Killing the Beasts

Chapter 19

2 November 2002

Jon's car pulled to a halt by the incident van positioned at the top of forty-six Lea Road. It had started drizzling a couple of hours earlier and, leaning forwards for a better view of the sky, Jon could see the motionless layer of cloud stretching away like an expanse of concrete in all directions. 'Great,' he muttered to himself. He opened the car door and jogged over to the van, noticing the Lexus tucked in beside it.

Stepping in to what was really a mobile home made into an office, Jon used one hand to wipe the droplets of rain coating his cropped hair. He said to the crime scene manager inside, 'Nice motor parked alongside. What are they paying you guys again?'

A middle-aged man with a thick head of grey hair smiled. 'The Lexus? I should be so lucky. It's the couple's in the flat above the victim's. They don't like leaving it on the road — it's been keyed too many times.'

Jon nodded. 'Are they in? I need to question them about Mary Walters' death.'

'I haven't seen them go out,' the CSM replied.

Jon ran to the front door of the house and pressed the intercom for flat two. After he'd told them who he was, he was buzzed in. A smooth-looking man in his mid-to-late twenties showed him into the flat and through to the front room. Inside were cream leather sofas and stripped floorboards, palms stretching almost up to the roof, Rothko prints on the walls. He sat in the chair opposite the man and his wife and pulled his notebook out.

'You've done this flat out nicely. Is it housing-association owned?'

'Was,' replied the husband. 'We bought this flat off them last year. They said they'll be selling off the others, too.' Jon understood the process taking place: prices had shot up and the housing association was cashing in by selling its properties in the area, probably to buy more in the cheaper Moss Side. The wealthy couple he was looking at were at the vanguard of a wave that would soon sweep the older residents of Whalley Range clean away.

Their statement had little of potential interest — both husband and wife worked long hours for a law firm in Manchester. The only conversation they'd had with Mary was when she had asked if they had any objection to her pinning the CCTV notice up.

'Ah yes,' said Jon. 'One of her friends mentioned she had problems with prostitutes and their clients parking in the back yard.'

The couple nodded knowingly. 'I think it bothered her more than us,' said the husband. 'We come and go by the front hallway.'

'Excuse me,' interrupted the wife. 'We usually park round the back and driving over used condoms most mornings wasn't exactly pleasant.'

'The Lexus?'

They nodded, looking proud.

'Nice car, that,' Jon said, looking at his notebook. 'So did the notice work?'

'Like that,' replied the wife with a snap of her fingers.

Back in the incident van he asked the crime scene manager if any photographic albums had been found lying around Mary's flat. Nothing so far, came the reply. Jon asked if he could go back in for another look around. The man signed his name in the log book and tossed him a crime scene suit, overshoes and gloves.

Jon nodded to the uniformed officer at the back steps and then let himself into the flat. He wandered into the front room and stared at the carpet where the body had been lying. Then he glanced round the walls, taking in the immaculately arranged books lining the shelves. His eye was caught by a set of drawers; the uppermost one was fractionally open, as if it had been pushed hurriedly back in. He wedged a pen into the slight gap and pulled the drawer out. Bills and documents were arranged in neat piles. TV licence, gas, electricity, telephone.

Crouching down he opened the cupboard door to the side, grunting with satisfaction when he saw the stack of photo albums. Slipping on the gloves, he began flicking through. The front page was labelled, 'Oberammergau, 1999.' An alpine setting — some sort of a play about the crucifixion. He recognized the friend, Emma, amongst the beaming members of the coach party.

He went through the other albums and wasn't surprised to find only harmless photos of churches. Frowning, he walked through into her bedroom, feeling slightly guilty as he opened up her bedside cupboard and peered inside. A little rush of excitement played up his spine when he saw a stack of small magazines. He lifted the top few out and read the titles with disappointment. The Everlasting Life. Our Creator Cares About You. The Search for God. Religious magazines delivered by women who turn up on your doorstep and stare a little too intensely as they hand them over. Jon nodded in grim acceptance: try as he might, he couldn't imagine that any of the type of snaps found in Polly Mather's flat would turn up here.

In the kitchen he started idly looking through the cupboards, amazed to see that she even had a system of labels on each door to denote which items should be eaten first. Examining what was stored on each shelf, he noted there were quite a few promotional packs of merchandise — no doubt part of the same economical approach that led her to collect the coupons and tokens on the hallway table.

