He pressed the small silver button on the intercom, and after a click, heard a familiar voice ask him what he wanted.

‘Hello, Anne,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘It’s Rupert. Can I come in?’

There was a laugh and then a buzz as the security lock allowed him in. He gave the heavy wooden door a push and then he was inside the building he thought he would never enter again.

The smell was familiar, polish and air-freshener, the heating on too high, as always. A corridor stretched ahead, leading to some of the small rooms where he had tried to put right some of the disturbed young minds that had walked through the door. All Rupert could hope for was that some walked back along the same carpet tiles with healthier minds than when they first entered.

He turned towards the reception area, the low table covered with back copies of Lancashire Life, and saw a smile that had aged since he’d last seen it, but was still as welcoming.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling round,’ he said.

‘How can you say that?’ Anne said. ‘This is your practice.’

‘It was my practice,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m glad to be where I am.’

‘How is retirement?’

‘Quiet, but that’s how I wanted it.’

‘Good, good,’ Anne said, fast running out of conversation. She smoothed down her cream blouse and toyed with her fringe, her hair grey and brittle. He remembered her when she had first worked for him, an attractive brunette fresh out of a bad marriage. Twenty years later, Anne was moving towards old age. ‘Can I get you a drink, Doctor Barker?’ she said.

‘It’s just Rupert now,’ he answered. ‘I’m here to look at an old file.’

Anne looked surprised at that. ‘Why? And how old?’

‘One of my former patients has looked me up,’ he said, lying to her. ‘He might want some more help, but I can’t remember enough about him. I’ll be able to refer him to the right place if I can remember the specifics.’

‘Is he still young enough to come here?’

Rupert shook his head. ‘He’s a really old client. Maybe even before you joined.’

Anne looked towards the back room, looking unsure. Rupert glanced the same way, towards the new partners of the practice, some young blood he had recruited not long before he retired to make sure that there was someone to buy him out. They were her bosses now.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

‘He wouldn’t say. He came to my house, became really agitated, and then left. I think he’ll come back.’

Anne swallowed, nervous now.

‘He was my patient,’ Rupert said.

Anne nodded, looking embarrassed. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. You know where they are. Promise you won’t take anything.’

Rupert smiled. ‘I won’t.’

He turned to leave the reception area and go through the fire door, but then he turned to see Anne holding up a small key. ‘You’ll need this.’

Rupert took the key from her and thanked her, and then went back into the hallway.

He walked quickly and quietly. He didn’t think the new partners would mind, because he was one of them, a fellow professional, not a rival, but still he was hoping to slip in and leave unnoticed.

He unlocked the door to the cellar and then clicked on the light, squinting to make out what lay below in the mute glare of a naked bulb. There were wooden shelves lined with boxes, divided into years in accordance with a patient’s final consultation, each box packed alphabetically.

As he thought of the boy, his mind flashed back to the end of the eighties. New age travellers and the Manchester scene. The 1985 box was on the middle shelf at the end of the row, the brown cardboard faded now. It was a good place to start. The lid had a film of grey dust and he sneezed as he lifted it down.

As he raised the lid, the names on the files were like small nudges to his memory, just flashes of frightened young children, made angry by the big kicks life had given them. Yet none of them were the one that he’d had in his mind since he’d read the newspaper that morning.

He pulled down the box for 1986. Still nothing.

He grunted with exertion as he put a box back, and then worked his way through the late eighties. He felt a tremble of excitement when he pulled out the box for 1990.

It took him a few seconds to work out the reason, but then he realised that it was the colour of the files. They had been buff-coloured before 1990, but as soon as he saw the blue files, he knew that he was closer.

He flicked through the files slowly, the faces coming to him now as if he was flicking through photographs. Then his fingers stopped at a name. Grix. Shane Grix.

Rupert’s fingers trembled as he reached into the box and pulled out the file. The file cover felt cold and his nose was filled with the scent of damp paper. He flicked through the contents, speckles of mould soiling some of the pages, and started to read, the scribbled notes from two decades ago jogging his memory.

He put the file down and looked up at the cellar door. He had been right, but that didn’t make him feel better. People had died. The question now was whether he was prepared to stop it from happening again.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jack trotted across the road to the court building. He was still angry from Don’s visit, and when he saw a police car further along the road, he remembered the emails again. Was he being watched? Was the killer a police officer, in that very car? Except that he also knew that police cars were often outside the court, waiting for police witnesses to finish giving their evidence.

He wanted to get back to his routine though, but he saw that it was another slow news day as he climbed the steps – just the usual collection of deadbeats and villains mixed up with nervous first-timers. He headed for the courtroom, hoping for a hint from the prosecutor, and he walked quickly past the ushers’ kiosk, where they were clustered in their black gowns like caged rooks, waiting for the call to let them know which name they had to bellow out next. He got close to the courtroom door when he felt a tug on his arm. He looked round. It was David Hoyle.

‘I was looking for you,’ Hoyle said.

Jack gave a small laugh. ‘I thought you were too good for this place, and now you need the publicity?’

Hoyle shook his head slowly. ‘Come into a room. We need to talk privately.’

Jack was curious, and so he nodded his agreement and then followed, but there was something about Hoyle’s attitude that made Jack decide that private didn’t mean off the record, and so he reached into his pocket to switch on his voice recorder.

Hoyle led Jack to a small square room, fitted out with a square table and four chairs, the seat pads worn out by years of bored lawyers listening to tired old excuses. He put his files on the desk. ‘I saw the article in the paper this morning,’ he said.

‘Do you want me to sign it for you?’

Hoyle frowned and put his hands on his hips. ‘You really are a smart arse, aren’t you,’ he said. ‘This is for your own good.’

‘Enlighten me.’

Hoyle stepped closer, so that Jack felt the air around him fill with the cloying smell of old cigarettes. ‘I act for Don Roberts,’ Hoyle said, his voice almost a whisper, as if the news was supposed to elevate his status.

Jack felt a ripple of anger when he heard Don’s name. ‘Which case is that?’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Because Don hasn’t been in trouble for a long time, so I’m told, and you haven’t been around that long. No, what you mean is that he sends all his cronies and runners to you, and although you think it gives you the power, so you can play your game, it’s really the other way around. It makes you one of his lackeys now, except that you don’t see it like that, because you wear a suit and carry a file.’ Hoyle’s cheeks were starting to flush red, but Jack wasn’t going to stop. ‘I had a visit this morning from Roberts and his goons, unhappy with my story, and I got too close to a blade for my liking,’ he said. ‘Well, tough shit, because writing stories is what I do, and so I’ll tell you what I told him, that I’ll keep on writing what I want to write, and I will not pass on information to him.’