WATCHING THE BODIES

GRAHAM SMITH

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

A Note from Bloodhound Books:

Do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire

Confucius

Copyright © 2017 Graham Smith

The right of Graham Smith to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

PRINT: 978-1-912175-15-4

1

When the woman gets within twenty yards of the body he’s dumped, the Watcher presses his body into the earth and raises his binoculars to his eyes.

She’s in her mid-fifties and accompanied by a Labrador puppy on a retractable leash. She’s relaxed, enjoying the walk and the time away from the stresses of work and family life.

Her face is familiar. After a moment’s thought he places her. The woman approaching the body is Mrs Halliburton, his former history teacher.

As she nears the body, his thoughts float back twenty years to a classroom full of bored children feigning interest in the Civil War. Details about the Confederates, the Union, and various characters like Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant are sketchy at best, yet he has total recall about the looks he shared with Jennifer Braidwood.

He brings his mind back to the present as he sees the puppy straining at its leash, tail between its legs. Its nose points at the body as clumsy paws scrabble for purchase on the pine needles littering the trail.

He sees the look on Mrs Halliburton’s face change. She’s spied the bare leg poking out of the bushes, just like he’d planned someone would when he laid the body there. He didn’t plan for her to be the one to find the body, but he did plan for it to be found.

The Watcher sees her cross herself and rein in the puppy. With it stationed at her heel, she takes short, tentative steps forward until she is at the bush. She lifts one foot and nudges the exposed calf with the toe of her hiking boots.

He waits for her to realise there won’t be a reaction. Every detail of her face is observed as she travels from concerned to afraid via a short detour to curious. He sees curiosity return.

A shaking hand reaches out and parts the thin branches of the cottonwood bush. He watches her eyes widen as she sees the damage wrought by his knife.

He imagines he can hear her gasp as she looks at the body. The mumbled words as she pats her pockets looking for her cell phone.

Leaving her to her discovery, he rises and slinks through the undergrowth, his ghillie suit casting debris with every step. Five minutes later he is at a new vantage point, deep in the depths of another cottonwood.

Mrs Halliburton comes down the trail, her feet moving with urgency. He watches as she unlocks a car and removes a cell from a bag.

With his notes made, he leaves before either the cops or dusk arrive.

2

The guy in the check shirt makes two mistakes in quick succession. First, he throws a punch at me. Second, he misses.

I coil forward from my ducking weave and introduce my forehead to his nose. The crunching thunk is more than a little satisfying.

Before he has time to gather his wits, I grab him by the wrist, bend his arm up his back and use his already shattered nose to open the door. Giving him just enough of a shove to propel him down the three steps without capsizing him, I turn, ready to deal with anyone else who wants to be a ten-beer hero.

Walking back into The Joshua Tree, I see three guys holding the one who’d picked the fight. They are having limited success in their efforts to calm him down.

I have to shout in his ear to make myself heard over the strains of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’. ‘I’ve tossed him out because he took a swing at me. You gonna make the same mistake?’

A shake of the head is all the answer I get. I don’t expect anything more. Tom Kerslake is a local man with an image to keep. Getting his ass handed to him in a public place won’t be high on his wish list.

I’d been expecting the fight to happen from the moment he’d walked in. A serial cheat himself, he’d been overly aggrieved when his wife indulged in a spot of revenge sex with the oil worker I’ve just ejected.

Seeing the fight drain out of him, I give a curt nod and retake my position by the bar. From here I can see the whole room and observe everything that’s going on.

As its name suggests, The Joshua Tree is a rock bar, where even the music has to be twenty-one or older to get in. Frequented by bikers, rockers, and horny women hoping for a bad boy to take home, it is the most profitable bar in Casperton.

Serving homemade pastrami burgers with a chilli-based fry sauce as a speciality means the Tree, as it is known locally, also turns a steady dime throughout the days.

I toss drunks every Friday and Saturday night. The extra bucks are always useful and the infrequent scuffles keep my appetite for violence satisfied.

The MacDonald blood in my veins has a long history of warfare and when it boils hot, I find myself spoiling for a fight.

Before my mother had remarried and moved us from Glasgow to Utah, my maternal grandfather had taught me how to fight. Not boxing or any kind of martial art. Real everyday fighting. Down and dirty street fighting with fists, elbows and any other part of the body which could be used to inflict pain upon another human being.

Grandpa’s teachings served me well. My burring Scottish accent got me into plenty of schoolyard fights back in the day. For some reason the local jocks took exception to a cocksure fourteen-year-old landing in their midst and winning the attention of almost every cheerleader.

The fact I won enough battles to establish myself as handy didn’t help matters any. They just decided to come at me in a group. I put a few of them down before they put me in the emergency room. One by one I dealt with them, until all had received enough of a beating to keep them off my back.

‘Hey, Jake, you heard about Kira Niemeyer?’ The question comes from Alfonse Devereaux, whose family had migrated from France to Casperton to work the oilfields around the same time I arrived. Short and puny by nature, his bookish personality had attracted school bullies the way Capitol Hill attracts liars. His black skin hadn’t helped either.

I’d taken him under my protective wing and we’ve been the best of friends ever since.

‘No. Why, what’s she done?’ Kira Niemeyer is one of the local party girls who lives life to the full.

‘It’s what’s been done to her. Her body was found up by Kangle’s Bluff. I’ve just had a call from her father. He wants me to look into her death.’ The concern written on his face isn’t just there because he’s never investigated a murder before.

We’ve both known Kira the way single men know single girls.

‘Isn’t it a police matter?’ Alfonse’s detection skills are used to track errant husbands and embezzled money. I help him with the odd stakeout and provide some muscle as required, but the idea of trying to catch a killer is both exhilarating and unnerving.

Alfonse’s raised eyebrow is enough of an answer. The Casperton Police Department has the mayor’s son and a bunch of his crones as its detectives. Ineffectual and incompetent are two words that spring to mind when thinking about them. The chief of police is a new guy who’s transferred across from somewhere in Idaho, but the detectives on the ground have the investigative skills of a half brick.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I said I’d need to speak to my partner.’

Partner is stretching it, but I’m his go-to person for advice and my work for him has steadily increased over the last year or two.

‘We’ve no experience at investigating murders. We’ll be little better than the cops and that’s saying something.’

‘It’s homicide, not murder. Do I take the case or do we pass?’

He never fails to call me on my habit of still using British terms like murder. As with most ex-pats, not only have I retained my accent – it has grown stronger, as has my fondness for the old country.

If we take the case, we’ll not only be up against a killer, we’ll also have to follow in the footsteps of the most useless police force since the Keystone Kops. They’ll have forensic information and coroners giving them aid. We’ll have Google.

Tossing drunks out of a bar is one thing. Going after a killer is another.

On the other hand, the killer is almost certain to get away with murder if we don’t take the case.

‘Have you talked money yet?’

A nod. Three fingers were raised, meaning Niemeyer has offered treble our usual rate.

The money is good, but it needs to be. Catching killers is work for police detectives who carry guns, not investigators who carry an iPad.

‘Call him and take the job.’ I look at my watch. The Tree is due to close in an hour. ‘You go see Niemeyer, I’ll start asking questions round here.’

I scan the crowd with a practised eye to make sure no more trouble is brewing, then go over to talk to some people I knew hung with Kira.

3

Casperton’s police department is located on Main Street, just opposite the dime store. The red brick and clapboard building is half lit up but as expected there is a light on in the chief’s office.

I park in one of the spaces reserved for detectives, lock my ’93 Mustang and go inside.

An overweight sergeant behind the desk greets me with a scowl. My lack of popularity with the police is due to me tossing three detectives and a patrolman from the Tree last week. The fact they’d deserved it seems to have bypassed the rest of the department.

‘I’m here to see the chief.’

The sergeant doesn’t bother to take his feet off the desk. ‘He’s busy.’

‘Then I’ll be quick.’ Not waiting for an answer I stride along the corridor and knock on the chief’s door.

When he opens the door, I see a man carrying more than his own bodyweight of stress and tension. His eyes are full of intelligence, but the furrows beneath his iron-grey hair tell of his mood.

‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

‘I’m Jake Boulder and I want to talk to you about Kira Niemeyer’s murder.’

His eyes may narrow but his hand comes out when he introduces himself. ‘Chief Watson.’

I take the chair he points to and wait for him to take his own seat. As I look round the room I’m pleased at the lack of a trophy wall. Chief Watson isn’t trying to impress anyone with his history. Instead he’s more concerned with his job. I’ll bet good money the frame on his desk holds a picture of his wife and kids.

With steepled fingers he appraises me. ‘I take it you’re not here to make a confession’

‘You know who I am, right?’

‘Yeah. You’re the guy who made a fool of some of my men.’

‘They didn’t need me to make a fool of them. I just stopped them before someone got hurt.’

His eyes narrow as he assesses me. I sense his conflict between showing loyalty to his men and the fact he knows they don’t merit any.

I hold up a hand. ‘Cards on the table?’

He gives a short nod. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of me and I’m sure that in the four weeks since you arrived in Casperton, you’ve realised your detectives are a shower of useless idiots who only have a job because Lieutenant Farrage is the mayor’s son.’

His face gives nothing away. But the way he settles back into his chair tells me I’m on the money.

‘Nobody in Casperton has any faith in the police detectives. That’s why Alfonse has such a good business.’

‘I’m aware of AD Investigations.’ His tone is soft but there’s steel in his voice.

‘Kira Niemeyer’s father has hired us to look into her death.’

Once again his face reveals nothing. I’ll have to remember not to play cards with this guy.

‘And? You’re here to get my blessing?’

‘No. Your help.’

A wry smile touches his lips. ‘How am I supposed to help you and why would I?’

‘The police have all the resources and information. Unfortunately, you’re probably the only man in the Casperton PD who knows how to use them. If you’re taking the case on yourself, we’ll call Niemeyer and take a step back. If you’re not, we’re your best chance of putting handcuffs on the killer.’ I make a humble gesture. ‘All I’m asking is you share forensic evidence and any other interesting news with us. In return we’ll share anything we find. If we solve the case first, we’ll call you to come and make the arrest.’

I let Chief Watson mull for as long as he needs. I’ve made my pitch and now the ball is in his court.

After a full five minutes he reaches a decision. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is leading the investigation. I cannot go behind his back to give you information. However, I will tell the coroner and other forensic specialists to answer your questions. I’ll also tell my staff not to obstruct you.’

‘Thank you.’ I hadn’t anticipated any more help and my visit is more about courtesy than expectations.

‘Let’s be clear about one thing, Boulder. If I hear of you running your mouth about how I’m helping your investigation, all deals are off. I’ll personally make you and your buddy’s life a misery. His licence will be revoked and you’ll both be prosecuted for every minor transgression imaginable, including jaywalking and littering.’

‘Don’t worry, Chief. We have no intention of blabbing about your help. All we want to do is help catch a killer.’

4

Alfonse hands me a mug of coffee and opens himself a beer. I’m not a regular drinker as when I do drink, I tend to drink way more than I should. The last time I had a drink, I lost three days and wound up in a Salt Lake motel with no clothes and an empty wallet.

‘I can’t believe you went to see the chief of police.’

‘Had to be done. Our paths would’ve crossed at some point and by going to see him on his turf, I showed him respect.’

Alfonse nods as he digests my words. By giving the chief a visit I’ve removed any possible animosity he may have felt when he heard we’d been hired by Niemeyer. Instead of our presence being a shock, it will now be expected. Instead of confrontation there will be grudging acceptance.

‘Never mind that. What did you learn from the Niemeyers?’

‘Nothing much if I’m honest. Kira lived by herself and wasn’t the greatest for keeping in touch with her family. They never knew she was missing, let alone murdered. If one of the detectives hadn’t recognised her, she’d have been labelled as a Jane Doe.’ He points to his laptop. ‘I’ve cloned the hard drive from both her cell and iPad.’

I nod. I’d had the same information from the girls in the Tree. Kira was a girl who’d hang out and party with friends for a few days and then drop out for days at a time. Sometimes she’d keep a low profile for weeks before reappearing as if she’d never been away.

Alfonse shared the details of her life that he’d got from her family and we made a plan of action for the next day.

I read his notes and add my own to them as he starts to dig around in her iPad.

Her father had made a fortune building a pipeline for the oilfields and gave her an allowance that made my eyes water.

She had three credit cards in her name and drove a mid-range Mercedes provided by her father.

Remembering my own dalliances with her, I recall how she’d treated life as a game. There to be played either solo or as part of a team.

Perhaps she had commitment issues or hadn’t yet fallen for anyone, but the more I think about it, the more I realise her relationships had never lasted more than a month or two at most.

My own relationship with her was one of convenience and a sating of animal needs. Twice, maybe thrice a year she’d call asking if I was seeing anyone. If I wasn’t she’d arrive with a bottle of wine and no underwear. She’d be gone by midnight leaving an empty wine bottle and a smile on my face.

I’d seen her around town and she’d been in the Tree once or twice, but she’d seemed to be distancing herself from her old friends.

The girls I’d spoken with earlier had hinted they weren’t as close as they once were, without saying anything definite.

We are now relying on Alfonse’s technical skills to get us a break or a window into Kira’s life. Given time he’ll get her phone records, credit card and bank statements. For the meantime, he is delving into the information cloned from her iPad.

After finishing my coffee, I put on my jacket. ‘I’m gonna go look over her place. See what I can find out.’

Alfonse looks up from his laptop. ‘At this time of night? It’s nearly three o’clock.’

‘Absolutely. Farrage and his buddies’ll be sniffing about there tomorrow and I’d rather see it before they go around disturbing everything. I’ll check it out tonight and see you in the morning. About nineish.’

5

Armed with Kira’s address and keys, I navigate my way to Constitution Avenue and pull up beside the kerb. The house is a good one, in a decent neighbourhood. The kind of house a family will call a home.

All the elements are there. White picket fence, double garage, manicured lawn and floral curtains peeping round the edges of the windows.

It doesn’t seem to fit with her free-spirited lifestyle, but then again it may have been a perfect retreat for her when she wasn’t partying around town.