He looked in the top drawer and saw knives, forks and spoons neatly lined up. The drawer below was labelled 'Miscellaneous'and was full of odds and ends — spare batteries, rolls of sellotape, a box of plasters, bags of foreign coins, a pack of chewing gum, tubes of indigestion tablets. The bottom drawer was full of tea towels, mostly souvenirs from places like Scarborough, Cromer and St Ives.

Jon straightened his legs and, sighing deeply, began to mentally sift through what the investigation had uncovered so far. The pairs of cups that had been recently washed up in Polly Mather's and Mary Walters' houses had yielded nothing to forensic examination. The CCTV lead had turned out to be nonexistent. No usable fingerprints had been lifted from Mary's doorbell. Phil Wainwright had a solid alibi for the night of Mary's death — he was staying at his mum's over in Burnley. He thought about Polly Mather's flat. The contacts magazines seemed the most promising lead, but tracing the three pay-as-you-go numbers was impossible.

Absolutely nothing seemed to link the victims and he was painfully aware that, due to the lack of solid leads, the investigation was stalling in its very earliest stages. Hoping that someone else might have made a significant discovery, he set off back to the station.

The top floor of Longsight police station made a city trading room seem sedate. Officers were scurrying between desks, others were on the telephone or furiously entering their reports onto HOLMES. Messages were being shouted from all directions.

Making his way between the tables, Jon headed for DCI McCloughlin's room. He saw him inside, surrounded by other senior officers. Jon knocked and was immediately beckoned in.

'Gentlemen, this is DI Spicer, 'McCloughlin announced. 'He was taking care of the investigation while it stood at one victim and was first in with me at Mary Walters' flat.' He turned to Jon. 'The autopsy on the third victim, Heather Rayne, has just come back. She had been dead for over a day, which actually makes her the second one to be killed.'

'One a day for the past three days,' Jon said, staying by the door.

'Precisely. And every time my bloody phone rings — which is almost non-stop — I'm expecting it to be news of number four.'

He pointed through the windows of his office at the white boards that stood at the top of the main room. The usual smattering of victims' photos adorned each one with various other names and addresses dotted around below. What was missing were the crucial interconnecting lines between each victim. Jon had never seen such a lack of them.

'As you can see, we're still thrashing around in the dark here. Any progress on your part? What was the score with the CCTV at Mary Walters' place?'

Jon shook his head. 'Afraid it was just that — a notice. Mary Walters pinned it up to put off curb crawlers bringing their pickups round into the back yard. I've just had a talk with the owners of the flat above. They spend their lives in the office so had very little to say.'

McCloughlin shook his head. 'Well, there were two recently washed up cups on Heather Rayne's draining board. This bastard knows the victims, I'm certain.'

'What's the profile so far of the latest one to be found?' Jon asked.

McCloughlin spoke from memory. 'Heather Rayne. Single, aged thirty-two. A high flyer at Kellogg's where she worked as a training manager in the IT department. An upstanding member of the community, helping to raise money for various local projects through sponsored runs and the like. Also active in the local branch of the Conservative party. No familial or obvious social connections to the other two victims.'

The room was silent for a few moments before McCloughlin continued. 'Jon — you've had a fairly good look around two of the victims' flats. Go and view the crime scene video from Heather Rayne's property and check the white boards. See if any angles show up.'

Taking that as his cue to get going, Jon replied, 'Yes sir,' and went to find the video room. Other officers had obviously been watching the tapes late into the night — a full ashtray and a box of matches had been left on the corner table. Opening the window slightly, Jon looked hungrily at a half-smoked cigarette. Rothman's. His favourite brand before giving up. He loaded the tape marked with Heather Rayne's name into the cassette recorder.

The footage opened on a leafy street, the sound of starlings arguing in the background. The video panned towards the victim's property, the picture moving across a fir tree in the front garden, the edge of a Jaguar coming into the other side of the screen as the officer started walking up the short path leading to the front door. A hand extended into the frame and pushed the front door open. The picture dimmed out and then objects slowly took shape. As the camera made a slow sweep of the hallway area, something began nagging at the back of Jon's mind.

