He felt unsettled, still too aroused. He had skipped through his photographs. Shots of Jane, of Deborah, their faces pale and still. And the others from before he came to Blackley. The pictures took him back through his memories, and he relived the struggles, the fear. He thought of the girl from the night before. He hadn’t taken a picture, he hadn’t had time. There had been just the release and then a short drive to the canal, stones weighing down her pockets. There would be no discovery. Not yet anyway. It wasn’t enough. He wanted a bigger high, his hands around someone else’s neck, the feel of their pulse, a drumbeat against his outstretched palm.

He wanted to go out again, but he stopped himself. It wouldn’t be right. No more mistakes. Wait for tomorrow.

There would be no sleep, he knew that. Not now. It was time to plan.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Jack held up the wine bottle to the light. Probably only a glass left in it. It was close to midnight now, and he was alone in the house. He hadn’t heard from Laura for a few hours, and he remembered the incident from the night before, when she was almost run down. He wanted to know she was safe. There was a killer to catch, he knew that, but she didn’t have to sacrifice herself to do it. The screen swam in front of him and his fingers roamed clumsily across the keyboard, the sound of his tapping fingernails echoing loudly in the house.

He had written the story on Jane, but Jack didn’t expect Don to like it. It had been written as a lead-in to the Whitcroft article, speculating on whether there was a link between the estate and the murders. The quotes from some of the people Jack had spoken to earlier had made it in as unnamed sources, and a connection had started to emerge, but it seemed loose and vague, as if there was still something missing.

Jack was browsing the internet, looking at the newspapers and sport stories, when there was a ping from the email software. He poured himself another glass of wine, stumbling a little, dropping some onto the table top, and then he opened the email.

It was from the same source as before, except that this time it had the title Hoyly Moyly. Jack leaned forward to read it, took a long sip, and then he stopped and put his glass down. The email made no sense.

He read it again.

Oh Angel, why did you scream?

It was a perfect plan, an evening dream,

Deviance and pleasure,

Something to treasure,

Bold on a summer night,

Man was out,

Looking after wolves,

Angel was in,

Watching out for me,

Your cries fall on devil ears,

Mine mount to storm fury,

Oh Angel, why did you scream?

Jack sat back and ran his hands through his hair as he tried to shake off some of the alcohol fog. As poetry, it was poor, but there was a message there. The taunts, the spitefulness, they were all familiar.

He felt the effect of the wine subside as he thought about the message. He knew his mind needed to be clear to work it all out. He clicked reply, and when the dialogue box came up, he typed:

So how are they all connected? Don is into security. Mike Corley is a local copper. Where’s the link? Who is Emma? And who is the Angel from your email? You want your story told. Talk to me.

Jack went to the window and noticed again how dark the hills were. He felt like he couldn’t do anything until he got a reply. It didn’t take long to arrive. He went to the computer nervously, and sat down when he saw the contents.

There is always a connection. I’m going faster than before and sometimes it feels like it is too fast. But I have spotted a female. You know her, ha ha. Just need to work out the details.

So now you know I’m real, what next. Do I deserve a name, a title? The papers always like that. What do you think? Can you think of a name?

And then Jack remembered the scene from earlier in the evening, the fear etched onto David Hoyle’s face. Hoyly Moyly.

Jack took the wine bottle to the kitchen and poured the contents of his glass down the sink. He went to the doors and windows, checked that everything was locked. He had an early start the next day, and a very long night ahead.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The morning had been a long time coming.

He had been awake all night, his mind filled by memories of the night before. They ran through his mind as fast flickers. The woman in her bedroom, talking into the webcam, in her panties, one leg pulled up to her chest. Her frightened look when she saw him. He waited for the tremble of arousal, but it didn’t come. He felt unfulfilled. He tried to recall the other two women. Deborah. Jane. Young. Perfect skin. Blonde streaks in Deborah’s brunette hair. Arms folded. Angry. Self-contained. The look of surprise. Dragging her into the van. Then that knowledge, the awareness that she was going under. She surrendered.

He still didn’t feel finished. He thought back to the other woman from earlier in the week, the one he had dragged into the alley. He didn’t know her name. He tried to use that, but the memory was no good. It hadn’t been right. Too spontaneous. Just another woman. He thought he was past that.

He stared up at the Artex ceiling. Daylight had spread across it now. He could see a spider in the corner, winding its silver tracks. He thought he could hear it, soft shuffles across the paintwork, but then as he concentrated, he realised it was something else. Faint murmurs. The whispers that came to him when he was unfulfilled.

He looked down. His hands were gripping the sheets, his knuckles white. He wasn’t going into work today. It wouldn’t matter any more after today. He knew who he wanted. He was missing one last piece. The need that screamed to him when everything else was quiet.

His thoughts flashed back to the night before. Not even the fear in her eyes was enough to satisfy him. That was just a taster, and it had been a mistake. He hadn’t thought it through.

He threw back the covers. He needed more. He wouldn’t be distracted.

As the thought of his target for the day came to him, he smiled and felt himself grow hard. But no, not yet. Don’t dampen the fire.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Jack woke up filled with determination, the emails fresh in his mind. Once again, Laura had come home after he’d gone to bed, and left before he’d woken up.

He showered, dressed and headed into Blackley. He drove straight to where Jane Roberts had been found. The drive helped to clear his head, the roof down on the Stag, the wind ruffling his hair, almost like a gentle massage.

When he got there, he saw that the crime scene tape was limp, the light breeze from the night before gone, so that the loose end trailed into the shrubs and weeds. The sound of his car door seemed to echo in the trees as he climbed out and wandered towards the patch of ground where Jane had been found. It had been trampled by the boots of the police, the greenery moved to one side, all the bark and branches from around her body collected and taken away. The area around was uneven and thick with leaves, large twigs and ivy trails that snagged at his feet as he walked. Jane’s killer had chosen a difficult place to leave the body, a place where the chances of falling and hurting himself were high. It would only take a small piece of DNA, like a splash of blood on a leaf, to make any case easier to prove against him. The ground was hard, so it would have been very difficult to bury the body. And of course the killer didn’t even try to do that.