On the other hand, it may have been her father who chose the house; undoubtedly it will have been his money that paid for it.

I pull on a pair of gloves before opening the front door and listening for the tell-tale beep of an alarm. I hear nothing. Either Kira or her killer hadn’t set it when leaving the house.

I take a slow walk from room to room looking for signs of a struggle or a fight. Or the place where Kira had been murdered. Both Alfonse and I are sure she’d been dumped on Kangle’s Bluff after being killed elsewhere.

Each room is a picture of domestic normality. Magazines adorn the coffee table in the lounge. A vase of flowers and a bowl of fruit sit in the middle of the kitchen table and each of the bedrooms is made up ready for use. Nothing I find gives me information until I open the door to the basement.

I go down the stairs with my nostrils twitching at the smoky aroma of extinguished candles mixed with the strong pheromones released during sex.

My jaw and fists clench as I descend the narrow stairs. Whatever I find down here isn’t going to be good.

When I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the sight that awaits me doesn’t meet any of my expectations.

The basement is filled with restraints, sex swings and many other devices used by people engaging in bondage games. A table bears a selection of whips and paddles. An open closet in one corner holds a variety of leather, PVC and rubber costumes.

I peer at the whips and paddles looking for traces of blood, but none are evident. A proper forensic examination may find some but there’s nothing visible to the naked eye. I repeat the process with the various restraints and toys in the room but find nothing that points to Kira being killed in a sex game.

I take numerous photos with my cell before going back upstairs. Nothing on the lower floor tells me why the basement is kitted out as a bondage dungeon, so I move back to the first floor.

First I try the master bedroom. I look at the clothes in the closet and the drawers. Again, nothing catches my eye as out of place or unusual.

When I check out the closets in a spare bedroom, I find a whole different set of clothes. These aren’t the kind of clothes most women would have in their house. Perhaps one or two of the dresses or skirts but not as many as this.

I take photos of a number of items in each closet and the drawers before moving on to the third bedroom, only to find its closets bare.

My finishing point is the bathroom. I examine the medicine chest and discover only non-prescription painkillers and feminine paraphernalia including the contraceptive pill.

With my search complete, I leave and head back to my apartment while trying to make sense of my findings. The message I send to Alfonse receives no reply.

6

He can’t sleep with the excitement from earlier still coursing through his veins. Mrs Halliburton being the one to find Kira Niemeyer has added a new layer to his project. A layer which adds familiarity.

Since observing her presence at Kangle’s Bluff, strong memories of her lessons have returned after all these years. He remembers the classes more than the tuition for she was a soft teacher. One who preferred to use inspiration rather than discipline or fear as a motivator for teenage minds distracted by the effects of puberty.

As he pads through his home, the Watcher can picture the layout of her classroom just as it was all those years ago. He can even identify who sat in which seat.

With one exception. There was one kid he never got along with. She didn’t deserve his attention. She didn’t deserve attention from anyone.

In his mind’s eye he can see the girl, all hundred and eighty pounds of her. That girl waddled her way through high school lonelier than a desert cactus. Sure, there may have been bigger girls at the school, but they didn’t have the acne, lank hair and suck-up attitude she had. They had fun personalities and more to do with their lives than hang on a teacher’s every word.

It’s just a shame the girl doesn’t fit his pattern. He could have some fun with her.

The pattern is everything though. Having studied many serial killers, he’s never encountered a selection process so simple yet so beautiful.

He wonders if anyone will connect the pattern before he is forced to stop. Or caught. Something deep within him hopes the selection process is worked out. That people learn of his methods while he’s still active.

The challenges presented by such knowledge will make the project even more interesting. He wants his name to go down in history with the greats. Ted Bundy. Jeffery Dahmer. Eileen Wuornos. John Wayne Gacy.

All he has to do is stay alive and free long enough to reach thirty plus victims and he’ll be immortalised.

He walks into the den, boots up his computer and begins to apply the pattern to today’s breakthrough.

Mrs Halliburton isn’t engaged in social media, so he switches to the electoral register and other government sites, which contain endless streams of data about people.

It is there he mines the first nuggets. The primary information needed to carry out the next mission.

After three hours of staring at the screen, tiredness threatens to overwhelm him. Lifting his wife’s picture from the desk he kisses it and tries not to think of what she’d say about the pattern. All those years spent away from her as he toured the world with the Marines now seem wasted. Three years after mustering out she was nothing but memories and worm food.

The essence of his life stolen by an incompetent nurse who used a dirty needle. A needle that held a three-letter virus.

He’d been away at the time. In Afghanistan.

Melanie had undergone a routine procedure to remove a polyp and came out with a death sentence.

Unknowing of the nurse’s stupidity and carelessness they’d lived their lives separately while planning for a future together. A future now denied.

When Melanie had failed to get pregnant they’d looked into IVF. Both had a range of tests. Both had passed every test except the one where a positive result was actually a fail.

A week after Melanie’s funeral he flew to Denver and bought a crummy second-hand pickup. He paid cash and gave the seller a false name. A half day’s effort in the privacy of his garage saw all identifying marks and numbers removed and false plates added.

Three nights later he used the pickup to force the nurse’s car off the road. When the car left the road it rolled down Hilker’s Gulch until it rested on its roof in Marton Creek. There’d been rain. The creek had been in flood, its waters swollen enough to engulf the Chevy.

He’d fled after torching the pickup in the woods.

Three days he’d waited and watched until the waters of Marton Creek shrank and the car was spotted. He saw the person who discovered the car and the pattern was conceived.

He later found out the nurse wasn’t in the car. Her husband had been driving it that night. Watching her grief as she struggled to cope with the loss of her husband was intoxicating.

The ironic symmetry between the nurse’s actions and his own wasn’t lost on him. All things considered, he was now pleased it had been the husband driving that night. Better than killing her, he’d given her years of suffering.

7

I knock on Alfonse’s door with mounting impatience. Just because I am a half hour early doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be ready to let me in. Given the first chance I get, I plan to steal his keys and get myself copies.

When he finally deigns to open the door, he is wrapped in a towel, his hair still wet from the shower.

‘I only got out of the shower because I know you’re enough of an asshole to keep banging on the door until it either breaks or gets answered.’ It’s fair to say Alfonse is not a morning person. ‘Why do you always have to be early?’

I step inside, careful not to slip on one of the wet footprints he’s leaving on the polished floor. ‘Didn’t you get the text I sent last night?’

‘Did I answer it?’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if you had.’

‘Question asked. Question answered.’

I leave Alfonse to get dressed and put my notebook on his kitchen table while I brew some coffee and look for his notes. I don’t find any, which is odd. Of the two of us he is the bigger note taker. Either he’s struck out or hidden his so he can gauge my reaction to his discoveries.

Within five minutes he is sitting opposite me, dressed in his usual attire of combat shorts and polo shirt.

I give him coffee and enough time to read my text then raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Wow! I never saw that coming but it explains a lot.’

‘It does?’

‘Yeah. I ran into a complete brick wall with her iPad and cell last night.’ Defeat shows on his face. I know he’s never before failed to get answers from a digital source, so I soften my expression. ‘She was on Twitter, but rarely used it. Her Facebook account has all the usual selfies and party photos along with mind-numbing posts about what she was having for dinner, where she was having her nails done, and a thousand other waste-of-bytes-worth of drivel.’

‘Anything about a man in her life?’

‘Nada.’ Unlike me, Alfonse fully embraces the American language and its slang forms.

‘Emails? Bank accounts? Apps?’

‘Looked at them all. Nothing untoward or underhand in any of them. Just normal everyday stuff for a girl living off Daddy’s dime.’ He takes a healthy slug of his coffee and grimaces. ‘Her monthly allowance from Daddy would keep you and I for a year, but she didn’t squander it. From what I could gather, she was spending a quarter of it, giving a quarter to some charities and saving the other half.’

‘What about her most recent credit card transactions?’

Alfonse hands me a printout of Kira’s bank and credit card statements. ‘The last ten entries are small beer. Groceries, hair salons and so on. A couple of meals out. Nowhere fancy, the kind of places we take dates.’

‘Were the transactions all here or elsewhere?’

‘Most were local, but there were a couple of things bought online from Amazon and other retailers.’

I stop questioning him while I think about what he’s told me so far. Kira Niemeyer had a privileged life, yet she only spent a quarter of the money she received on herself. That in itself was odd.

There were a number of girls in her position living in Casperton and they all spent money as if it were the last day of the sales. The clothes I’d found in Kira’s master bedroom had all been good quality with decent labels, but looking at her bank statements, I see she could have afforded better.

Yet the clothes in the other bedroom ranged from cheap to top dollar fashion. Some could be bought in a thrift store while others bore the fanciest of labels.

‘You see where her credit card was last used?’

Alfonse nods. ‘Of course.’

‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘I don’t know. Seems too simple to me. Everyone knows what a pervert he is, but I don’t know if he’s capable of killing someone.’

‘Those were my initial thoughts too, but all the same we’d better check him out.’

Alfonse is looking at me in a way that indicates he has more to say so I give him a nod.

‘She has secrets, Jake. She’s been doing something she’s determined to keep hidden. When I checked the files for her search history there were numerous occasions where I think she’s went InPrivate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘With most operating systems there’s a way of going online without leaving an obvious trail on your computer or tablet. Husbands use it for looking at porn or emailing their mistresses without their wives being able to find out.’ He drains his coffee with a noisy slurp. ‘I went onto a hacker’s forum last night and tried to find out if there’s a way to get the data.’

‘And?’ I try to keep the impatience from my voice, but if his sour expression is anything to go by I’ve failed.

‘I was pointed to a program which I downloaded. It’s probing at her iPad now. When I looked before getting into the shower, it still had three hours to run.’

‘C’mon. Let’s go and speak with him now. If we’re in luck we’ll beat Farrage and his buddies.’ I reach for my jacket as I rise to my feet. ‘I’ll tell you more about what I found at Kira’s house on the way.’

8

I pull the Mustang into the yard adjacent to Casperton Auto Repairs and we go looking for Lunk.

The last use of Kira’s credit card had been here.

Alfonse leads the way into the garage. Lunk’s feet poke out from underneath an SUV.

I give his boot a gentle kick and wait until he slides out.

‘We need to talk to you.’

He doesn’t bother getting to his feet, he just lies on his back like an oil-soaked slug. Every inch of his overalls is a dull black where oil, grease and dirt have been ground in over countless months and years. The T-shirt underneath the overalls has the same disgusting patina. The unruly curls of hair sprouting from underneath his cap don’t look any cleaner, while his beard resembles second-hand steel wool.

‘Go talk somewhere else, Boulder. This is an auto repair place not a coffee shop.’

‘Get up, Lunk.’ I let a little menace creep into my voice as we don’t have time for his posturing. ‘This is a conversation you’re going to want to have.’

‘Whaddaya mean?’

‘You heard about Kira Niemeyer, right?’

He gives a slight nod before a lascivious look fills his eyes. ‘I have. Shame, she was a pretty little thing. A real animal in the sack.’

I shake my head at his bull. There’s no way Kira would have let this grease monkey lay a finger on her. ‘Really? AD Investigations has been hired to look into her death.’

I let Lunk bluster until he runs out of steam.

‘That’ll interest Lieutenant Farrage and his detective buddies, because sooner or later they’ll get around to checking her credit card statement. We’ve already had a look. Can you have a guess as to where she made her last payment?’

It doesn’t take him long to make the obvious connection. He’s unhygienic, not stupid. As soon as realisation strikes, his whole demeanour shifts.

Fear shrouds his eyes while his shoulders droop. Watching his face, I can almost see the cogs whirring as he works out he might just end up as chief suspect when the police roll up.

For all his lecherous behaviour and bull he is no fool.

‘When was she killed?’

‘We haven’t spoken to the coroner yet but she was found yesterday evening.’ I shrug. ‘He’ll need to establish a time of death and we’ll need to check people’s whereabouts. As will Lieutenant Farrage.’

The wrinkles on his brow deepen. His hands shake as he spreads them wide. ‘I’ve been working my usual hours. You know how late I usually work, Jake. You can vouch for me, can’t you?’

I do know how late he works. His garage is across the street from the Tree and I often see his lights still on when I leave at the end of a night.

That doesn’t mean I can guarantee he is innocent. But it does mean I can stand as a character witness and state with hand on heart that Lunk can often be found working long after midnight.

It also means I can testify he is a night owl, who is often awake when the night is at its darkest. Perhaps he’ll be safer if he keeps me out of it. If asked in a courtroom about Lunk’s character, my honest answer would do his defence far more harm than good.

He hasn’t been allowed into the Tree since the time he left oil stains on a stool and grubby fingerprints on a barmaid’s ass. This doesn’t stop him hanging around outside so he can ogle the girls and try his sexist lines on them.

I can understand his fear. With no one at home to verify his movements he’ll have no alibi other than being seen to be working. Somewhere deep in his brain he must realise nobody believes a word he says and at best, the girls all think of him as a creep.

We throw questions at him for a while but get nothing incriminating or exonerating. He has no alibi, but then again, he doesn’t seem to have a reason to kill her.

Sure, Kira may have rebuffed his advances with a withering put-down, but I’ve seen him take enough verbal batterings from potential conquests to know he has skin thicker than a rhinoceros.

It all boils down to what the coroner has found. If Kira had been sexually assaulted before she was murdered, Lunk will have a tough time ahead of him.

As we prepare to leave, an unmarked sedan comes to a screeching halt inches from the SUV Lunk has been working on.

The sedan’s doors fly open, disgorging Lieutenant Farrage and one of his detective buddies.

Farrage grabs Lunk, spins him round and slams him face first against the SUV. Handcuffs are snapped onto Lunk’s wrists and a breathless Farrage begins to read him his rights.

‘You got a warrant for his arrest?’

I keep my tone mild, but Farrage is too keyed up to be sensible. Like the imbecile he is, he’d have seen Kira’s spending history and put two and two together. The problem is, he’s not capable of making four. He’d be lucky to make five or three.