He rewound the tape, unsure of what he was looking for. The footage started again, birds twittering, fir tree, edge of the Jaguar, front path, door. Glancing at the ashtray, he jabbed the pause button, unable to quite work out what had caught his attention. It was as frustrating as having a word on the tip of his tongue. He rewound the tape again. Still it wouldn't come. Angrily he reached over and lifted the half-smoked Rothman's out of the ashtray. He sniffed the charred end, aware that most of the tar, nicotine and various poisons would be concentrated in the cigarette's last third. Hating himself, he lit it up and took a deep drag. As the harsh smoke started his brain dancing, he thought back to the first victim, Polly Mather. He remembered the Subaru Impreza belonging to the neighbour jutting across on to Polly's half of the shared drive. He remembered that a Lexus was usually parked in the third victim's backyard, near to Mary Walters' door. Staring at the TV, he saw the front corner of the Jaguar intruding into the screen. Pulling another lungful of smoke from the cigarette, he stubbed it out and got up. Feeling like he was walking on cotton wool, he entered the main incident room and went over to the allocator. 'Charlie, can you tell me who's compiling the vehicle index for Heather Rayne?'

The officer checked on his computer. 'Sergeant N Darcourt — over there.' He pointed to a bald man with the frame of an overweight bulldog, hunched over a PC.

Jon walked over. 'Nobby, how's it going? You still playing scrum half for Wilmslow?'

The man looked up, one cauliflower ear sprouting from the side of his skull. 'Prop nowadays, mate. Don't know why,' he joked, sitting back and patting his paunch. 'And yourself?'

'Still open side flanker for Cheadle Ironsides. When I get the chance.'

The man gave an understanding grimace. 'What can I do you for?'

Jon sat down on the edge of his desk. 'Just a quick question about Heather Rayne if you have a second.'

'Fire away.'

'Has the inventory been completed for all the vehicles on her street? I'm wondering about a Jag parked outside the front of her house. It shows up on the video footage.'

Sergeant Darcourt flicked through the form he had been filling out. 'No Jag registered to her — the Kellogg's training sessions she held usually took place in a hotel in the city centre. She'd go in on the train. Her registered vehicle is a Golf.' He then leafed through some other notes, 'Here you go. Jaguar XJ7. Registered to D Armstrong, number twenty-five Ivy Green Road. That's her neighbour.'

But Jon was already hurrying back to the video room. 'Cheers mate!' he called out over his shoulder.

Once back in his seat, he let the video roll again. The cameraman stepped into the flat, everything dark while the camera automatically readjusted to the drop in light. Next he turned right into the main room. It looked like an interior designer had been let loose on the place: huge terracotta pots with curly willow jutting out, recessed lighting and white curtains. The room was lit by several arc lamps that bathed the body in a harsh glare. Once again she was lying on her back, arms out to her sides, clothes slightly crumpled, the fringe of her raven hair messed up. But Jon had seen enough. All the victims so far lived in the immediate vicinity of someone who owned a high performance car.

He tried to think objectively, asking himself if his theory could have been unduly influenced by the fact that the case to occupy most of his time over the last few months was the theft of similar cars in the south Manchester area. His mind went back to the car chase in May. How he was almost close enough to smell the panic coming from the dark figure before he had jumped off the bridge and plunged into the black water below. There was no doubt that the bastard escaping him was a serious source of irritation. Biting his lip, he wondered whether to go out on a limb and air his theory to McCloughlin.

The man walked confidently up the short driveway. Glancing over the Mercedes SLK, he rang the doorbell and waited, the fingers of both hands curled round the handle of his briefcase.

The door opened and an elderly man holding a bottle of Guinness looked out. 'Yes?' he asked, taking in the suit and tie.

The caller looked confused. 'I'm sorry, I was looking for…'

'Liz?' the man interrupted. 'I didn't know she was expecting anyone else. Come in. Are you a friend?'

The person on the doorstep hesitated, clearly wrong-footed by the presence of the elderly man. 'No, it's all right.'

'Please,' he insisted. 'She's only popped out for two minutes. She'll be most annoyed if I tell her she had a caller who didn't stay on account of me.'

'You live here as well?'

'No no no,' the old man smiled. 'I'm her dad. She picks me up every other Saturday. She's seen the stuff they serve in the retirement home, so she treats me to a roast lunch every fortnight. She's just getting some parsnips now.'

The visitor had made up his mind and was backing off down the drive. 'Who should I say called?' asked the old man.

'No one,' said the man, retreating towards the road. 'I'll call another time.'

Reluctantly, the man shut the door, afraid his presence had somehow caused offence or — worse — scared off a potential suitor for his permanently single daughter.

Jon was sitting in the video room, resignedly finishing off another half-smoked cigarette. In the main room, he heard the office manager announce that everyone was to gather for a briefing in five minutes' time.

Work was put on hold and the enquiry team gathered in the open area at the top of the room. DCI McCloughlin emerged from his office, clutching a sheet of paper and accompanied by a thin man in wire-framed glasses. Feeling the gaze of so many people upon him, the man nervously pushed the glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

'OK people,' announced McCloughlin. 'The forensics lab at Chepstow have got back to us.'

