, and then pointed to two detectives at the back of the room, scouring through papers and then looking at a computer screen. ‘That’s their job.’

‘What are they looking at?’ Laura asked.

‘Just old intelligence reports, to check for any allegations of sexual abuse within his family.’

‘Do you think she was about to expose him?’

‘Maybe there was nothing to expose,’ Joe said, ‘but I would rather we looked and found nothing than not look and miss it. A lot of men who kill their daughters do it because they are about to be exposed. It’s a mixture of betrayal and sexual confusion and downright fear that they are about to be shown up for what they really are. So they lash out.’

‘And stuff their daughter’s vagina with leaves and dirt?’ Laura said, her eyebrows raised.

‘Well, that’s pretty extreme,’ Joe replied, ‘but like with the boyfriend, that would be all part of the cover-up, to deflect attention, to make it look like the murder was done by the same person who killed Deborah Corley.’

‘But we didn’t disclose the details of that murder,’ Laura said.

‘So we need to see if there is a leak anywhere,’ Joe said. ‘Don might have some friends in the police. Yes, he’s a crook and a thug, but some officers think that they might pick up some useful information if they keep their enemies close, but in reality, it’s more than that. There’s a bond, like opponents shaking hands away from the arena. I’ve seen a lot of hardline coppers end up working for defence firms, working hard to keep the crooks free. There is one I know who works as a driver for a defence firm, acting like a taxi for criminals, picking them up and taking them to court.’

‘That sounds demeaning,’ Laura said.

‘It is, but it’s not about the money,’ Joe said. ‘It’s just about finding a way to stay in the game, because as much as the cops like to fight the crooks, they love the game more than anything, and they miss it when they retire.’

‘So you think Don Roberts might have received information about how Deborah Corley died and re-enacted it to pass the blame?’

‘It’s just one more possibility.’

Laura sat down and sighed. ‘This could be never-ending.’

‘Worse than that,’ Joe said. ‘We might only find out that Don Roberts isn’t a copycat killer when someone else dies, because he would be stupid to repeat it, just for effect.’

‘We could arrest him,’ Laura said.

Joe shook his head. ‘You’ll get nothing from him. Even if he’s innocent, he’ll clam up.’

‘So what now? A visit to the boyfriend?’

Joe checked his watch. ‘In a couple of hours from now.’

‘Why so long?’

‘Because we’ve got a post-mortem to attend,’ he said, and then pointed towards the door.

When Laura looked around, she saw Carson beckoning them over. She took a deep breath. The queasy feeling in her stomach told her that it was too early in the day to watch a young woman sliced open.

Chapter Eighteen

Jack threw his car keys onto the table. Bobby was safely at school, and so he headed to the kitchen to make a coffee, just pausing to switch on his laptop. He needed another kick-start, the booze still hanging heavy from the night before.

The steam from the cup bathed his face as he stood over his computer, and his hands paused over the wedding brochures that cluttered the table. Not today, he told himself, and pushed them to one side.

Once the computer had finished booting up, Jack started his day as he always did, by quickly surfing the newspaper websites, just to check for the headlines of the day. He was looking for something extra this time though, for the Jane Roberts story, trying to find anything that would shed light on what was in the emails from the night before. Gorged on the floor and He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk.

He went to the nationals first, but it was what he expected: nothing much. The media had turned out for the press conference but it hadn’t translated into column inches. It was the out-of-London syndrome, that it had to get really bad to be noticed by the London press, and so he trawled the northern dailies instead. The murder was featured more prominently, but it was still lacking in detail, and some had just lifted the report from the Blackley Telegraph.

Jack went to the Blackley Telegraph website again, checking for updates, but nothing had changed. The comments section had grown though, so that reading the news was like being caught in an argument. Some of the comments echoed the vitriol of the emails, hatred spewed out under the cover of anonymous usernames, and some criticised the police, saying that they couldn’t catch a serial killer because they were too wrapped up in form-filling.

But no one mentioned anything about something being in the victim’s mouth.

He brought up the second email and read the poem again.

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.

Those words were specific. Jane must have been bound and gagged, there could be no other conclusion, but there had been nothing in any of the newspapers, no rumours or hints at the press conference the day before. So if the gorging reference had some truth, the emailer must be close to the investigation.

Then something occurred to him. There had been a niggle the night before, that there was something he wasn’t seeing, but as he thought more about it, it revealed itself, and it made him sit back and stare at the sceen. What if the emails were from the killer himself, trying to use the press as a platform?

He took another drink of coffee and thought about that. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then, right on cue, he was interrupted by the arrival of another email. The title grabbed his attention: Another one bites dust.

Bites dust?

Jack clicked on the email, and then as he read he realised that it wasn’t about the woman found yesterday, but about the victim from a few weeks earlier, the copper’s daughter, Deborah Corley.

You’re slow, Jack. I find the newspaper not writing all the details unamusing. I know those boys in blue think they have to keep secret all that goes on, that people will get scared, but I think people should know. How else do they catch the killer? Ha ha.

Think of charming little Deborah, blessed by life’s opportunities. Sunday school, pony lessons, pretty in the press picture, and so she should be, with everything life had given her. But no more. Deborah has smiled one last time, silenced forever, her laughs muffled. She tried to cry out but couldn’t.

Write about it, Jack. Find the real story. Tell the world everything. Because if it’s not you, it will be someone else.

He sat back and rubbed his eyes. That was strong stuff again. And what about her laughs muffled?

He took another sip of coffee and pondered on his reply. What if he was reading too much into it, and it was just some weirdo trying to make him print some untruths by hinting that he knows things? Jack wasn’t going to wreck his reputation on anonymous hints.

He put his cup down and typed a reply.

I can write the stories if you have proof that you know things. What do you have? Jack.

Jack drummed his fingers on his knees as he waited, his eyes fixed on the screen, the house enveloped in silence. Then there was another ping. Another reply.