‘Butt out, Boulder. This isn’t your business.’

Farrage squares up to me. All posture and no substance, he knows I can kick his ass, but won’t because of the badge on his belt.

At least that’s what he thinks. I know he’ll only push me so far before I snap and hit him. Today wouldn’t be that day though; his incompetence is more amusing than annoying.

Waving a hand in front of my nose as if his breath stinks, I turn to Alfonse. ‘You’re a licensed private detective aren’t you, Mr Devereaux? Did that look like a legally made arrest to you?’

‘Not for a minute. Lieutenant Farrage assaulted the suspect before ascertaining his identity. Then he arrested him without a warrant. A half-drunk law student could get this case thrown out long before it gets anywhere near a courtroom.’

Farrage’s body tenses at Alfonse’s criticism of his professional behaviour. I can see his hands have balled into fists and hope he’ll be stupid enough to throw a punch at Alfonse. That will give me all the justification I need.

However, I recognise the need to calm things down rather than escalate them, so I take a couple of steps to my left, positioning myself at Alfonse’s shoulder.

Getting the message loud and clear, Farrage turns and barks an order at his subordinate. The man possesses enough sense not to get embroiled in the situation and releases Lunk then returns to the car. His silence throughout the exchange is more damning than anything Alfonse or I can say.

Alfonse isn’t finished with Farrage though. ‘I trust you know you have to have your suspect’s name on the warrant when you come to arrest him.’

The scowl from Farrage is a thing of beauty insofar as a twisted expression of hate can be.

It’s a masterful move by Alfonse as Lunk is no more than a nickname, but I’ve never heard of anyone who knows Lunk’s real name. Known only by the nickname, his given name has been lost in the sands of time.

‘Thanks, guys.’ Lunk massages his wrists as he walks us back to the Mustang.

‘If I was you, I’d call my lawyer. It’s only a matter of time before Farrage returns with a warrant.’

9

Our next point of call is the Coroner’s Office. As we drive across town, Alfonse gives me his opinion of Farrage for what must be the hundredth time. Repetition doesn’t make his assessment any kinder.

The Coroner’s Office is located at the east end of town, a half block from the hospital on Route 40. A modern building with a glass and aluminium siding frontage, there is a small car park at the front for grieving relatives and a discreet back entrance for undertakers, ambulances and the coroner’s vans.

We enter the front entrance and speak to the receptionist. Her calm manner and relaxed nature will make her perfect for dealing with distraught families.

‘Doctor Green told me to expect you.’ Her left arm points along a white corridor. ‘Her office is around the corner and second on the left.’

Walking towards the doctor’s office, I marvel at the lack of antiseptic smells. I’d expected to get whiffs of formaldehyde and the strong chemicals used for cleaning; instead I’m getting lavender. Whoever designed the building must have made a deliberate effort to consider the sensibilities of the bereaved.

I knock on the doctor’s door as a technician in scrubs exits from a door encased with rubber seals. A waft of the missing smells emanates from the man until the scented air conditioning regains mastery.

When the door opens I have a split second to get the surprise off my face. Judging by the wide smile on Doctor Emily Green’s face, I’m not sure it’s long enough.

‘Hi, Jake, Alfonse.’

Emily is a regular at the Tree and, although I know she is a doctor, I hadn’t bothered paying enough attention to find out specific details. Alfonse and I had double dated once or twice with her and a friend, but, distracted by my own date, I had done little more than make small talk with her. If memory serves me right, he split with her because she became too clingy.

Hearing Alfonse’s laugh behind me, I know he’s set me up. It is the kind of childish thing we do to each other on a regular basis. Neither of us are looking for a big advantage or prolonged humiliation. Just another mark on the endless scorecard good friends keep.

I hold my hands up in supplication and let them have their moment. Alfonse somehow manages to maintain a friendly relationship with his exes, whereas I either crash and burn or never let them get close enough to be hurt.

‘I got a call from Chief Watson this morning. He told me I’ve to answer your questions.’

At work she is brisk and businesslike, the inane chatter replaced with clipped sentences arrowing to the points she wants to make.

‘That’s nice of him.’ I mean it too. Chief Watson could have paid lip service then ignored me. Instead he’s kept his word and opened up some of the investigation streams. ‘Have you performed Kira Niemeyer’s autopsy yet?’

‘I finished up a half hour ago.’

‘What did you find?’

‘She had seventy-three different knife wounds on her body. All concentrated on her chest and abdomen.’

‘Jesus.’ From the corner of my eye I can see Alfonse crossing himself.

‘How many of them were deep enough to be fatal?’

‘Just one. Whoever killed her pierced her heart to deliver the coup-de-grâce after slashing at her like a madman.’

Alfonse takes over the questioning while I consider the news Emily has just given us.

‘Are you sure the fatal wound occurred last?’

‘Positive.’ Her tone is filled with professional confidence. ‘Although her other wounds would have caused her to bleed to death if left untreated.’

‘Have you any thoughts on the knife used?’

‘The edges of the incisions were rough so my best guess would be the knife used was a typical domestic knife with slight serrations along the cutting edge.’

‘Can you tell if the killer was left or right handed?’

‘Right handed.’ She answers without hesitation, confident in her assessment.

‘What about any sexual activity? Had she been raped or molested?’

Emily consults her notes. ‘There were recent signs of vigorous intercourse although it appears to have taken place two or three days prior to her death.’

Thinking about Kira’s dungeon, I hesitate before asking my next question. ‘Did she have any other marks on her?’

Emily gives me a funny look. ‘She had what looked to be slight rope burns on her ankles and wrists. Just like the vaginal and anal bruising, the marks appeared to be days older than the attack.’

She doesn’t offer anything else. She is following the chief’s dictate to answer our questions without offering anything more.

‘What else should we be asking you?’ Alfonse’s question brings a smile to her face. He’s realised the politics involved and has found a way to get past them which won’t cause her problems.

‘If I was you, I’d be looking at where she died.’

‘Did you examine her where she was found?’

A nod.

‘In your professional opinion, was that where she was killed?’

A shake.

‘So what you’re not saying is that she was killed elsewhere and dumped there.’

‘Exactly.’

Alfonse jumps in again. ‘Is there anything else we should be asking you?’

‘You’ve covered the main points. But there is one thing.’ A thousand-watt smile beams towards Alfonse.

He doesn’t get it, so I get my revenge for his earlier prank sooner than expected. ‘Alfonse was wondering on the way over here if you’re still single. If you are, he said he was going to ask you out to dinner.’ I look at Alfonse who is trying to tell his face to behave. ‘Weren’t you?’

Et tu, Brute.

He nods.

‘Great.’ She hands him a card. ‘I’m free tonight.’

10

After dropping Alfonse at his house to check if the software has finished its task, I go on to my apartment and change into running clothes.

I do my best thinking while running and right now I have a lot of thinking to do. There is so much of Kira’s life that has been kept secret from the world.

After doing a few stretches I set off at a brisk pace, keeping my breathing steady as I wait for the burn to kick in.

The S&M dungeon doesn’t correspond with my memories of her. Whenever we’d hooked up she’d been neither dominant nor submissive. Just normal.

There’d been no suggestion of anything kinky, just two friends bumping uglies to fill a void or sate a need.

The clothes in her spare room are also way out of character. Kira might make a booty call with no underwear, but she wasn’t the kind of girl who flaunted herself around town in micro skirts and low-cut tops. The majority of the clothes in that particular closet were, at best, slutty. At worst, they were the clothes of a cheap hooker.

The exceptions were some very classy dresses bearing expensive tags. Even so, they were a lot more revealing than the bohemian clothes Kira usually wore.

Also present were a selection of sex costumes. The lingerie in the drawers followed the same pattern, either expensive and classy or cheap and slutty.

The obvious conclusion is that Kira was hooking, but she didn’t need the money. I knew first hand she had an active libido, but she was pretty enough to have her desires filled by almost any man she chose.

She had no need to sell herself unless it was a self-esteem issue.

I’d have said she was someone’s mistress, had she not been known to live the carefree independent lifestyle she did.

While the MacDonald blood in my veins eschews the American habit of seeing a therapist, I know one might be able to give us some insight into her life.

As the burn from my run announces itself, I concentrate my mind on the places where Kira might ply her trade and leave my body to look after itself.

Casperton is too small a town for someone as well known as Kira to keep hooking a secret. Therefore, she must be entertaining people from out of town.

The nearest large cities like Salt Lake City and Denver are over two hours away, so whoever her clients were, they must be wealthy and in a position where they could disappear for hours, or a day at a time, without getting awkward questions from their wives or girlfriends.

Next I worry about how she attracted clients, if that is the right word for them. The obvious answer is via the internet, hence the InPrivate browsing. That, however, is Alfonse’s problem to deal with.

My best guess is Kira’s clients must either travel to her place or she left town to see them. I consider checking the local hotels before realising the futility of that course of action. Looking for someone whose name I didn’t know, who possibly stayed on dates I’m not sure of, will get me laughed out of every hotel reception in town.

As I turn onto Constitution Avenue, I slow to a jog when passing Kira’s house. Farrage and one of his buddies are on the lawn holding a small cardboard box.

Altering course I trot over to them, only for Farrage to manoeuvre himself so he’s blocking my view of the box.

‘What you got there?’ Trying not to manhandle or touch him in any way, I strain to look over his shoulder.

His buddy isn’t quick-witted enough to react in time, giving me a look in the box before he whips it away.

An iPhone and a platinum Amex are all it contains.

‘Keep your nose out, Boulder. This is police business.’

‘Haven’t you heard? We’ve been hired by Kira’s father.’

I can see from his reaction he already knows.

‘Maybe so. But we’re the police.’

His posturing gets to me more than it should, making the MacDonald blood seethe in my veins for a split second. ‘A hundred bucks says we identify her killer before you.’

Uncertainty flickers beneath the buzz cut before the bravado returns. ‘Deal. You’ve got no chance, Boulder. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.’

I leave him to it and navigate my way home so I can take a shower and call Alfonse.

11

Twenty minutes after calling Alfonse I am showered, changed, and heading west at ninety-five miles an hour.

Having got past the InPrivate setting he’s discovered Kira was hooking. A quick look through her search history saw him find login details for a site called Fantasy Courtesans. Alfonse found pictures of her on there, along with rates and services offered. Clients made bookings with her through the site.

He’s also found a secret bank account which funded the Amex and the extra iPhone Farrage had found. A quick look at the statement for the Amex told Alfonse she used it to buy sex toys, some of the clothes in her spare room and the occasional flight to LA.

Alfonse had tried digging into her client history on the site but hadn’t been able to identify any of her client’s identities. He has though, managed to trace the owner of the site and get me an address for him.

As the Mustang eats up the miles, I drive on autopilot while creating a mental list of the questions I need answers for.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Salt Lake City, I thread my way through the afternoon traffic, then take the fifteen north until I’m at Feltingville. The traffic is light so I make good time.

I want to do this interview and get back to Casperton as soon as possible. Unless I learn something that takes me further afield.

After pulling over at the side of the road, I fire up my GPS and feed in the required zip code. Before setting off, I check my iPad and see my membership application for Fantasy Courtesans has been accepted.

Having paid a membership fee, I am now part of the club. I scroll through a few pages and try to book an appointment with Kira, or Candice as she calls herself on the site. I get an automated response saying she will get back to me within forty-eight hours.

With the MacDonald blood lava-hot in my veins, I swing the Mustang back into the flow of traffic and carry on.

FELTINGVILLE IS SMALLER THAN CASPERTON, but being a satellite town for Salt Lake City, it plays home to some of the city’s seedier elements. My destination is a strip club called Bourbon A Go Go.

Located halfway along a dead end off State Street, Bourbon A Go Go is open just as Alfonse told me it would be.

I reverse into a parking bay in case I need to make a rapid exit, and walk towards the club. A doorman gives me a bored look I return with interest. All steroidal muscle, he’ll be too slow in the face of a determined opponent unless he manages to get the first blow in.

As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I buy a beer I have no intention of drinking and take a seat at the edge of the room where I can survey things.

The pounding music is too modern and too loud for my tastes, its thumping bass makes my beer vibrate on the table.

I cast my eyes round the room again and find three visible cameras, several hidden ones and a half dozen perverts. If things get exciting, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t happen in here.

A short girl carrying thirty extra pounds is gyrating on the stage in a poor imitation of eroticism. What little appeal she has is ruined by the disinterest on her face.

‘You fancy a private dance, honey?’

I turn to focus on the girl speaking to me.

‘Not right now. I’ve only just got here.’ I give her a smile. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a beer until I’m ready?’

She lets her eyes flit round the room, no doubt weighing up the odds of someone else paying her to dance in the time it takes to have a beer with me.

‘Sure. That’d be cool.’ She waves to the barman and takes a seat beside me, her cheap perfume catching the back of my throat.

I hold out a hand. ‘I’m Frank.’ Sometimes it doesn’t pay to use your real name.

‘Onyx.’

Onyx is stick thin with a drawn face. A pair of obvious implants strain against the pink bikini she wears.

With a practised spiel she works at my defences, trying to entice me into the private dance.

Ignoring her questions about the existence of a Mrs Frank, I start asking a few of my own.

Onyx isn’t much help as she has only worked here for six weeks. What I do get from her is she doesn’t think the guy who owns the club is as bad as some of the sleazeballs she’s worked for. Although she admits she thinks he has other businesses as well as the club.

I slip her enough money to cover the beer and the private dance I am never going to have and ask where I can find Hank Young.

Her eyes become slits. ‘You a cop?’

‘No. A potential business partner.’ I shrug. ‘For one of his other businesses. Not this one.’

Onyx tosses a fearful glance over her shoulder towards a door marked ‘Private’. ‘He don’t take kindly to unexpected visitors.’

‘Then be a honey and go tell him to expect me. You can also tell him it’s about Candice and that I’m a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’

Onyx stalks off towards the door, heels clacking as she goes; the seductive sashay has vanished from her gait as she tries to guess who and what I am talking about.