Jon sat at the back of the listening crowd, feeling a pang of jealousy that, two days ago, the call would have been directed through to him.

'Toxicology analysis of all three victims' blood shows traces of the same drug. Problem is, it's one they've never come across before. The technician said two of them have spent “quite some time” analysing the ions on the mass spectrometer. God knows what that involves exactly but take it from me: it was expensive. All they can say is that the drug is acid-based and broadly similar in structural terms to gamma hydroxybutyrate. GHB or — as it's known in the clubs — GBH or liquid ecstasy.'

'A date rape drug,' someone muttered at the front.

'Yes,' confirmed McCloughlin. Looking back at the report, he continued to read, 'Colourless, odourless, can be easily made in home-based labs using solvents and caustic soda. Sold in either liquid or powder form, it's a powerful anaesthetic that can render someone unconscious in under twenty minutes. Initial effects are feelings of euphoria — hence the popularity amongst clubbers. But larger doses can lead to unconsciousness, convulsions and coma. When mixed with alcohol results can be fatal. Long-term use has been poorly researched, but studies show it leads to massive mood swings, paranoia and irritability. Can also lead to psychotic episodes, especially if the user has a prior history of mental illness.'

McCloughlin looked up. 'In other words the usual druggy shit: it all ends in tears. So from what I was told on the phone just now, what we appear to have is a very similar substance to GHB but with certain structures altered to produce — and I use the technician's words — massively enhanced biological activity. GHB is hard enough to detect in the bloodstream anyway, but the guy said this stuff showed up as just a shadow of a trace on the gas chromatograph. As you know, drugs affect different people in different ways, but he thinks in each case the amount ingested is minute — we're talking a tiny pinch.

'On the basis of that information and the post-mortems, what appears to be happening is this: our victims are being knocked out first — probably in minutes by this stuff — and then this white gunk is being injected down their throats. The gunk, as it turns out, is simple silicon gel. Several people have commented that its smell was familiar — that's because it's the stuff you use around windows, sinks and the like to make them watertight. Tubes of it can be bought in any DIY store nationwide.' He waited for the buzz of comments to die down. 'Now, I'd like to introduce Dr Neville Heath. He's a criminal psychologist and hopefully can shed some light on why the killer is choosing this particular modus operandi.' McCloughlin turned to the man and gestured towards the waiting room. 'It's all yours.'

With a nervous cough the man stepped forwards. 'Unlike the forensics laboratory technician, I'll try and keep my analysis simple.' Several officers laughed and, looking more confident, the doctor continued. 'Three victims, all relatively young females. None showing evidence of sexual assault, yet all subdued with a powerful derivative of a known date rape drug. Killed in a very particular manner and then laid out on the floor with their arms out at their sides. It all suggests considerable planning, the acting out of a long-held fantasy, perhaps. It's a confusing scenario and one that, I believe, results from one of two possible motivations.'

He paused and glanced around the room before continuing. 'Let's start with the sexual one. The first victim had been posing for glamour photographs and advertising her services in adult contact magazines. It is my opinion that this will turn out to be what links all three victims. The second victim had fetish clothing in her wardrobe. On the face of it, the third victim seems very unlikely to share this… hobby. Churchgoer, very religious, straight-laced. But don't let that fool you. Often these types have very surprising sides to them, just very well hidden. Take, for instance, this fact. To which part of Britain does the Post Office deliver the most mail order sex toys? The God-fearing, outer-lying Scottish islands. This may well be the result of there being no sex shops closer than Aberdeen. But it also reveals a side to the island's population you don't read about in any tourist literature.

'Now our perpetrator — and let's assume it's a man for probability's sake — obtains sexual gratification in a very unusual way. It not only excludes any willing, or even conscious, participation from the female — it also seems not to include any physical contact on his part. He's a watcher, an observer. And he probably doesn't like to be seen by anyone other than himself when seeking his own sexual gratification — hence he subdues his victims first.'

'Like that American guy, the heir to some cosmetics fortune. Wasn't he sent down for raping women he had drugged?' asked a female officer.

'You pre-empt me,' answered the doctor with a quick smile. 'Although that person did seek physical contact: he's currently serving out a one hundred and twenty year sentence having filmed himself having sex with his victims and even saying to camera, “That's exactly what I like in my room — a passed-out beautiful girl.” In contrast, our perpetrator doesn't actually touch his victims. But I do believe he's making films or photographs of them for later use.'

