‘How come, hotshot?’

Jack smiled, even though Harry couldn’t see. ‘We’ve got someone from the police leaking details of the crime and bad mouthing the family.’

There was a pause, and then, ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It is,’ Jack said. ‘The police are having to change their tactics because of him. So you’re interested?’

Harry coughed out a yes.

‘Good,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll have the story with you tonight,’ and then he hung up.

The car was quiet again. Bobby had to be collected from school shortly, but Jack knew that he could write the story as Bobby watched television. He enjoyed the buzz of a deadline.

Jack closed his eyes to clear his head, because he had to plan what he was going to write. Start with the ending, that’s always the way with newspaper stories, that you have to give away the cliff-hanger to make the reader have a look at the story.

The story was for one of the tabloids and the local paper, so it had to be snappy, make people feel threatened. It would be Cop Flops Secrets, and then a shock-horror tale of how the leak could cost lives. The person who had sent the emails had to be the villain, not the anti-hero. Jack felt good to be writing something different from the court stories or whatever Dolby wanted to highlight. It was something he could control and he realised that he missed it, the buzz of creating something that people would enjoy reading, even if only for a few minutes on a crowded bus or train.

Jack’s thoughts were interrupted by some shouting. Some kids strutted out of the station, in dark tracksuit bottoms and hoods, followed by David Hoyle. They shook his hand, street-style, making Hoyle look clumsy, before they walked to a taxi, laughing as they went.

Jack waved at Hoyle, who gave him a salute. Another day, another win.

He followed the reporter outside, but he was distracted by a noise behind him. It was David Hoyle, his cologne drifting towards him, sweet and cloying. He knew how it worked – he was supposed to notice it, not enjoy it. Like the gaudy gold band on his wrist, and the diamond-studded ring he wore on his little finger. It was the show, just to say that he was winning, like the arrogance in his walk, bolt upright, feet apart, get out of my way. His clients bounced in front of him, another day of success for them. And he knew who they were, had seen them before.

He felt the first rumble of anger, so that the noises became louder as he got outside, his vision clouded, so that everything was on a time lag, the images blurring. He could see the reporter, but he was out of focus, just the red of his car visible. The sounds from the youths seemed to echo in his head. Anger turned to rage, starting as a tremor in his stomach, churning, hot. It spread quickly throughout his body, an urge he couldn’t control. It was a need. No, it was more than that. It was a demand to hurt someone, like a scream of desire.

His cheeks glowed red as his arousal grew. He clenched his fists and looked down. He couldn’t make it go away now, he knew that, but he could contain it, save it until he could use it, so that it was always there, the ticking bomb.

He heard a noise, the cough of an old engine, and through the blur he saw something red move away. The reporter’s car. That would help, he knew that. To hurt those who betrayed him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Incident Room was still busy from the lecture Carson had given not long before, the detectives muttering between themselves. Joe had gone to the back of the room, paperwork growing into a pile by his keyboard. Laura walked over, ignoring the icy glance from Rachel Mason as she passed her.

Joe looked up as Laura got close. ‘Did you see anything?’ he said, leaning back, taking a breather, rubbing his eyes.

‘No, nothing,’ she said. ‘If the leak was in here, he’s cool. What are you doing back here?’

‘So I’m near the printer,’ he said, and lifted up the paperwork scattered on the desk. ‘I’m looking for anything related to arsons or animal cruelty from twenty or thirty years ago.’

‘Any joy?’

He shook his head. ‘None whatsoever,’ he said. ‘It seems like the system purges itself every few years, and so the further back you go, the less there is, and go back more than fifteen years and it’s like entering some world where computers didn’t exist.’ He tapped his pen on the desk, frustrated. ‘If we had a name, we could do a better search, just to see if the suspect had anything relevant, but we don’t, so we can’t.’

‘How come arson or animal cruelty are relevant?’

Joe stopped tapping his pen. ‘Why do you think men kill pretty young women?’

Laura thought about that. ‘Sex, I suppose. Lust. They want what they can’t get, or maybe they get their kicks by killing, and prefer young women to older women.’

‘But why do they get their kicks by killing? You have to know the why to find the suspect.’

‘Power, would be my guess,’ Laura said.

Joe smiled. ‘You are nearly right, because it’s about having no power and then striking back.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘Not quite,’ Joe said. ‘Some people kill because of the power trip, because they feel powerful, like predators, where it’s all about picking on the little man, or woman, whatever the case may be. But killers who have a history of arson or being cruel to animals do it for the opposite reason, because they have no power.’

Laura sat down. She could tell that this was going to be a long conversation, and with Joe Kinsella, you had to have your mind clear to let it all sink in. ‘Explain.’

Joe twirled his pen. ‘Children burn things down or torture animals as a way of striking back,’ he said. ‘Imagine an abused child, or a bullied child, or even just an odd or insecure child, different from the rest. How can he protect himself?’ Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘He can’t, is the answer. So he hits back secretly, at things that can’t strike back. Small animals, or buildings, where he can set the fire and retreat. It’s cowardice, but borne from revenge, not anger.’

‘But not all child arsonists turn into murderers,’ Laura said.

Joe nodded in agreement. ‘But most serial killers have arson or animal cruelty in their history. Something happens that takes them from the bud to the bloom. So it might be puberty, some misconnect of the wires, or an abnormally strong sex drive. All we have are generalities, not as good as neat forensics, but these best guesses are usually right.’

‘So why would he choose these women?’

‘That’s an important part of the puzzle, the future victim,’ Joe said. ‘Killers rarely attack the source of their resentment. If they were humiliated or abused as children, you would expect them to go back and kill the people who did it. But they don’t.’ He paused, before continuing, ‘Imagine spending your childhood as a victim of bullying, and the constant dreams of striking back, the satisfaction those dreams provide. So what happens when you hit puberty, and you are excited most by fantasies of revenge? They become something to masturbate to, something with more of a kick than watching the girl next door getting changed, and so hatred gets mixed up with sexual desire, and it becomes almost impossible to separate the two.’

‘So the motivation is desire mixed up with revenge?’ Laura said.

Joe nodded. ‘Something like that.’

‘Can we expect the next victim to be young and attractive, like Jane and Deborah?’ Laura asked.

‘Probably,’ Joe said, ‘but still connected in some way. Remember what I said about the location of Jane’s body. There is so much we don’t know about Jane’s movements. Deborah’s family were more helpful, but Don Roberts has put up a wall.’

‘Do you think it might be someone known to both of them?’