Five minutes later she hasn’t reappeared, although one of the obvious security cameras now points at me. I settle back in my seat, give the camera a wave and pretend to drink my beer.

Nothing happens for the next few minutes until Mr Steroids comes over to me. ‘Mr Young isn’t here today. I suggest you try coming back in twenty years.’

I keep my voice even and save the steel for my eyes. ‘He is here and in a moment I’m going to walk through that door marked private. If you try and stop me, you will be responsible for your own injuries.’

He lays a hand on my shoulder pushing me into the seat.

Digging a thumbnail into a pressure point on the inside of his wrist, I use my left hand to remove his and stand up. Thoughts of a counterstrike register in his eyes, so I squeeze a fraction harder, causing him to yelp and reconsider.

I look him in the eye and release my hold on his wrist. ‘You can lead the way, or I can knock you down and walk over the top of you. What’s it gonna be?’

Mr Steroids ambles towards the door rather than giving me a verbal answer.

I follow him but make sure there are a few paces between us in case he gets brave or stupid. There is also the possibility he isn’t the only goon on the premises.

Leading me through the door, he takes me into the non-public areas where there are a storeroom, kitchens, a changing room for the dancers and various other storage areas.

He doesn’t hesitate before knocking on an unmarked door.

This is a good sign as far as I am concerned. Hank Young doesn’t scare him more than I do after a simple move like squeezing on a pressure point. That tells me Hank Young isn’t too much of a tough guy and neither is his bouncer.

‘Enter.’

When we enter Hank Young’s office I get a glimpse of more than just the physical person. There are posters of girls dancing in the club on every spare piece of wall space and there is what looks like a hide-a-bed against the back wall. It doesn’t require too much stretching of the imagination to work out how job interviews go in a strip club.

Hank Young is a stereotype if ever I’ve seen one. Mid-fifties with a bald strip on top of his head, his remaining hair is greased into an oily ponytail. A faded sports coat adorns the back of his chair and his desk is littered with various bits of paper and two huge computer screens.

I wait until Mr Steroids takes up a position in front of the door before I take a seat. Deciding to try a gentle approach first, I lean back in the seat and try to look as non-threatening as I can. ‘I’m not here to cause you any problems, Mr Young. I’m here for information on one of your employees.’

‘So I heard.’ His brow creases. ‘You also said something to Onyx about being a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’

His accent isn’t local, it’s more New York than Salt Lake. That is telling in itself. Either he is well-enough connected to keep the local gangs off his back or he pays them off.

‘Kira Niemeyer, who works as Candice for Fantasy Courtesans, has been murdered. Her body was found yesterday and after looking into her life, I was led to your door.’ Pressing home the advantage of surprise, I paint the blackest picture I can. ‘The cops’ll follow the same trail I have and when they come here they’ll tear your businesses apart. Interview all your staff, all your customers.’

I see his pudgy face blanch at the idea of the cops focusing on his business and the customers of Fantasy Courtesans. The investigation would ruin him and probably end in a lot of expensive divorces for his clients.

‘If you help me solve this case, perhaps we can work together to limit police involvement.’

The resistance drains from him. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I want the real names and contact details for Kira’s last ten clients and the dates she saw them.’

He starts to fiddle with his computer, but I’m not finished. ‘I also want references from other girls who’ve seen these ten clients. I want to know about any kinks or attitude problems.’

He looks up from the keyboard he is pecking at. Fear fills his eyes. ‘That’ll take days to do. The police’ll be here soon won’t they?’

‘Yeah, so you’d best get those answers as soon as you can.’

‘There’s no way I can get all that information together before the police get here.’

I throw him a glimmer of hope.

‘Perhaps not. But if you’re in the process of getting it, they may go easier on you.’

My logic gets a nod of approval before he turns back to his computer.

After five minutes he’s scribbled out a list of names and the dates they’d seen Kira aka Candice.

The most recent client had seen her ten days ago, the previous to him had been three weeks ago.

Reading down the list, I see regular gaps of two or more weeks between each client.

I rap my knuckles on the desk. ‘Are there usually gaps this long between clients?’

‘No. The girls who work for Fantasy Courtesans usually only see one client every month or six weeks. Candice is, sorry, was one of our most popular courtesans and she chose to see more clients than anyone else.’

‘Do you know if she worked for anyone else?’

‘She didn’t as far as I’m aware, but she might have.’ Young adds an email address to each of the names on his list. ‘That’s the only contact details I have for them.’

I look at the list again. Some of the dates match Kira’s Amex usage. ‘On some of these dates she flew to LA. Did she visit clients at their own place?’

‘Certainly not! My girls are not dial-a-hooker bimbos. They are high class courtesans.’

I make a point of looking around his office with a cynical expression. ‘So what was she doing in LA, when according to you she was with clients?’

‘Some of our regular clients organise vacations where the courtesans accompany them to various Caribbean resorts. They meet at LAX before flying to the client’s chosen destination.’

I can’t help but notice how he refers to his stable of hookers as courtesans, as if using a classier word makes it less immoral and more legal. No amount of verbal window dressing can disguise the fact he is a pimp based in a strip club.

I don’t expect any more from him, but I push to find out more about the names on the list from his other girls and place a card on his desk as I rise to leave.

‘Call me as soon as you learn anything.’

Young fingers the card I’ve given him. ‘Mr Boulder, while I am sympathetic to your cause and grateful for your coming here rather than just informing the police, I do not like the way you have assaulted my employee. Should you further trouble any members of my staff, you may find you regret it.’

Mr Steroids turns away from the door and opens it for me, but I am not fool enough to go first and present him with a chance to get some revenge. All the time we’ve been in the office, I’ve been watching him from the corner of my eye as he fought the urge to massage his wrist.

‘Watch your security tape again and you’ll see he made first contact. I just made a more telling one.’

While I could use some fancy line about his man’s poor chances, I’ve always thought actions speak louder than words.

I give Mr Steroids a push into the wall he is walking towards and then stand back with my fists in front of my face.

He bounces off the wall, turns and gives a roar as he launches himself forward, his ham-sized hands rising to match mine. My judgement about him is correct and I can see he fancies his chances in a straight fist fight.

Swinging my leg forward I kick him under the knee, my boot lifting the kneecap enough to tear cartilage and sinew. He gives another roar, only this one is filled with pain instead of rage.

He hops on one leg with his injured knee held between both hands. His eyes stay on me as he awaits the next blow.

I put him out of his misery by thumping the heel of my hand against his exposed chin. The blow drops him into an unconscious heap.

Young hasn’t moved from his chair.

‘I’ve joined your sordid little website and you’ve got my joining fee.’ I point at the unconscious Mr Steroids. ‘Consider that me getting a bang for my buck. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to cause you any problems. But if I wanted to, I could cause you a lot of big ones. Understand?’

I don’t wait for his answer.

Once I’m back in my car, I send the names and email addresses to Alfonse so he can start tracking them down.

12

The Watcher turns from the side road and falls in behind the car, intent on following his next target, prepared to follow him until an opportunity presents itself.

This is what he does when stalking his prey. Observe routines, plan and wait his chance.

He’s four cars behind Paul Johnson as he turns north towards Panchtraik Reservoir. He knows the man works on the reservoir as a technician, managing the flow of water over the turbine blades.

Darkness is falling as he leaves town. Once he’s on the open road, the other three cars accelerate past the slow-driving Johnson leaving the two of them behind. He eases off the gas until he’s a half mile or so back.

Tail lights are visible in the distance and he knows where Johnson is going, so it’s safer to hang back rather than alarm him.

Twenty miles from town, he sees hazard lights come on. The gap between the two cars closes. Fast.

His heart thumps and he can feel his right foot pressing down harder. Taking a deep breath, he calms himself and eases off the gas a little. If this is to be the opportunity, then great, but he’s not going to blow everything by pouncing too soon.

The knife used on the Niemeyer slut has been dumped and his random selection has thrown up a framing hammer for Johnson. It lies in the passenger footwell on top of a few other tools put there as camouflage.

His hand caresses the shaft of the hammer as he approaches Johnson’s car. He’s pulled as far off the road as he can and the Watcher can see the back end of the car is jacked up at one side.

The opportunity is just too perfect to be passed up.

He draws to a halt and parks twenty feet behind the lame Chevy. Johnson rises to his feet and shields his eyes from the Watcher’s headlights with one hand. The other holds a wheel wrench against his leg.

The Watcher climbs out and fixes a smile onto his face. ‘You need some help there, buddy?’

‘I’m fine changing the wheel, but if you could pull your car a bit closer the light would be a big help.’

‘Sure thing.’ He pulls his car nearer to Johnson’s, resisting the urge to floor the gas and crush his target between the two cars.

He chats to Johnson as he removes the wheel and replaces it with the spare. It’s one of those narrow space-savers and looks odd where once there was a fat tyre.

Johnson puts down the wheel wrench and turns to start lowering the jack.

The wheel wrench speaks to the Watcher so he relegates the framing hammer until another time and slips his fingers around the wrench.

A look both ways to check for headlights reveals nothing.

The first blow lands on Johnson’s temple, just below the greying hair. He falls onto his back.

Ten more times the tyre iron smashes into the target’s face. He counts the blows then adds another to make it a round dozen. Odd numbers are just that as far as he’s concerned. Odd.

He pulls back Johnson’s cuff and checks for a pulse.

There isn’t one, so he begins the clean-up before someone comes. His muscles burn as he hauls Johnson’s body into the trunk of his own car. He’s heavier than expected and the virus has weakened him more than he cares to acknowledge.

The jack and wheel wrench are tossed on top of the body. Sometimes it’s safer to leave the murder weapon with the victim rather than get caught trying to dispose of it.

Next he strips to his jockey shorts and dresses in the spare clothes kept in his trunk.

He turns south until he finds a side road where he hides his car and opens the trunk. It only takes him a minute to don the ghillie suit before setting off at a run towards a decent vantage point.

The only thing he carries is a pair of night-vision binoculars and a desire to further progress the pattern.

Hunkering down in a clump of sagebrush, he wriggles until he’s comfortable. A rock is picked from beneath his chest and placed to one side. It may be a long wait but he’s in no hurry. All that matters is having a good view of Johnson’s car.

13

By the time I pull into Alfonse’s drive I am tired, hungry and more than a little irritable. Long drives are part of the American way of life but they’ve been the hardest thing for me to get used to.

Driving mile after mile on arrow-straight roads where the biggest dangers are speed traps and the soporific effect of tyres on asphalt always grates on my nerves. Being a man of action, the two-hour drive each way felt like a waste of time, despite the fact I’d gotten pretty much all the information I’d hoped to get.

I enter the house and find Alfonse beavering away at his laptop. He doesn’t speak, but he does nod his head towards the kitchen. The mixed smells of coffee and chilli were already drawing me in like some kind of culinary mermaid.

After fixing myself a large bowl of chilli and filling two mugs with coffee, I sit down at the opposite side of his paper-strewn desk.

Alfonse pushes his laptop away and stretches without leaving his seat.

I swallow a mouthful of chilli. ‘What you got?’

‘I’ve traced nine of her last ten clients, and read through the messages she received through the site. They’re all about the last visit or fantasies for the next one.’ A shrug. ‘It all seemed rather mundane. At least as far as that kind of thing can be.’

‘Do any of her clients seem like a possible?’

‘Not at all. Judging by the message history the clients are ones she’s seen a number of times before.’ He passes me a sheaf of papers with all the details on. ‘I also found a database she had created on each of her clients and their sexual preferences.’

‘You’ve been busy.’ It may be stating the obvious, but it’s as close to praise as either of us is comfortable with.

He gives a small nod of acknowledgement and leaves me to finish my chilli while I read the notes.

Alfonse’s chilli is just perfect, hot enough to tingle the lips, yet not so hot as to scald the throat. I spoon away until the bowl is empty, my eyes never leaving the spreadsheets he has drawn up.

Eight of the nine live several hundreds of miles away, while the ninth has a number of homes around the world. Each of the men is wealthy in a way I can only dream of.

Thinking about it, I should have figured that out from the prices listed on the website. Kira and the other girls charge ten big ones per visit. And that is for basic companionship. Vacation company is fifteen grand a day plus expenses.

The guys who hire these hookers aren’t your average Joes working behind a desk for someone else. They are guys who own companies, run multinational businesses or live off family money.

In fact, they are guys like her father and brother.

Is that what Kira’s hooking was about? Some distorted way to seek revenge against her father? The secret kept so clients could laugh at him behind his back?

That line of thought doesn’t ring true with my memories of her though. No matter how much I scour my brain, I can’t recall Kira criticising her father or other family members in any way.

Eight of the ten had seen Kira at her home in Casperton. One of the others had booked her for vacations of varying lengths and the final one had requested she join him in LA to entertain guests at his parties. Alfonse’s digital excavations had followed the clients back through time. All bar one had at some point visited her in Casperton.

That meant we had nine suspects who knew where Kira lived.

We know who nine of these men are but the tenth is a mystery. He’s the one with the party bookings. Lifting the spreadsheet bearing his alias, I look at the message history Alfonse has attached and see the tenth man booked Kira on three separate occasions.

Her brief for the parties was simple. She was to be one of a number of girls hired to accompany and entertain her client’s friends.

This gets my brain firing a bit faster and my pulse throbbing with a greater intensity as adrenaline surges through my body. Everything about this booking screams organised crime.

It is one of the oldest tricks in the book: a mob boss would invite a few people to their home for a party. Stunning hookers would be there and when the married businessmen and politicians had been fed enough alcohol, they’d bed one of the hookers. Usually in a room with a two-way mirror and lots of video cameras.

A few days later the hapless victim is presented with a video or pictures of their indiscretion and given a choice. Submit to their blackmailer or face the wrath of their spouse.

If Kira had gotten herself mixed up in anything like that, there could be a whole army of people bearing grudges against her.

The sound of a toilet flushing is followed by light footsteps as Alfonse returns.

‘What do you make of it then?’

I scratch my head. ‘The whole hooking thing has made it impossible. We’d have to fly halfway around the west coast just to speak to everyone and the guy you haven’t yet identified looks real suspect to me.’