He paused again and took a sip from a glass of water on the table beside him. 'Therefore we're looking for someone with an interest in cameras or camcorders. When it comes to a property search, the first thing you should look for is some sort of darkroom facility if he's shooting on film, or a computer with the appropriate software if he's shooting on digital. I'd guess the images he's already taken have been made into some sort of display — perhaps on the walls or in albums. Somewhere readily accessible for when he needs to look at them. Another factor to bear in mind is how he's getting to his victim's houses. He's carrying photographic equipment. So at the least he has a briefcase or bag. Is he driving to the houses? Is he getting the train? All three victims lived within walking distance of train stations. Next thing to consider is why he's adopted this pattern of behaviour. My guess is that he's impotent.'

'So we start staking out all the clinics round town?' someone asked teasingly.

'Or people ordering Viagra?' asked another.

McCloughlin cut in, 'Our job is working out how to find this man. Dr Heath's here to give us pointers as to what to look for. Carry on, Doctor.'

The doctor continued a little more slowly. 'I'll produce a profile soon. But with most serial killers, a white middle-class male aged between twenty-five and fifty-five years are the usual parameters. I think he's likely to still have a close relationship with a significant female relative — probably his mother, but could be an aunt or grandmother. He may well live with her, and the relationship is likely to have become strained ever since he reached sexual maturity. This man craves his privacy after all.'

Jon noticed several officers discreetly roll their eyes at one another. He heard someone whisper, 'Well that narrows things down a bit.'

'Normally I'd be happy to just develop this profile,' the doctor continued. 'But there's one aspect to the killings that doesn't seem to fit with it. Why is he killing his victims by closing up their airways with silicon gel? Perhaps our man is trying to still his victims' tongues, or more accurately their voice boxes. It's a symbolic way of ensuring their silence. Again, this could be for a number of reasons — perhaps they have discovered something about him, or have already revealed to other people something about him. It appears all the victims felt comfortable enough with the attacker to let him into their house, so it's reasonable to expect some degree of familiarity. I know this hypothesis appears more tenuous. 'The authority was now ebbing slightly from his voice. 'I need more time to look at the information we have on the victims so far. But please bear it in mind during your investigations.'

Jon didn't know if it was the rush from the cigarette that made him do it, but he cleared his throat and stood up. 'I might have something that fits with your second theory.'

The doctor looked at Jon, who looked at McCloughlin, who gave him the nod. 'I've just noticed all the victims so far lived in the immediate vicinity of owners of high-performance cars. Victim one, Polly Mather, shared her driveway with her neighbour who owns a Subaru Impreza. Victim two, Heather Rayne, lived on a road with no off-road parking. Her neighbour had left his Jag directly in front of her house. Third victim, Mary Walters, shared the back yard of her building with a couple that own a Lexus. I hope I'm not letting the car gang case I've been working on cloud my judgement here, but take this scenario. The thief is casing out expensive cars and making the mistaken assumption that our victims are the owners — basically because the cars are parked directly outside the victims' properties. He's opening up their letterboxes and snagging what he thinks are the car keys. Problem is, they're not. So when he can't get the car open, he's using the keys to let himself into the house: and we end up with a dead body.'

The room was silent for a few seconds before someone asked, 'Why the bizarre way of killing them?'

'I don't know,' shrugged Jon. 'But it fits with this ensuring their silence business. They've seen him and he can't afford to leave any witnesses?'

'So the fact that he's only killed females so far,' said the female officer who had spoken earlier, 'that's just coincidence? If a flashy car is parked outside a bloke's house, he could be next?'

The room began murmuring as Jon replied, 'I suppose so. That drug will knock you out if you're male or female.'

'This spate of car thefts you've been investigating,' said McCloughlin. 'The method they're using relies on the cover of darkness I presume?'

Jon nodded.

McCloughlin frowned. 'Heather Rayne had lain undiscovered for a day in a centrally heated flat — time of death somewhere between five and ten in the morning the day before. The other two victims were discovered first thing in the morning. Could they have been killed at night? What are their estimated times of death?'

A couple of officers darted off to their desks. 'Polly Mather — early morning. Probably between six and nine.'

'She was found in her dressing gown,' added Jon.

The other officer spoke up. 'Mary Walters — same. Probably between six and nine. But she was fully clothed.' 'So,' Jon started, aware he was trying to make the facts fit as he went along, beginning to regret that he'd spoken out without fully considering his theory from all angles. 'Maybe he's going into the house during the last few minutes of darkness. It could explain the absence of any witnesses so far. Perhaps he's dressed Mary Walters and Heather Rayne afterwards — their clothes showed some signs of disturbance.'

