‘Perhaps he took the file he wanted,’ Laura said. ‘How do we know he didn’t look at the Shane Grix file, realise that he’d got it wrong, and then take the one he really wanted?’

‘We don’t, I suppose, but it seems strange that the one file he leaves untidy involves a young boy who died in questionable circumstances, a boy with serious psychological problems, and the personality traits I would expect in a killer.’

‘So what do we do now?’

Joe checked his watch. Five o’clock. ‘Why don’t you call some of your old friends in the London Met and see whether they can find out anything about Shane’s murder? It will still be a live file, as the killer wasn’t caught.’

‘We won’t find out much tonight.’

‘I know, but if they start tonight, we might have it for the morning.’

Chapter Forty-Four

The streets of Whitcroft seemed quiet as Jack drove onto the estate. It was creeping towards eight o’clock, and the estate was slipping towards darkness. The street lights were coming to life, but not many seemed to be working. There was a playground ahead, just visible from the silhouettes of climbing frames, and Jack thought he could see dark shapes moving between them, the night rats getting ready to take over.

Jack went first to Number 19, the house he’d visited earlier in the day. He wanted to see whether Don had paid the occupant a visit, and he got his answer straight away. The net curtain in front of the window had been pulled down, and there was a crack in one of the window panes that hadn’t been there earlier.

He walked slowly up the path, worried about what he might find when he got inside. He pushed at the door and it swung open slowly. It was dark.

‘Hello?’ he shouted. There was no answer.

He stepped in further and flicked on a light. Furniture had been turned over. A small table lay broken against the wall and the glass shade from a lamp was smashed on the floor.

Jack whirled around when he heard a knock on the door. There was a man. He looked over seventy, his shoulders skinny in a blue nylon shirt, just grey wisps of hair over his ears.

‘What are you doing, lad?’ he said. Despite his years, his voice was strong.

‘Writing a story on the estate,’ Jack said as he backed out of the house.

‘You a reporter?’ and when Jack nodded, he added, ‘be careful what you say.’ He turned to walk back to the house next door.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are some who don’t like what’s happening to this place.’

‘Do you?’ Jack shouted after him.

The old man stopped and turned round. ‘No, but it’s not for me to speak up?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ll get trouble, and I’m too old to want it.’

‘What about here?’ Jack said, nodding back towards the empty house.

‘Probably won’t pay the security fees,’ the old man said.

‘Did you hear what happened?’

The man nodded. ‘A couple of hours ago.’

‘Is he all right, the man who lives here?’

‘I saw him walk out, if that’s what you mean, but I don’t think he will be coming back.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He had a bag with him, and I could tell from the way he looked back at the house.’

‘Does it bother you, that you might be the next one to be forced out?’

The old man smiled and shook his head. ‘No, lad, because I pay my dues.’

‘Who to?’

‘Who do you think?’ he said. ‘The security firm that you see driving around the estate.’ He stepped closer. ‘I wasn’t old enough to fight in the war, but I knew people who did, and compared to those men, these thugs aren’t brave. Just bullies.’

‘So why do you pay?’

He gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m old, not long left. I don’t want to spend it cleaning paint off my walls or dodging flying glass.’

‘But that means giving into them.’

‘The price of a quiet life.’

‘Would you be prepared to go in my story?’ Jack said.

The old man shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t make my life easier, would it?’ he replied. ‘But good luck with it, because I wish they weren’t there.’

‘What about the police? Can’t they help out?’

‘Oh, they do, when they come around. I’ve seen the van driving around sometimes, but it’s got orange bloody stripes all over it. The kids and drunks see it and hide. Once it’s gone, it’s back to normal.’

Jack scribbled some notes and thanked him. Just before he was about to leave, Jack said, ‘Just give me a quote. What is it like to live on Whitcroft?’

‘Like the country,’ he said. ‘Turned to shit.’

And with that, he turned and went back into his house.

The Incident Room bore the scars of a hard day’s investigation. There was a dirty cup on every desk, alongside mounds of papers, print-outs of incident logs and crime reports and intelligence sheets. People were leaning back in their chairs, their top buttons undone, ties hanging slack halfway down their shirts.

Carson was at the back of the room, looking over someone’s shoulder at a computer screen. Rachel Mason was in the middle of three male detectives, her stream of blonde hair standing out against the strident blue of her blouse. She was going through some papers on her knee, separating them into three piles on the floor. To Laura, it looked like she was sifting through suspects, because she had made three piles: possible, maybe and unlikely. She didn’t look up as Laura moved through the room, but when Joe appeared in the doorway, she sat up more attentively.

There was a new photograph stuck to the notice board at the front. Laura turned to Carson, shocked. ‘Is that the woman who didn’t arrive home last night?’ she asked.

Carson straightened himself. ‘Caroline Holt. She hasn’t turned up yet, which is out of character for her. It’s not looking good.’

Laura went closer to it. If she was a victim, it was because Laura had escaped, which made her feel responsible. Caroline was smiling in the photograph, a glass of wine in one hand, her mousy hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

‘What’s the news from Cleveleys?’ Carson asked.

Laura took hold of his arm and pulled him over to the side of the room. ‘It’s the same killer,’ she whispered. ‘Doctor Barker, the man who was at the station this morning, was found strangled, with Jane Roberts’ knickers jammed into his mouth. Which means that it must be someone who knew he was here. It’s too much of a coincidence.’

Carson looked around the room and put his hands on his hips. ‘We’ve got to trust the team. We can’t operate if we don’t. Is there anything to get excited about from the scene?’

‘Nothing obvious, but he might have left some trace behind. We’ll find out tomorrow hopefully. The panties are the best chance, because my guess is that he didn’t plan on leaving those somewhere else when he first took them from Jane.’

Carson thought about that, and then said, ‘Anything else? When we spoke earlier, you said that Doctor Barker had gone to his office before he came here.’

‘He came here to tell us something, but then changed his mind,’ Laura said. ‘When he got home, he was killed. The file we thought he had been looking at related to someone called Shane Grix.’

‘So we’ve got a name,’ Carson said, surprised.

Laura grimaced. ‘Shane is dead. Murdered in London. I’ve called a friend in the Met to see what they’ve got. He’s going to have a dig around and get back to me in the morning.’

‘Why are we bothered, if he’s dead?’ Carson said, turning to look at Joe, who had joined them.

‘Because it bothered Doctor Barker, and now he’s dead,’ Joe replied. ‘And I know why it bothered him.’

‘Go on.’

‘Because Shane used to torture animals. His own pet hamster, the school guinea pigs, kittens that belonged to a neighbour. I had a good read of his file, and this is the thing: he would jam sawdust and dirt into their mouths and backsides.’