He asks what I mean, so I tell him my suspicions.

‘If the guy is involved in organised crime we should steer clear.’

‘Agreed. But how come you haven’t been able to identify him? There’s an address on the first message telling Kira where the party is being held.’

‘The house is owned by what looks to be a dummy corporation operating from a PO box. I can find out who’s behind it given time, but I wanted to take a look at the others first so I had something for you when you got back.’

His words further raise my antenna, but I’m not sure we should be going up against people in organised crime.

Alfonse rubs the back of his neck. ‘If they are involved in organised crime, why do you think they didn’t use some of their own girls?’

The question shows Alfonse’s naivety. ‘Either they’re not involved in prostitution or they wanted stunning girls to act as their honey traps instead of street walkers.’

‘I figure.’

‘You’ve read the messages between Kira and her clients, right? It doesn’t seem like there’s anything she wouldn’t do upon request. Imagine the leverage a few photos of some of that stuff would give you.’

While reading the messages Kira had exchanged with her clients, I had been surprised at her willingness to play whatever part was requested of her. Nothing was too kinky or off limits. By turn she’d been submissive, dominant or compliant to her clients’ most base and degrading whims.

‘So, what’s our next move, Jake? Do we fly around half the country pestering wealthy men about their sexual antics with a dead hooker or do we try another angle?’

I think for a moment. ‘You find out who the tenth man is. I’ll deal with the other nine.’

Seeing Alfonse’s eyes narrow as a thought comes to him, I raise an eyebrow.

‘Do you think it could be her father or brother? I mean, maybe they found out about her hooking and decided the only way to stop her was to kill her.’

‘Why hire us then?’

‘Cover. Or maybe her father doesn’t know and it was her brother.’

‘I don’t buy it, Alfonse. It’s too much of a stretch to be her father. If it was her brother, Farrage and his goon squad will be looking at them as a matter of course.’

‘True.’

‘Besides, what about the forensic reports from where she was found? Didn’t Emily say the tests would be done by now?’

He looks at his watch and curses. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting her in an hour for dinner. I’ve to pick her up at the Coroner’s Office and she’ll let me see the reports before we eat.’

‘Off you go then. Enjoy your date.’ The look he shoots me is pure venom. ‘I’ll stay here and keep digging.’

Setting myself before his laptop, I go to the home page of Fantasy Courtesans for another look around the site. As I search through the various pages, I put in a call to my mother.

I have to ignore the mixed messages my brain is getting from my eyes and ears until we’ve gone through the usual small talk. After five minutes of chatter I’ve got the number of her psychologist so I bid her goodbye and hang up.

My mother has embraced American culture and all of its foibles and nuances with a fervent zeal since we moved here. Her accent is now a mish-mash of Glasgow and Utah, and shows favouritism to one or the other depending on her frame of mind. Seeing a psychologist is all part of the lifestyle for her.

I don’t believe she’ll ever get over the way my father just upped and left one morning, but if seeing Dr Edwards helps her come to terms with his abandonment, I’m all for it.

Calling the psychologist’s office, I manage to catch the receptionist before she leaves for the day. My luck is in. Dr Edwards has a window tomorrow morning.

Laying down my phone I refocus all my brain power on the Fantasy Courtesans website. Earlier, I’d skimmed across the site until I’d found Kira. Now I’m taking a proper look.

Everything I see suggests Young has walked a fine line. The site offers companionship and a girlfriend experience from all its ‘models’. The text indicates the girls would help ‘distinguished gentlemen live out their fantasies’, in a way which promises much without admitting anything illegal.

There are six other girls working for Fantasy Courtesans but their whereabouts are vague at best. Kira’s location is listed simply as Utah.

I’m surprised Young hasn’t taken down the page featuring Kira. In his position it would be the first thing I’d do. Picking up my cell, I call him, intending to apply some pressure.

‘What do you want, Boulder?’

‘I want to know if your girls have got back to you yet. Also I want to know if you’ve had any problems with any of your customers, particularly the ones who’ve seen Kira.’

‘Give me a chance. I’ve only just gotten back from the emergency room. My man is on crutches, thanks to you.’

My natural sarcasm gets the better of me. ‘While I’m pleased to hear you care about employee welfare, I’m trying to catch a killer and need that information as soon as possible.’

‘I’m on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.’

‘Make sure you do. The police can’t be far behind me.’

There’s little point pushing him any harder, so I hang up and create a new email address. Then I send the same email to each of the nine people Alfonse has identified.

I’m not happy about the content of the email or the tone it carries, but time is pressing and I know the odds of catching a killer decrease with every passing hour.

14

I stride into the police station and find the same lethargic sergeant as yesterday still rooted to his chair.

He ignores me as I take the corridor towards Chief Watson’s office. I wait for a response to my knock but get nothing. Three more times I knock, hoping the chief is taking a call. Nothing.

A laughing voice echoes up the corridor. ‘Chief ain’t in.’

I return to the desk and ask where the chief is, but the sergeant just shrugs at me with a malicious smirk twisting his mouth.

As I turn to leave, Chief Watson bursts through the door. The way his brow carries extra furrows doesn’t bode well.

‘What do you want, Boulder?’

‘I’m here to update you on what we’ve learned about Kira Niemeyer.’

His eyes flash as he waves me towards his office. ‘You just bought yourself two minutes.’

He makes notes as I speak. I pay close attention to his face when speaking and there is a tiny glimmer of surprise when he hears about Kira’s hooking. That one split second of lost composure tells me all I need to know about Farrage’s progress. I tell him everything apart from the fight with Mr Steroids and the identities of Kira’s clients.

It takes a lot of self-control not to ask him how Farrage’s investigation is going, but I need to keep the chief onside.

He asks the odd question then sits back in his chair. ‘Overlooking the illegal methods you and your buddy used, I’d have to say you’ve made decent progress.’

He speaks again while I am still considering how to reply to his dig about illegal methods. ‘From what you’ve told me, the list of suspects could be massive.’

‘It should also include her family members.’ The chief’s eyebrow lifts. ‘Her father is an influential man who would lose a lot of standing if her secret came out. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he or her brother were responsible. Unlikely, but not impossible. The brother will also stand to gain a larger inheritance now.’

He rises to his feet indicating the meeting is over. ‘Thanks for coming in. Because of your report, I now know which way to point Lieutenant Farrage.’

My nose for trouble has often caused me grief, but it is now twitching enough for me to pay it some heed.

‘There’s something else going on isn’t there, Chief?’

There’s a moment’s hesitation before he answers. ‘You could say that. A man has been found in the trunk of his car with his face mashed to a pulp.’

I can’t stop the low whistle passing my lips. ‘Two bodies found in three days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve got a serial killer on the loose.’

The haunted expression on his face tells me that’s what he’s afraid of.

Serial killers, despite all the movies and books suggesting otherwise, are a rare occurrence. Spree killers are more common, but whomever is behind the killings in Casperton it isn’t a spree killer. It may not even be a serial killer as the methods are different.

Somehow I know serial killers are only recognised as such when they’ve been accredited with five or more murders. I guess that when the magic number is reached the feds will swoop in and take over.

I can empathise with Chief Watson. If he does have a serial killer on the loose, he has big problems. Farrage and his buddies aren’t equipped to deal with a high-profile and intense investigation. That leaves him as the only competent detective in Casperton PD.

In all probability, three more people have to die before the chief gets the help he needs.

‘Have you identified the body?’

‘Yeah. I’ve just come back from informing his family.’

I don’t ask the question. I just look at him until he answers it.

‘Paul Johnson. He’s divorced with one kid and worked up at Panchtraik Reservoir. The car was parked halfway between here and there. It looks like he stopped to change a flat and got himself killed.’

‘It doesn’t match, does it? Were his wallet and cell taken?’

‘No. And the keys to his car were in the ignition.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a robbery. Good luck with that.’

‘You’re not taking an interest?’

I shake my head. ‘We’ve been hired to investigate Kira’s murder. It’s your job to investigate every homicide.’

Leaving the chief to his thankless task, I drive towards the Tree. I’m due to start work soon and I’m hoping it will be busy. I have a bunch of questions I need answers for.

15

I wake up feeling only half refreshed. After speaking with dozens of people to no avail, I’d come home and worried at the mystery some more.

Alfonse has emailed me the key points from the forensic samples lifted at the site where Kira’s body was found. Other than specks of blood on a couple of branches, there was nothing of significance found within the immediate vicinity. Considering how Kira had been killed it was almost certain the blood would prove to be hers, but the CSI team will still test every drop found.

A wider search uncovered a few items of trash but they all showed signs of weathering and were probably dropped by hikers or kids partying.

Kira’s body has undergone the routine sweep for forensic samples and drug tests. The results coming back negative isn’t a surprise. Programs like CSI have made the general public forensically aware, which means anyone in possession of live cells takes precautions against leaving trace evidence.

On the other hand, the lack of fibres and hairs tell me Kira’s murder was planned in advance. Therefore, she was a specific target, killed for a reason.

Nobody I’d spoken to at the Tree had given me any information worth pursuing. Tallying with my own memory and impression of her, everyone agreed Kira had been an easy-going person who caused no offence and was more inclined to make friends than enemies.

I log on to my PC and check the email address I created to contact Kira’s clients.

I’ve got two replies already.

Both responders offered condolences and promise to call me at some point today.

I guess some may think it unprofessional of me to email potential suspects suggesting they call me to clear their names. Those people can go take a running jump at themselves. I need to speak to these guys and this is the best way I can think of to get their attention.

Because I don’t have the time or resources to see each one face to face, I’d instilled a measure of urgency into their responses by threatening to go and question them at their home or workplace. As I’d done with Hank Young, I’d reminded them how it was in their interests for Kira’s killer to be caught before the police knocked on their door.

I’m not proud of my actions, but sometimes the means are justified by the ends.

The first call from one of the nine comes as I am stepping into the shower. I lift the new cell I’d bought in Salt Lake City and answer the call. I hang up after five minutes feeling none the wiser.

The person I’d spoken to broke down in tears when questioned about his times with Kira. His protestations of innocence carried a truthful ring. Throughout the call, my bullshit detector had remained silent. While not infallible, it tends to be right ninety-five per cent of the time.

I never feel comfortable with men crying, more so when the man in question is a stranger. To me the whole idea of baring your soul in such a public fashion feels sordid and grubby. My skin begins to prickle and itch as I strike a mental line through his name and climb into the shower, where I scrub myself under a jet of cool water until I feel clean and invigorated.

Forgoing my usual jeans and T-shirt combo, I dress in my best shirt and add a jacket. The shoes I choose are the ones least in need of a good polish.

While I’m not concerned about my appointment with Dr Edwards, I want to make the right impression. It is no secret the good doctor has been urging my mother to have me visit him. For some reason he is positive the issues affecting her will one day manifest themselves in me. He is either caring enough to try and make a pre-emptive strike, or dispassionate enough to get his claws onto my wallet as soon as possible.

Being a fighter by nature, I register the value of a pre-emptive strike better than most, but there’s no way I’m prepared to expose my fears and worries to a shrink.

I’ll deal with my dark thoughts in the usual way, in the company of Jim Beam and Sam Adams.

16

Alfonse munches on a slice of toast as I inform him of my progress. The traces of raspberry jelly sticking to the moustache of his goatee give him a comical look I can’t forego taunting him for.

‘And one of them actually called you?’

‘Of course. I expect them all to call me.’

‘You’ve got some cojones…’ He breaks off at the ringing of my second cell.

Fighting to remove the smile from my voice, I answer it and reach for a pen and paper. Questions are asked and answered once again, although I am grateful this particular caller retains his composure.

I make a few subtle changes to my questions and listen not just to the answers but also to the pauses between them. I also pay close attention to the caller’s tone as he speaks.

Almost a whisper, his voice tells me he is worried about his involvement with Kira becoming public knowledge. I suspect he is calling from home and his wife or girlfriend is also in the house.

I listen as he gives his answers and offers me fifty grand if I find Kira’s killer before the police come to his door.

The extra payday is unexpected and unwelcome. His money is tainted with a sordid momentary guilt. If he really feels so bad about what he got up to with Kira, he shouldn’t have kept a regular appointment with her.

I am about to refuse his money when a better idea comes into my head. The fifty grand can be given to a charity supporting ex-hookers and their offspring.

Finishing the call, I use my pen to strike a line through his name and toss the cell to Alfonse.

‘I’ve an appointment I need to keep.’ There is no way I’m telling Alfonse I am going to see Dr Edwards unless I learn something useful when I’m there. After all the times I’ve decried shrinks of all forms, his mocking will be relentless. ‘You’ll have to answer the pervert hotline.’

‘Where you going?’

‘I’ve half an idea I want to run down.’

‘Do tell.’ I can see my evasiveness is intriguing him.

‘Never mind that. How did your date go?’

‘Five minutes in, I was reminded in stark detail exactly why I broke up with her last time.’ He gives a mock shudder. ‘That screeching laugh of hers goes through me quicker than an express train.’

‘I’m so glad I got you two back together.’

He flips me the bird. ‘She wants to see me tomorrow night and I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for saying no without us losing her help.’

I know I’d better change the subject before his anger becomes genuine, so I tell him of an idea I’ve had and ask him to look into it.

17

I arrive ten minutes early for my appointment with Dr Edwards. My intention is to allow myself time to get a feel for the environment and prepare myself for this step into the unknown.

When I walk into the building, I’m greeted by a pretty blonde receptionist in possession of the highest cheekbones I’ve ever had the good fortune to see.

All thoughts of preparation leave my head when I give an instinctive look at her left hand and see a bare ring finger. Her eyes see where mine go so I take her smile as a sign of encouragement.

Thickening my Scottish accent to the point where it melts the heart of most American girls, I give her my name and ask hers.

She looks for my name on her computer as she gives me hers. We flirt for a couple of minutes until a sobbing woman emerges from Dr Edwards’ office.

As she walks across to comfort the woman, she passes me an appointment card with a time, venue and date on it. I flash her a smile and a nod of agreement as I walk towards Dr Edwards’ office.