From the high and low tones in everyone's voices, Jon could tell his hypothesis had provoked a mixture of excitement and doubt.

McCloughlin looked at him for a moment before addressing the room in general. 'I want that theory checked against all three victims so far. For a start let's see whether any keys are missing from their flats. See if you can disprove Jon's line of reasoning. Now, while we're at it, anyone else got any thoughts they'd like to air?'

The female officer who, earlier in the investigation, had wondered if Polly was planning to travel with anyone, said, 'Polly Mather was about to embark on a round-the-world trip — as far as we know, on her own. I've checked her property inventory and there's no sign of a passport, which seems strange. Is it worth checking to see if the other victims' passports are missing too?'

'With which line of enquiry in mind?' McCloughlin demanded.

'I don't know,' she shrugged. 'It was just a thought.'

He nodded at her. 'Go for it. Let me know what you find. What we have to establish is the link between our three victims — and there has to be one. So we'll be widening the circle of enquiry; in addition to friends and family, we'll be getting statements from all colleagues and other associates. I also want their exact movements over the last seven days mapped out — where they've been, how they got there, who they went with. I want everywhere they visited covered: shops, pubs, cinemas, even toilets. I can't emphasize how important more haste, less speed is on this one. Work quickly everyone, but with total concentration. We've got to find the thread that links them together before another body shows up. Oh and one other thing.' Self-consciously he began adjusting his tie. 'I'm doing a TV interview tonight, some details to stop the press piranhas going into a total frenzy. I'll use it to appeal for information from anyone who has had someone suspicious or unusual knock on their door, trying to gain entry to their house. It might throw up something interesting.' As the outside enquiry team queued up at the allocator's desk to receive their next action, Jon lingered at the white boards, staring at the photographs once again.

'Not bad, not bad at all.'

The voice took him by surprise and he was smiling before he'd turned his head. 'Hi, Nikki.' He looked down at her. 'You don't think I just made a total twat of myself?'

She didn't patronize him with a blank denial. 'OK, there were a few holes in your theory. But at least you're thinking around the problem. Who else had the balls to air any sort of a theory?'

'You mean who else was thick enough to spout off with a half-baked hunch? Still, what brings you to the incident room?'

She looked around. 'Central heating. Do you realize how crap my fan heater is at warming up that draughty bloody caravan they've given me?'

Jon grinned, feeling the familiar urge to give her a hug. 'So, apart from thawing out, what else are you up to?'

Nikki continued in a more businesslike tone. 'Actually, I'm just dropping off the plan-drawer's pictures. Then I'm back over to my office to look at getting the crime scene painted with ninhydrin.'

Jon knew that, although ninhydrin showed up fingerprints, it also destroyed more fragile forms of evidence. As a result, it was usually the very final stage in the forensic examination. 'Are we calling it a day, then?'

'Well, unless you've got any other particular tests in mind. But there's not much for us to go on. No blood splatters, no broken locks, windows or wrecked furniture that could have caught on clothing or scratched skin. In fact, the only promising thing we've removed are a few fibres from the upholstery. I'm talking to the other CSMs in the hope they might find more of the same in the property of the other victims.'

'What are they like? These fibres.'

'I'd say they were pure wool. A sort of pale green. Perhaps from a suit; it's hard to say.'

'Fair enough. Well, I'd better go over and see what my next task is. I'll see you around.'

'All right,' answered Nikki brightly. 'But remember, if you want a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, don't hang around. I'll not be in my caravan for much longer.'

*

DCI McCloughlin's interview was the lead story for Granada News and not far behind in the national bulletins. He gave the usual limited information about the three victims, then aired his concern that the killer, or killers, appeared to be gaining access to his victims' homes without any sign of a struggle.

'Therefore, I would like to hear from anyone who has had someone call at their house, probably first thing in the morning, with an unusual or unconvincing reason for doing so. Perhaps you've turned such a person away because they were unable to show you a proper ID card, or they were offering a product or service that seemed bogus. If you've had such a call we urge you to phone us immediately.'

In his daughter Liz's flat the old man sat directly in front of the TV screen, several empty bottles of Guinness now on the table beside the armchair. She was upstairs, completing some designs for a presentation on Monday morning. As DCI McCloughlin finished his appeal, holding the camera with an earnest gaze, Liz's father let out a slow, rasping snore.