He backed out of the room and went to the next one along. The door looked closed, but he saw that it wasn’t clicked shut. He put his ear to the door. He could hear that one voice again, but there was something else too. He stopped his breaths so he could work out what it was. It was a clicking, scratching sound, fast but irregular. Then it came to him. It was the sound of fingernails on a keyboard, broken by the occasional laugh or murmur. She was on a computer. He patted his back pocket, felt the handcuffs, his knife in the belt of his trousers.

He pushed gently on the door, ready to rush to her if there was a creak. His mouth was open to keep up with his breaths as the room came slowly into view.

The walls were light, but coloured blue by the glow of the screen. The carpet was thick, so that as he stepped inside his footsteps were silent. The air seemed warm and moist, and he could smell lavender. She must have just come out of the bath.

He saw her. She was facing a computer screen, headphones on, an instant messaging program open. She was wearing a long T-shirt, and her legs were bare.

His back brushed lightly against the wall as he got closer. She was engrossed in the screen and so she didn’t see him, wasn’t aware of him. He held his breath, not wanting to give himself away, but he knew she would become aware soon, even through the headphones. His hands reached behind for the handcuffs. Her fingers were slender, her fingernails manicured, graceful as they flitted across the keys, the glare from the screen catching the whiteness of her teeth.

He moved across the room, away from the comfort of the wall, lightly stepping on the soft carpet. He was almost behind her now. He could reach out and touch her hair, long dark strands flowing down her back.

Then she stopped typing and stared at the monitor.

He stepped back quickly. He had seen someone else on the screen. A woman’s face, the close-up distortion of a webcam. And she had seen him. He had come into view of the webcam. There was a witness. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

The noises rushed back into his head. They had been waiting for this moment. The fail, the mistake. He clamped his ears. There were laughs and whispers and mocking jeers. Then there was a scream from the room. It was her. She was screaming, her legs up to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. People would hear.

He turned to run. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The door flew back as he ran through it, his feet loud on the hardwood flooring in the living room. He was heading for the same way out when he saw the front door. It would be quicker.

The door had a Yale lock, and he gave it a quick turn. He felt the cool breath of the evening air as soon as he stepped outside, making his sweat turn cold.

He heard another scream, but the door was open now and it carried into the street. He imagined the curtains moving on the houses opposite, and so he ran for the track, his heart beating quickly. He was angry with himself. He should have thought about the webcam when he heard the clicks on the keyboard. Someone had seen him.

He tried to shut that thought out as he ran, concentrating only on his escape, his feet thumping against the grass, the jingle of the handcuffs loud in the dark.

If he could just get to his van before he was spotted, no one would ever know.

Chapter Forty-Six

Jack drove around the estate, feeling better about his article.

He glanced towards the playground he had seen earlier. He heard laughter and then the sound of a bottle breaking on the floor, provoking more laughter. Jack looked to the houses opposite, expecting to see the twitch of a curtain to see what was going on, but there was nothing.

He drove past a building that was in the middle of the estate, and the sign on the front told him that it was the Whitcroft Community Centre. It was like most community centres: a square brick building with aerosol artwork decorating the outside walls, the wheelchair ramp bordered by a rail with paint flaking from it. He didn’t need to go inside to know that it would look like all the others – painted cream, with a wooden floor marked out for a basketball court and filled with flimsy metal chairs that packed away in high stacks.

It hadn’t escaped the attention of the local kids though. The sign was broken in places, and two of the windows were boarded up.

Jack drove on, not understanding why someone would want to destroy so much around them. He headed for the road out of the estate, and once the broken lights of Whitcroft were left behind he thought about Don, and the contrast between his own life and the lives of the people who paid for his services.

Jack turned into the leafy street that took him towards Don’s house. It curved gently, and the only things that obscured the street lights were the branches of the trees that swayed in the breeze. There were no cars on the road. They were all pulled onto driveways, two for each household, mostly new.

He drove close to the copse where Jane had been found, and so he stopped. He positioned his car so that the headlights illuminated the patch of trees. The light caught a piece of crime scene tape that was left tied to a silver birch, just fluttering. Apart from that, it had returned to what it had been before.

Jack resolved to visit it in the morning, because the small piece of tape would make for a good photograph if the killer stayed free, some kind of metaphor for how time was moving on and the victims would be forgotten. Except that the memories of Jane’s murder would linger in the minds of those who looked at it every day, and for Don Roberts and Mike Corley, the memory would never go away.

Jack set off again, and as he got closer to Don’s house he saw cars cluttering the road. It looked like there was a meeting.

Jack drove past and then turned round so that he could watch. He was curious. What were they planning? Was another suspect going to be driven from their home, or even worse?

He had only been there for a couple of minutes when the front door opened, throwing light onto the driveway. Someone came rushing out, animated, turning to shout something. Jack leaned forward to get a better view through the windscreen. He recognised the figure. David Hoyle. Then Jack saw his car parked further along. He should have spotted it, a Mercedes with a personalised plate. He had seen it parked outside court many times.

Jack was surprised. What was David Hoyle doing there?

Hoyle turned back to whoever was in the doorway. He was waving his arms, finger pointing, and then he walked away, heading for his car. Jack started his engine, making David Hoyle look around. Jack set off towards him, and as he drew alongside, he wound down his window.

‘Good evening, Mr Hoyle,’ Jack said. ‘Must be a big pow-wow to bring you out here. Why are you rushing off?’

Hoyle looked surprised and glanced back towards Don’s house. The front door was closed now.

‘Mr Hoyle?’

‘Leave me alone,’ Hoyle said, his tone more fearful than angry.

‘Something has happened, I can tell.’

He held Jack’s gaze for a few seconds, and Jack thought he was about to say something, Hoyle’s lips twitching and pursing, but instead he opened his car door and started his engine.

Hoyle pulled away quickly, and as Jack watched the rear lights disappear round the curve ahead, he knew that whatever had made Hoyle bolt out of Don’s house wasn’t good news.

He’d raced home and concealed his van under tarpaulin at the back of the house. He was back in the small space with his computer, the door closed tightly so that the rest of the house was shut out. But it wasn’t enough, the noises still made their way in. His hands were clamped around his ears. The noise was a clamour. The taps had turned into screeches, like nails down blackboards, and there was laughter, mocking shrieks.