‘Come on in, Mr Boulder.’ He points at a huge leather couch. ‘Take a seat, or lie down if you prefer.’

I sit. Looking around, I see his office is all neutral calming tones. No hot reds or cold blues in here. Just soft beiges and creams, although I’m sure his interior designer described the darker colours as mushroom or honeyed teak.

Dr Edwards is similar in his dress sense. Flannel pants with light flecks and a cream shirt adorn his slim body.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m not your usual type of patient.’

‘And what is my usual type of patient? If you know, please tell me – I thought us shrinks aren’t supposed to categorise people. I may have to discharge a few stereotypes to create a better balance.’

I give him a small nod. ‘Touché.’

I’d expected him to be sharp witted but I’m not prepared for caustic humour. If it wasn’t for the twinkle in his eye and his relaxed stance, I’d think he was having a genuine pop at me.

‘What I mean is that I’m not here for you to see me. I need to talk to you about a friend of mine.’ As soon as I finish speaking, I realise how lame my words sound.

‘Ah yes… your friend.’

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Let me explain, Doctor, and you’ll see what I mean.’ He waves permission. ‘I trust I’d be insulting you if I asked if this conversation will be kept private?’

‘You would.’ He gives a half shrug accompanied by a small grin. ‘But every new client I’ve taken on for the last thirty years has used the same insult.’

Give Edwards his due, he sits in silence, jotting the odd note as I tell him the basic facts of Kira’s secret life and my occasional times with her.

When I finish speaking he lowers his pen and looks at me. ‘What is it you want to know from me?’

‘I’d like you to make some suggestions as to why she was hooking. What her motivations might have been.’

His lips purse. ‘Are you familiar with the term quid pro quo?’

‘Of course.’ I feel the smile fade from my lips. ‘Are you suggesting you’re Hannibal Lecter?’

‘No. I’m suggesting that before I answer your questions, you must answer some of mine.’

I almost stand to leave but I need his take on Kira. ‘Why do you want to know about me?’

‘To help your mother. I’m not breaking any confidences by telling you she worries about you. That she thinks your lack of a wife and children is due to the fact your father left for work one morning without a goodbye and never returned.’

It was a familiar statement and the cause of many arguments in the Boulder family. Mother always nagged me about finding a wife and giving her some grandchildren to spoil.

When my sister got married I’d thought the pestering would end, but Sharon had been unable to carry a baby to term. After her fourth miscarriage, Sharon and her husband stopped trying and bought a pair of chocolate Labradors.

Bracing myself for his questions, I gesture for him to start.

‘What are your thoughts on your father leaving?’

‘I have very little memory of him. He was this figure who used to come home exhausted every night and climb into the bath after tea. At weekends he would play games with me and Sharon until the pubs opened and then he’d be off.’ I ignore the scratching of his pen and put forward a question of my own. ‘What do you reckon Kira’s motive was?’

‘There are a number of possibilities. The first being she had self-esteem issues and wanted the adulation she’d engender fulfilling men’s basest fantasies. What’s your last memory of your father?’

‘Making sure I was in bed before he came home from the pub. Next possibility?’

‘That Kira resented her father in some way for something and hooked as a way to get back at him.’ He lifts a hand to forestall my interruption. ‘That doesn’t explain why she kept it secret, unless she’d told her family about it and only kept it secret from the rest of the world. What do you remember after your father left?’

I hesitate for a moment as I recall the oceans of tears Mother and Sharon had shed.

When I think about it, I figure he’ll have been told everything by Mother so I give him an honest answer. ‘I was only six, but what I remember is lots of crying and less biscuits. Mother tried to make ends meet on handouts from the government and by taking in ironing, but things were a lot tighter than they were before he left.’

‘I see. And how do you feel looking back on those days?’

‘Proud of Mother for the way she rose to the challenge of raising us by herself. She went without a lot of things so we didn’t have to…’ Realising what he’s done I trail off. ‘That’s two in a row, Doc. You need to give me two more reasons Kira lived the life she did.’

‘She may have resented living off her father’s wealth. Maybe this was her way of building a financially secure future for herself, so she didn’t have to rely on her father’s handouts. Another theory may be that she had a romantic notion that she could fall in love with one of these men. It may seem far-fetched but it’s not unknown for some girls to take up that kind of lifestyle in the hope they’ll snare a husband.’

I shake my head at his suggestions. Kira had no shortage of admirers and was pretty enough to turn the heads of those she was attracted to. There is no way she was lonely enough to use hooking as a way of meeting a husband.

‘What about the bondage dungeon? The submission? That’s a whole different ballgame from plain old streetwalking.’

‘I take it Kira never shared that kind of sexual activity with you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ I feel uncomfortable telling him this stuff but I’m aware he needs to know so he can properly answer my questions. ‘We had steamy passionate sex, but never once did she suggest anything like that.’

He sits without speaking, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. ‘That intimates that she had unfulfilled desires. The submissive aspect itself suggests feelings of low self-worth and a total lack of self-esteem. Yet you said that she would be the dominant one if that was her client’s preference. What is more indicative is the story you told me about one of her clients.’

I know the one he means. His eyes had widened and his scribbles had stopped as he listened to me relate how Kira had taken a trip with a particular client. That she’d taken a trip wasn’t interesting. The client’s requests and the fact she’d gone along with them had been a different matter.

Kira had agreed to meet her client for a one-week trip to the Caribbean. I’d read the message chain between Kira and the client. They’d discussed how she’d drawn looks from every person they’d met. How her nipples had been exposed by sheer material or the cut of her dresses. Together they’d reminisced over a maître d’ who’d been unable to take his eyes off her the night she’d worn a transparent dress and nothing else.

I’d read back to the start of the conversation and saw Kira agree to meet the client wearing nothing but a dress. The client was to provide all her clothes for the week and she was to wear them without question regardless of how revealing they’d be.

She’d agreed without compromise, her only question being if the client had her measurements.

‘To subjugate yourself in a private one-to-one situation is one thing. To do so for a full week, where you are publicly displayed like a trophy is another. It suggests a worrying level of inverted narcissism.’ He strokes his beard. ‘She’s saying “hey look at me” by wearing revealing clothes, yet by letting a man choose the clothes, she is displaying captive tendencies as the client would be with her, lapping up male envy and female disdain. I could write a whole paper based on that one encounter.’

‘Could this trait be something that would lead her into danger?’

‘Without a doubt. Not knowing how long it had gone on for, I couldn’t say if it was in any way responsible for her getting into a situation where she was killed, but it would lead to her seeking greater levels of subjugation to counterbalance the adulation from the client.’ He lays down his pad and looks at me. ‘I believe it’s my turn to ask you a question or two. Leaving your childhood behind and looking at your present life. Are you happy living the life you do?’

‘Absolutely.’ The answer is out before I’ve given it any consideration.

‘From what your mother has told me, your relationships don’t tend to last more than a few dates. Don’t you find it a lonely way to live?’

‘Not at all. I lived in the family home until I was twenty-two. My family are all close at hand and I see my friend Alfonse almost every day. I enjoy spending time at home by myself.’

‘I note you didn’t mention any female company in your reply despite it being the question. Why do you think that is?’

‘Because it’s not relevant. I’m not looking for a wife and the women I date aren’t looking for a husband. We meet up, have a bit of fun and move on.’

‘You said you enjoy spending time at home by yourself. What do you do to amuse yourself? Watch TV, listen to music, build model railways or something else?’

‘I read.’

‘You read?’

‘That’s right, I read. Action thrillers, crime books, classics.’

‘You don’t watch TV?’

‘I don’t own a TV.’

A note goes onto his pad.

‘From what we’ve discussed about Kira, what are your thoughts on her?’

Again his lips purse and brow furrows as he calculates what to say. ‘If she’d been a client of mine, I would have been most concerned about her long-term wellbeing.’

‘Could her family have done anything to stop her pursuing that lifestyle if they’d known about it?’

‘They could have referred her to someone like myself for counselling. Short of holding her captive there isn’t much else they could have done – she was a grown woman making her own decisions. They could have threatened her with calling the police but I’m sure she would be confident enough to call their bluff. Why do you get into so many fights?’

His question throws me for a moment as my thoughts are focused on what he’s saying about Kira.

‘I’m paid to break them up.’ A raised eyebrow invites me to continue. ‘Some of the guys decide they want to fight me when I toss them out or refuse them entry. We fight, they lose. Life goes on.’

‘Your mother worries about the day when you pick a fight with someone you can’t beat.’

‘I don’t pick fights, Doc. I stop them. The last time I started a fight I was still at school.’

He looks at me over his notepad. ‘It’s only a matter of time before you get into a fight you can’t win or go too far.’

I can’t stop the laugh before it bursts free. ‘You make me sound like someone who goes out looking for trouble. I’ve put many a man into the emergency room, but none of them have ended up in the morgue. I put them down and that’s the end of it. If they’re stupid enough to get up and try again, I make sure they don’t get up so easily the next time.’

‘I see a suppressed anger within you, Jake, a rage which will lead you into trouble if you don’t control it. Tell me, has anyone ever attacked you with a weapon?’

‘No.’ I don’t even have to think about the answer.

‘I’m worried that if someone comes at you with a weapon you’ll either get badly hurt or will turn your aggressor’s weapon onto them.’ He pauses. ‘It’s your mother’s worry too.’

That’s a low blow, which hits me twice. The problem is he’s landed the punch on my weak spot. I know that if someone comes at me with a weapon, my blood will boil too hot for containment. It is my biggest worry. Regardless of who comes at me, I make sure that when my hands go up, they stay empty.

I’m not going to admit my fears to him though.

‘You have occasions where you drink yourself into a stupor for days at a time. If someone came at you with a weapon during one of these episodes, do you think you could protect yourself and remain in enough control to not do something stupid?’

I lick my lips to buy a second or two of thinking time. ‘It’s never happened yet. Or at least if it has, I’ve had enough presence of mind to dispose of the body.’

My flippancy sees his top lip curl for a fraction of a second. ‘That’s not exactly a healthy attitude, Jake. You’re more than clever enough to have thought of these scenarios yourself. What do you think would happen?’

I don’t answer him. He has me bang to rights with my deepest fear and there is no way I am prepared to share that with anyone. I haven’t even let Alfonse raise the subject when he gives me one of his lectures.

After every drinking binge I take, Alfonse will regale me with whatever offence I’ve caused or stupid act I’ve committed. Then he’ll lecture me about the consequences of a local hard man being unable to stand when old foes have grudges to settle.

Still, I know leaving this question unanswered will tell the doctor more than anything I do say.

‘I’ve cut right back on my drinking and it’s over a year since I had one of those episodes as you call them.’ I give a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be. The hangovers aren’t worth the high I get from the first few drinks.’

‘You do know your kind of addictive personality will only drive you on to greater episodes the longer you deny yourself?’

‘That’s why I’ve not had a drink for so long.’ My honesty surprises me. I hadn’t intended opening myself quite so wide.

He looks over his pad into my eyes. ‘Either never drink again, or learn to have one or two drinks once a week. These infrequent binges and the rage inside you will get you into trouble you can’t escape if you don’t.’

18

She’s using the treadmill as the Watcher lifts weights. From his position he can see the beads of sweat beginning to form on her exposed shoulders and the nicotine patch on her upper arm.

In a strange kind of synchronicity, he feels a trickle of sweat run from his forehead into his left eye. A blink clears it and he glances around the room so as not to be so obvious in his observation of his target.

Around the room are the usual suspects found in all public gyms. The elderly battling the effects of time twenty-five years too late, young bucks and does pushing themselves to the limit, as they hone their bodies into whatever sculpture fits their idea of perfection. A pair of morbidly obese guys are huffing and puffing their way towards heart failure or fitness.

One of the sculpted gym bunnies comes over to him and makes a comment or two about his physique.

He smiles, acknowledging her compliments and returns them with praise for her toned body. He can tell she’s into him and plays along a little for appearances’ sake, letting the handles of the weight machine rest against their stops and lowering sweaty hands onto his knees.

Her eyes drift to his left hand. They neither widen nor narrow when they land on the ring Melanie gave him. She talks some more and then departs towards the bank of rowing machines with a wave.

He watches her go, then scans the room for the target, finding her by the wall getting water from the cooler.

She mops her forehead with a towel and totters in the direction of an exercise bike.

While she’s making adjustments to the seat and fiddling with the resistance setting, he switches to a different position and resumes his workout. He feels a sense of gratitude towards her for using the gym he frequents every day.

There’s anything but pleasure on her face as she nestles onto the seat and begins the cyclic thrusts.

The untoned muscle on her legs is flapping as he observes her in more detail. Her face is lined with age and cigarettes. Despite the pumping music and sounds of people working out, he can hear the hungry rasp of her breathing.

Given the choice at her age, he’d forget about exercise and enjoy what little time is left before infirmity takes over.

Tonight will be her last on earth, her efforts at buying more time futile in the face of a scalpel in the wrong hands. His hands.

His plans were prepared long ago for whichever victims fell into the pattern; the method chosen at random from a number of available options.

Once identified, he couldn’t help but select the grandmother who lived alone. It is too easy an opportunity to pass up and he is ready to escalate and gauge the police response. Three murders in four days will give them something to think about.

Her walking into the gym as he worked out was unexpected but not a problem. He’d had no contact with her and his face is here more often than hers.

A yawn climbs his throat and he realises he hasn’t slept for almost thirty-six hours. Knowing he needs to be fresh for tonight, he leaves the others to their workouts and heads for the locker room. A high protein meal, a handful of prescribed drugs and an empty bed seem more attractive than ever.

19

After hearing the growl from my stomach, I delay meeting with Alfonse long enough to catch a burger and fries at Sherri’s Diner.

Tourists visiting the town marvel at its fifties charm and memorabilia. Locals hear their comments about how good a job the designer has done recreating the décor and smile to themselves. Sherri’s hasn’t been refurbished since 1954 and owes its well-preserved state to Sherri’s maxim: ‘It ain’t clean until you can see the face of the person stood behind you’.

