“Unlikely, but all right if you want to be correct. The murder of Melanie Drew was carefully timed. Not many people about, she was alone in the flat, it may well be that it was being watched. The club shooting was from a carefully prepared spot, probably from the roof of Bladon House, though possibly from the old granary next door. There is absolutely no trace of anything or anyone—forensics are still going over it but there isn’t even GSR. Someone who is a good marksman, someone who has prepared a getaway meticulously c this isn’t a lunatic roaming round Lafferton with a pistol; this is a clever, cunning psychopathic killer.”

“Who will kill again.”

“Almost certainly.”

“But if there is no connection between his victims how can we second-guess where he will be next?”

“We can’t,” Simon said, taking a swig of water. “We can’t cover the entire town. We don’t have the justification.”

“Or the resources,” the Chief put in.

“This isn’t a terrorist.”

“And no warnings? No demands?”

“Not a thing.”

The Super leaned back with a groan. “The worst bugger of all.”

“Young women,” Paula Devenish said. “Let’s think of places where young women congregate. Let’s try to get one step ahead of him. Schools. The college. Where else?”

“There are two gyms and there’s the swimming pool.”

“The ice-rink.”

“Any more clubs?”

“There’s a place called The Widemouthin Monmouth Street c it’s a bar with dancing, though, not really a nightclub, and it’s more upmarket than the Seven Aces. It’s popular with the twenty-somethings. Stays open till midnight.”

“Any place opposite that a marksman could hole up in and get them in his sights?”

Serrailler and the DI said, “The multi-storey,” as one voice.

“Right. Let’s have some visible patrolling up there and in the streets around, especially when they’re spilling out at the end of the evening.”

Simon sat bolt upright. “The Jug Fair,” he said. “That’s coming up—weekend after next.”

“Why would he stake out the Jug Fair?”

“Why not? Plenty of young women, crowds, lots of noise to cover the sound of shots.”

“Well, it’s possible.” Andy sounded doubtful.

“There’s always a strong police presence there,” Simon said. “We’ve had some yobbishness, drunken louts causing trouble. I wonder if he would take the risk?”

“Better have ARV on high alert, even so.”

“We’re on it already, ma’am,” Andy said.

“Now, as there are two items on the agenda for this meeting, let’s move on to the second. As you know, the Lord Lieutenant’s daughter is getting married in the cathedral on the tenth of November and there are royals on the guest list. Security is tight, as always of course, but in view of all this, it’ll have to be even tighter. Royal protection will come from the Tactical Unit but Clarence House have noted the shootings and want a meeting. Eleven o’clock next Tuesday morning in my office—you too, Simon. Meeting with Sir Hugh Barr—the Lord Lieutenant and father of the bride—his PA, someone from Clarence House, someone from royal protection, the Dean and myself.” The Chief got up. “We could do without a high-profile wedding with royal guests.”

“At least they’ll pay for their own protection.”

The Chief looked over her shoulder on the way out. “We should be so lucky.”

Twenty-six

“Dr Deerbon?”

Short. Dark, close-cut hair. Clipped voice. She glanced at Cat. “And you are Dr Deerbon’s partner?”

“Wife.”

“Please sit down. Just give me a moment, would you?” She flipped open a file. Turned over a couple of sheets. Looked for some minutes at one, then a second. Turned to address Chris. “And you came in last night by ambulance to A & E?”

“No, I brought him—well, my father and—”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why on earth did you bring him by car? He needed an ambulance. With symptoms like that in a car without any paramedics c” She shook her head.

“I’m a doctor. So is my father.”

“GP?”

“I am—Chris and I both are. My father is a retired consultant.”

“Neurologist?”

“No.”

“Right.” She pursed her lips and was silent again, reading the file, turning the sheets over and back.

She was mid-thirties. She had not smiled. Always smile at the patient, Cat thought.

“I have the scan results here. Are you experienced at interpreting an MRI?” She looked at Chris but did not wait for him to answer. “It’s the best tool we have. It’s pretty watertight. How long have you had symptoms?”

He shrugged.

“He didn’t mention anything. We’ve been in Australia,” Cat said.

The doctor ignored her.

“Hard to say.” Chris looked at his hands. “I had a headache. All the last week we were in Sydney, but we were packing up, it was hot. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Visual disturbance?”

“Slightly. I thought I might need stronger reading glasses.”

“You make it sound very vague. It can’t have been. Not with a scan like this.”

“I suppose I was trying to ignore it.”

“Not a good plan.”

“If it’s a grade-four glioma it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“But I don’t think it is. Grade-three, possibly. Not a four. And though I think it’s unlikely to be benign, we need a biopsy to be sure. I could be wrong.”

But you think that is almost out of the question, Cat thought. Self-belief is your speciality.

“Thanks.” Chris stood up. “Not a lot more to say, is there?”

“Treatment. There’s that to say.”

“There is no treatment. Don’t take the piss.”

“If you’d sit down, I could go through the options. You may not be up to speed. GPs rarely are, I find. How long is it since you diagnosed a grade-three glioma?”

“About two months ago, as a matter of fact. Thirty-six-year-old man, six foot six, bronzed and fit, swimmer, diver, one of Australia’s many outdoor sports fanatics.”

“So in that case you know that in many situations we can operate to relieve pressure.”

“Depending on the site of the tumour.”

“This one looks possible.”

“There’s no point.”

“You won’t say that when the headaches become more intense, which could be any day now. We’ll also give you the maximum number of radiotherapy bursts—ten I should say. That will keep the worst of the symptoms at bay for a time. I’ll put you down to start next week. We want to get on top of this. It won’t wait.” She stood up. As she did so, Chris turned to Cat as if he was about to say something but instead was suddenly and violently sick.

In the car park he said, “Remember.”

Cat did not need to hear more. “Chris, don’t ask me. I would do anything to help you, to get you through this.”

“Anything except what I want.”

“You can’t ask your wife or anyone else to kill you—I can’t, I won’t and you shouldn’t even think it, no matter what’s happening to you. I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

He sat beside her in silence all the way home. Dear God, Cat prayed silently, get us out of this.

She made an egg salad and coffee and set the table on the terrace. It was as warm as June, the wasps sailing insolently close to their plates, but the stems of a dogwood at the far end of the garden were already turning red, blazing in the sun. The grey pony came ambling across the paddock to the near fence.

Chris said, “I didn’t understand what patients meant when they said, “I can’t take it in. I haven’t taken it in.” Well, I do now because I can’t.”

“No.”

He put down his fork. “Tell me what to do, Cat.”

She reached for his hand. The feel of his skin and flesh and bone, the utter familiarity of this man’s hand, was unnerving. She was thinking of it as the hand of someone dying, a hand she should not love too much because it was going to be taken away from her. It was unimaginable.