Her daughter Terri took over in the mid-seventies and runs the diner with an iron fist wrapped around a gentle heart. Slacking employees and obtuse customers are evicted with a broom print on their ass, while a sob story will always see her reaching for the cash register.

The food is legendary in these parts and many of the higher-class restaurants have tried to lure her cooks away without success. The one time a cook accepted another position, Terri marched into the restaurant and berated the owners in front of a packed dining room.

I welcome the time alone with my thoughts, as I chew through the meat and starch from both my plate and the meeting with Dr Edwards.

His final comments are too informed for my liking, causing me to suspect Mother’s interference. Calling her on it will do nothing more than fuel her concerns. What I want is to quell both her worries and meddling.

There is another suspicion which has plagued me for a while. Perhaps no one has lifted a weapon against me because they can all see I have the capability to take the weapon off them and use it myself.

Am I the only one blind to the dangers of the MacDonald blood?

There are also his suppositions about Kira to consider. The way he’s offered an opinion without questioning me about her family life makes me wonder if one of them is a client of his.

There are few psychologists in Casperton and if Mother is right and Dr Edwards is the best, it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility Kira’s mother or another family member is one of his patients. If she is, he’d have a window into Kira’s family dynamics showing him all the grievances and underlying issues. That would explain why he’d spoken with such confidence when offered so little information.

Eating with one hand, I use the other to switch my cell back on and check for messages.

There are two from Alfonse asking me to call him as soon as possible. The email account I’ve set up has two new messages. The first is from Google trying to entice me further into their net. The second is one of the nine threatening legal action if I don’t stop making unfounded allegations.

My Scottish dislike of the sue and counter-sue culture fills me with contempt for this particular lowlife. I scroll through my memory banks to recall his specific perversions. There’s an acidic burn of disgust in my gut when I recall his messages asking to be bound then used by Kira.

Sending him a short message, I instruct him to call me or I will knock on his door and ask his wife if she can answer my questions. Underneath the threat, I list a couple of the things he’d requested Kira to do. That should have him reaching for his phone.

When I look down at my half-finished meal, I realise my appetite has gone. I cover the uneaten food with a napkin and drop a few bills onto the table. It’s best I leave before Terri cross-examines me about my lack of completion. The last time I’d seen her find a half-eaten meal, one of her cooks lost his job and two waitresses had run out in tears. The guilty customer had received a lifetime ban despite being a regular patron.

I call Alfonse when I get back to my car and listen while he updates me on his progress. He’s had a productive morning despite most of his results being negative.

Six of the remaining seven have called to protest their innocence and offer alibis for the time Kira was alleged to have been killed. None had sounded anything but remorseful. All had been eager to clear their names and help us catch her killer.

Where he has made some headway is in identifying the tenth client, an actor from a once popular sitcom. He’s dug into the client’s life and has found out he’s in LA filming. Once again he isn’t the star, but his part is large enough to keep him in work.

Knowing the odds of getting someone as narcissistic as a famous actor to call us are small, Alfonse has booked me on the next flight to LAX.

He promises to forward the confirmation email and hangs up.

I have a half hour to go home, throw a few things together and get myself to the airport.

20

The heat outside LAX hits me like a wrecking ball; unlike the more temperate climate of Casperton, Californian sunshine blisters uncovered skin for kicks.

The rental car is hotter than a blast furnace, so I climb back out after starting the air-con and wait five minutes under the shade of a nearby tree until the temperature inside the car is bearable.

My GPS says the journey from LAX to Hollywood should take around a half hour but the LA traffic has other ideas. I creep fender to fender for two hours until I can turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

If I had an iota of local knowledge, I’m sure I’d be able to find an alternative route, but in this strange land of eternal sunshine I’m a slave to the GPS. I crawl past surplus marts, gas stations, a score or more of light industrial areas and various stores offering everything from mattresses to fruit.

I’m not sure what I’d expected of Hollywood, but this normal-looking area holds no special attraction for me.

Speeding up to a mighty ten miles an hour, I follow the GPS until it tells me I’ve reached my destination.

Alfonse has tracked down where the actor is staying and arranged for him to be interviewed by the showbiz reporter for The Scotsman – a paper my grandfather read from cover to cover with a religious fervour. It’s good thinking on his part, as my accent will fit the role he’s assumed for me.

The Sunset Plaza is quite unlike any other hotel I’ve encountered. Ten storeys high, it fills a whole block with a regimented white façade giving it the air of a prison. The fact each window has a small balcony enclosed by metal railings only adds to the prison effect.

I re-evaluate my opinions of the actor’s standing. If his studio bosses have lodged him here, it’s obvious he isn’t their prize asset.

With time to kill before my appointment, I take a walk along the street to get a feel for the area.

When I’m on Hollywood Boulevard the area feels more like I’d expected it to. Cinemas line the sidewalks above the famous stars, and most of the people on the streets are tourists trying to spot actors and actresses. Every minute or two a large car with blacked-out windows will elicit pointed fingers and wild guesses as to its occupants’ identities.

I find a diner where I drink a soda and munch a sandwich while I watch the world go by.

After ten minutes I feel the need to shower and it isn’t the diner or the Californian heat making me feel this way. It is the whole falseness of the area. Tourists are being heckled by ambitious touts attempting to sell them trinkets and behind-the-scenes tours. Yet nothing here is real, everything is an illusion.

Hollywood is a place that deals with, and lives in fantasy and escapism. Yet the magic has escaped the conjuror’s influence to permeate itself into the fabric of the buildings and streets. If you close your eyes and listen you can hear the broken dreams of wannabe actors, scriptwriters and directors screaming their angst at the injustice of it all.

It is no place for me and the sooner I’m back on a plane to Casperton the happier I’ll be.

21

I approach the reception desk of the Sunset Plaza, and ask which suite the actor occupies. The interior of the hotel is all muted tones and soft furnishings in an effort to dispel the prison-like exterior. It doesn’t work.

A receptionist with bleached hair and implants that cause her blouse to gape crinkles her nose when she hears me ask for the actor.

Whatever dreams she has about forging a career in acting are sure to be added to the millions of voices I’d heard screaming earlier. If she can’t hide distaste for one customer from another, she’ll never make it in this most critical of towns.

‘Mr Weeper is on the tenth floor in the Rose Suite.’ She points me towards the elevator with a fixed smile. Her eyes tell a different story, wishing me luck in my endeavour.

I join a group of chattering executives in the elevator. It’s all I can do not to punch any of them for their inane corporate language.

Alfonse knows the disregard I have for celebrity and TV, so he’s emailed a picture and a short biography of the actor to me so I’ll at least address the right person in the room.

Striding along the corridor, I find the door to the Rose Suite obscured by a muscle-bound bodyguard with thick arms and a wedding cake neck.

When I tell him my business he grunts and knocks on the door. ‘The dude from the press is here.’

A thin woman opens the door. She’s wearing stress like an overcoat. It doesn’t suit her. Her eyes are beady, an air of annoyance and mistrust hang over her, turning every movement or gesture of the hand that isn’t pressing a phone to her ear into sharp, animated flicks.

I smile and introduce myself, laying on as much charm as possible. ‘Jake Boulder, from The Scotsman. Thank you for arranging this interview with Mr Weeper – I’ve been a fan for years.’

By now I’ve entered the room far enough to see Weeper standing on the balcony looking down. His room faces the centre of the hotel and when I join him I can see a group of young women sunbathing by a pool.

Such is his arrogance he doesn’t bother looking round before he speaks. ‘I’d do them all with the same boner.’

I clear my throat and wait for the next pearl of wisdom. One sentence has just outlined why a famous actor has to use hookers. This guy is a prime example of what Glaswegians call a bawbag.

He turns, right hand reaching for the bottle of beer on the table. I take his hand in mine and shake it with a repeat of my earlier introduction.

He winces at my grip, unaware of the effort it has taken not to crush every bone in his hand. ‘Oh yeah. The reporter.’

He stands an even six foot, but his thinning hair, forgettable face and expanding waistline suggest his best days are behind him.

He looks around until his eyes land on the stress head. ‘Mindy, bring a couple of beers will ya?’

I pull out my phone and fiddle with it as if I’m using it as a Dictaphone.

Mindy deposits a beer in front of each of us. ‘I’m off to collect those scripts. Back soon.’

I wait until she is out of earshot and lean forward. ‘I’m nothing to do with The Scotsman. I’m here investigating the death of someone you hired from Fantasy Courtesans. Girl by the name of Candice.’

‘You can go fu –’

My fist colliding with his jaw finishes his sentence. ‘We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice.’

He launches his bottle towards my head, but I’ve stopped enough bar fights to know better than to get hit by a flying bottle. I hear it crash behind me as I step forward and give him a dig in the ribs.

This is getting out of hand far quicker than anticipated. I’m just glad Mindy is out of the way. I don’t hit women and her presence would have become a definite nuisance, although for her the stress of the fight may well be enough to finish the task working for Weeper has started.

I lift his cell from the table and toss it onto the bed as the bodyguard enters the room. ‘Is everything okay, Mr Weeper? I heard a crash.’

‘No, it’s not okay, Bobby. This jerk-off has just assaulted me.’ The words come out in gasps due to the damage I’ve done to his ribs.

Bobby’s eyes narrow as he looks at me. ‘Time to go, buddy.’

I don’t move.

When he comes forward I raise my hands and get ready to kick his kneecap but he isn’t as dumb as Mr Steroids. Hollywood types must have trained bodyguards. He keeps his hands level with his chest and waits for me to make the first move.

I feint a left jab and throw a right cross which he deflects with a meaty forearm. With my side exposed, he swings a left at my ribs but I roll inside his swing and reverse an elbow into his gut. I try to repeat the action, but his arms encircle me, preventing me from getting any power into the blow.

I’ve been held like this many times and know the best way out of it isn’t to wrestle or to try a reverse headbutt – any fighter worth their salt knows to keep their head well back.

I raise my right leg to waist level and swing it backwards with my heel aimed for his shin. If it lands, my kick is hard enough to break his leg.

It misses, but the momentum of the kick has shifted our equilibrium and we topple forward. I’m ready for this and twist so he falls onto his back with me on top of him. The jarring impact on the floor is enough to loosen his grip, giving me the chance to escape his clutches.

I get to my feet first, but only by a fraction of a second.

He comes at me. His professionalism is replaced with cold anger. He isn’t doing his job anymore, he’s intent on kicking my ass for having the gall to inflict pain on him.

I fend off his punches with my forearms, but I know I can’t do so for long. He’s a big guy punching like a boxer. It is only a matter of time before one of those blows slips through my guard or my arms become too heavy to lift. I’ve already suffered a couple of glancing blows that would have knocked me cold if they’d connected as intended.

It’s time for me to go back on the offensive. When his next barrage of blows end, I strike forward with my own, aiming punches at head, kidneys and ribs until he is so expectant of a punch coming, he doesn’t see the knee I lift into his groin.

Give Bobby his due, he doesn’t go down. He can’t however stop the natural impulse to grab the wounded area. I take a hard shot at his exposed chin, knocking him out.

I’m gasping as I roll him into the recovery position. He’s been a worthy opponent who’s tested me more than anyone I’ve fought for months.

Weeper is sitting on the balcony, one hand on his ribs and a look of incomprehension on his face.

‘When that jackass wakes up, I’m gonna fire his ass.’

His response is typical of the cosseted. Bobby has just taken a beating trying to protect him and Weeper wants to play the big shot by threatening the man’s livelihood.

‘Shut up.’ I glare at him until all traces of bravado have vanished. ‘I’m gonna ask some questions and you’re gonna answer them. If I think you’re lying, I’ll hurt you. If I think you’re holding out, I’ll hurt you bad. Understand?’

What little fight he possesses drains away at my threats.

‘You hired Candice from Fantasy Courtesans on a couple of occasions for parties you threw. Tell me what happened at these parties.’

‘It was just me and a bunch of friends. Once in a while we’d get a bunch of hookers together and have a big old party. The parties would happen at my place – I’m not married and don’t have a girlfriend.’

What a surprise. Even though you’re rich and famous, no girl wants to be seen with you.

‘Why did you fly hookers in from out of town? Surely there must be plenty here in LA.’

He looks at me as if I have two heads. If he does it again he’ll be lucky to have one.

‘Nobody famous uses LA hookers. Half of them tip off the press and the other half are followed by paparazzi. If I hire an LA hooker, I may as well call the LA Times and tell them myself.’

‘So why hire Candice a number of times? I’d have thought you would have got different girls every time.’

‘We took turns organising the entertainment, but Candice was special. She had no limits and would do anything we wanted except one thing.’ I gesture for him to continue before I knock the wistful look off his face. ‘She wouldn’t allow us to film her.’

That stands at odds with everything Kira had done with her other clients and could only mean one thing. She wanted to keep the hooking secret from someone. My guess is her family. Either that or she’d recognised Weeper for the douche bag he is and knew the film would end up in the wrong hands.

‘Did you ever set up cameras without her knowing?’

‘No.’ The answer comes too quick. As if he’s been expecting the question. I don’t trust the sly expression in his eyes so I punch him in the sternum and let him gasp for a while.

When his breath comes back, I wag a finger at him. ‘Try again. And be warned. Next time I hit you, it’ll be your face and you’ll not be able to see a film camera, let alone stand in front of one.’

His eyes widen as comprehension of my threat sinks in. Turning up with a ruined face would halt filming and cost tens of thousands minimum. Hollywood is the kind of town where careers are ended for the slightest mishap unless you are the star of the show.

I guess he is on a sticky wicket with the production company as it is, by the way he babbles his next answer.

‘Okay, okay. I did film her once or twice but not for the reasons you think.’ A smattering of bravado returns. ‘Who needs to film a hooker when you can hire her again?’

‘Get to the point.’ I clench a fist and cock my arm ready to throw it. His new-found bravery deserts him. I don’t want to carry out my threat as once I’ve messed up his face a bit, the only leverage I have is pain and despite him being a bawbag, I don’t want to stoop to outright torture.

‘You’ve got to understand. Parts have been getting thinner on the ground for me. All studios wanted was the latest good-looking kid with straight teeth and a wedge-shaped body. Older, more experienced actors like me aren’t getting the parts we used to.’

‘Your point?’

I know what he is going to say, but I have to hear it from his lips. To get the full confession, I’ll need to take it step by step as I need to know who his targets were.

‘I set up secret cameras in a couple of bedrooms. Then I invited a casting director to a couple of my parties. He didn’t sleep with anyone the first time, but the second time he slept with one of the hookers.’

‘And then you blackmailed him so you’d get parts?’

A nod. He doesn’t even have the grace to look shamefaced. ‘This town is built on secrets. I was just slow on the uptake.’

‘Did Candice find out about the video?’

He looks bewildered. ‘Why would she? The casting director didn’t choose her that night. He hooked up with a black chick with an ass like a hippo. Candice was with one of my friends that night.’

‘Do you remember the names of the other hookers you hired that night and where you got them from?’

‘Nah. Never paid that much attention to be honest. We changed them all the time. Candice was the only one we had on more than one occasion.’

‘Did you ever pull this stunt on anyone else?’

‘No need. I got a part that’ll keep me going for a few years… and when this dries up…’

He doesn’t need to finish for me to get his meaning. The whole journey out here has been a waste of time and money. James Weeper isn’t our killer. He is a sordid little sleazeball who’s happy to prey on others in an industry where only the most ruthless survive.

I stand and hold out my hand. ‘Thanks for your information.’

Like the fool he is he rises to his feet and takes my hand. Jerking him towards me, I plant a full power headbutt onto the bridge of his nose. As he goes down, I release his hand and ram my elbow into his mouth with enough force to smash teeth.

I might not agree with torture, but I’ve never seen anything wrong with dispensing a little justice whenever possible.

When he wakes up tomorrow morning he’ll have a pair of black eyes, a busted nose and a ruined mouth. I’ll have to start reading the entertainment section of the papers to see how his studio deals with him.

22

When I arrive back in Casperton, I fire up the Mustang and head straight for Alfonse’s. The traffic is light as I power into town.

I’m about a hundred yards from his door when my cell rings. Looking at it, I see an unfamiliar number.

‘Boulder.’ There are laws against using cell phones while driving, but there are also laws against speeding.

Chief Watson’s voice assaults my ear. ‘How soon can you get to the station?’

‘What’s up?’

‘There have been developments in the murder cases and I want your take on them.’

I screech to a halt outside Alfonse’s house. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

The Mustang is left running as I dash into the house, tell Alfonse to come with me and turn back towards the car.

I am only in the house for ten seconds, but I don’t miss the auburn hair of the coroner as she lies on the couch wearing one of Alfonse’s polo shirts.

I pull away from the sidewalk before he’s even shut the car door. ‘Some of us have been working.’

‘What can I say? When I told her I was too busy to see her tonight she came round with a casserole.’ Alfonse is a sucker for home cooking and any girl who feeds him will get his full attention. ‘Anyway, it’s twenty after ten and you haven’t even told me where we’re going.’

‘To see the chief, he called just as I arrived to interrupt your lack of application.’

It’s unfair of me to criticise Alfonse’s dedication. I’ve spent most of the day jetting around while he’s been stuck in front of a computer. The anger I feel towards Weeper hasn’t left me yet and like everyone else in the world, I have a habit of lashing out at those closest to me.

Alfonse is too attuned to my moods to let it worry him, although he’ll never take my abuse without fighting back. ‘So what have you done today, Poirot? Cracked the case? Shall I assemble everyone in the drawing room so you can identify the killer?’

My scowl advises him of my progress.

He changes the subject, asking what the chief wanted to see us about.

‘I dunno. He wouldn’t say on the phone and since I was so close to your place, I thought you might as well come along so the three of us can share all our news at once. It’ll save me having to brief you both separately.’

‘I’ve a lot to tell you, so don’t sit there with your mouth hanging open like you’re trying to catch flies.’

23

When we enter the police station we find Lieutenant Farrage and one of his buddies drinking coffee and sharing a joke with the desk sergeant. Their laughter rings around the reception in a way that doesn’t feel right.

Much as I dislike Farrage, I can’t grudge him a break. Emergency service personnel are famed for the grim humour they use to alleviate the horrors they have to deal with. Everyone has to have a release, but I would think even he would know better than to do it front of house.

Chief Watson’s head pokes from his office. ‘Hey! Just for once would you use what’s between your ears and keep your dumb jokes outta the public areas.’

I manage to resist the tempting notion of applauding the chief but it is close. Only the knowledge he is our ally stops me from mocking Farrage.

‘Boulder. In here please.’ His tone has softened a fraction but his anger is still evident. He too knows a worthy ally when he sees one.

‘This is Alfonse Devereaux, my partner.’ I gloss over the fact Alfonse is the real private eye and I do little more than help him out from time to time. Chief Watson doesn’t need to know that just now.

The chief shakes Alfonse’s hand and gets right to business. ‘This Niemeyer case is exploding outwards in a way I never expected. I’ve had Captain Kirrows from Salt Lake City looking at Bourbon A Go Go. Apparently a man matching your description went there yesterday and extracted information from the owner. This man used threats and then assaulted one of the employees. Can you tell me anything about it?’

I tell him everything I left out of my previous report. In detail. How Young was running a number of hookers under the auspices of an escort agency, the ways in which Kira was degrading herself for the paying clients. I even tell him about the way Weeper had blackmailed a casting director to get himself a part in the sitcom he was currently filming.

‘Am I going to get a call from anyone in LA saying you beat up this actor?’

‘You might, but it was self defence. He sicced his bodyguard on me just like Hank Young tried to do.’ I shrug. ‘All’s I did was defend myself.’

‘Really? Because I’d have been tempted to give that douchebag what for.’

‘You could have arrested him for blackmail. I couldn’t do that so I used my own methods.’

I need to move the conversation away from Weeper before the chief realises the actor wouldn’t confess to such a crime without a little coercion from me. ‘You didn’t call me in here to ask me about something we both know all about. What’s developed?’

‘We’ll leave aside the question of how you persuaded Weeper to be so frank with you. For now.’ His tone holds a warning that he can’t cover me for my illegal doings, even though he may benefit from the information I uncover. ‘I had Mr and Mrs Niemeyer visit me today along with their son. I took the opportunity to question them about their daughter’s secret career. I’m convinced none of them knew anything about it.’

‘Fair enough.’ I trust his instincts. They will have been honed through experience. ‘How did they take the news?’

Alfonse speaks for the first time. ‘Not well. Mr Niemeyer called and asked me to go and update them. When I arrived, Kira’s mother was in pieces and her father and brother were ranting and raving at each other. It wasn’t pretty.’

I know how poor Alfonse is at managing conflict in others and hear in his voice the discomfort he felt watching the Niemeyer family tearing itself apart. For his sake, I wish I’d been there. For mine, I’m glad I wasn’t.

‘I told the Niemeyers as much as I could without going into graphic detail, but I could see their devastation increasing with every word.’

Chief Watson nods. ‘I saw the same.’

Alfonse scratches at his arm. ‘Mr Niemeyer wanted to know if Kira’s hooking was common knowledge. I told him it wasn’t as far as we knew.’ His gaze shifts from Chief Watson to me. ‘He travels in different circles to us. It’s not impossible one or two of his buddies knew about it or even hired her.’

‘I know. It’s crossed my mind too. He’s the type who’ll have many business contacts from all over the state or country. Rich men with disposable cash.’

‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before in rich families. Shortly after getting the worst news, they start to think about their reputation and family name. God knows why she was hooking in the first place.’

Alfonse pulls a sheaf of papers from the attaché case he’s brought with him. ‘I think the answer to that question may be in here. When I was searching through the clone of Kira’s iPad I found a secret folder.’

‘I’ll forego the obvious questions of why you had a clone of her iPad and why you didn’t call me with this as soon as you had it, if the information you have points me towards her killer.’

‘That’s everyone’s goal, Chief. What’s in the folder?’ I give a pointed look at Alfonse to get him to continue.

Attuned to Chief Watson’s impatience-fuelled interruptions he gets straight to the point. ‘There is a journal dating back three years. I’ve only skimmed through the latest entries as I was concentrating on her accounts of recent clients. I was hoping there’d be clues there but nothing jumped out at me.’

I try to redirect some of Chief Watson’s ire away from Alfonse. ‘Surely the police digital forensics guys have got you the same information?’

‘You’re joking. Everything like that has to be sent to West 700 in Salt Lake City. They’ve got three guys to do that job for the whole state.’ He gives a weary shake of his head. ‘They’ve promised to look at it tomorrow, although I know for a fact it’s more likely Captain Kirrows will find a more urgent task for them. If I had the resources I’d outsource it but, because of the low crime levels here, there’s almost no budget when it comes to a real case.’

‘I’m sure Mr Niemeyer will be happy to pay for anything like that.’

As soon as I finish speaking, I realise my mistake.

‘Oh yeah, and how would that look? A few weeks into the job and the new police chief is asking grieving parents to pay for their daughter’s homicide investigation. It’s bad enough he hired you two because he knows that bunch of bozos out there couldn’t find their own asses with both hands. Asking him to pay for the investigation is tantamount to baring my ass on Main Street during the Holly Days Festival.’

‘You still haven’t told us why you called us in yet, Chief.’ It is Alfonse’s turn to change the subject. His words seem to add to the burden the chief is carrying.

‘You remember I told you about the guy who was found in the trunk of his car on 191?’

I nod. ‘What about him?’

‘His sister was the lady who found Kira Niemeyer’s body.’

The room falls silent as Chief Watson gives us time to process what he’s just said.

I’m the one to break the heavy silence. ‘Surely it’s nothing more than one of those nasty coincidences life throws at you just when you don’t need it.’

‘I hope so, because if it’s not, then it’s the start of something horrible.’

‘It’s got to be. What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know, but the fact is I have a bad feeling about this and I’m afraid my bad feelings aren’t often wrong.’

I cast around my mind then come up with the quote I am looking for. ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence and a third time is enemy action.’

‘Huh?’

Alfonse looks blank but Chief Watson gets my reference. ‘He’s quoting from one of the James Bond books. Goldfinger, I believe. What he’s saying is that Mrs Halliburton’s run of bad luck can’t be attributed to anything other than coincidence until a third event happens to her.’

I nod. ‘You’re right, Chief, but let’s just hope your bad feeling is wrong and we don’t have any more bodies connected to Mrs Halliburton.’

24

Leaving the police station, Alfonse gives me the rundown on what little he’s learned from the journal Kira kept in her secret folder. It isn’t much use to me but I’m sure Dr Edwards would have found it fascinating.

The introspection and self-justification passages he tells me about are bland. Some may even go so far as to say they are banal. As far as I’m concerned, they sketch a broad outline of her psyche at best. Even then, the sketch is drawn by an amateurish hand.

What amuses me is the way technology has been used to store her secrets. Where once a diary or journal would have been buried at the back of an underwear drawer, nowadays it becomes another file on an electronic device.

Fair enough, she’d tried to hide the folder and had passworded it, but what she’d failed to realise was, by doing so, she’d highlighted the folder’s importance.

The best hiding places are always in plain sight. Nobody bothers looking at a folder with a boring title like ‘utilities’ or ‘household accounts’.

A secret folder protected by a password will pique the interest of anyone who learns of its existence. The fact it has been found by a professional means it will be scrutinised from every angle.

I can tell by his behaviour that Alfonse has found something in the folder. Something he’s chosen not to share in front of Chief Watson.

‘So. What else did you find in Kira’s journal?’

His reply is hesitant. ‘A few bits and pieces but there’s a recurring theme.’

‘Which is?’ Even to my ears, my sigh is filled with impatience.

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘Grow up. I’m a big boy. I can take it.’

Silence fills the car. I guess he’s trying to find the right words.

‘Spill it, Alfonse.’

‘She was in love with you.’

‘What?’ I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. ‘There’s no way she was in love with me. You’re jerking me around.’

‘You can read it for yourself. But trust me, she was deeply in love with you.’ There is no deception in his voice. We know each other well enough to spot misdirection, lies and pranks. None of his usual tells are vocal. Each one remains mute.

Now it is me who falls into silence. Alfonse’s statement has knocked me sideways. I’m glad we are only a minute or two away from his place. I need to verify his claim with my own eyes.

Try as I might, I can’t recall Kira displaying anything more than a passing attraction to me. I was a toy to be picked up and put down at will. The booty call arrangement suited us both. Or at least I thought it had. If she had been in love with me, she’d kept her feelings not just hidden, but buried.

The next thing I start to consider is what bearing this news may or may not have on the case.

Her wounds suggested a frenzied attacker. Hers was the kind of assault which is driven by fury or insanity. If that’s the case, jealousy could have powered the arm holding the knife.

Yet Kira hadn’t told me how she felt. Therefore, it is a stretch to assume she’d told someone else. Her pouring her heart out to someone who also harboured feelings for me pushed the bounds of probability.

Besides, I’m not the settling down type and I’m not conceited enough to believe women are prepared to kill over me.

Reasoning it out doesn’t stop me wondering though.

As I pull up to the kerb and switch off the engine, my memory is doing a roll call of the girls I’ve dated over the last year or two.

There is only one who had been upset about me not wanting to continue the relationship. Six weeks after I’d broken it off she’d come into the Tree with one of the roughnecks from the oilfields on her arm. From what I’ve heard, the two of them are now a solid item, looking to set up house together.

I want to share my thoughts with Alfonse but I can tell he is struggling with the news. He is too respectful a person to mock the dead or speak ill of them, but I have no doubt that in any circumstances other than a murder investigation, I’d have been slaughtered with one-liners and half-assed witticisms.

He’d always liked Kira and while he’d never been intimate with her to my knowledge, I’ve long suspected he carried a torch for her.

I wait until we are in his kitchen with coffee brewing before I seek his opinion. ‘You’ve had longer to think about it than I have. What do you make of it?’

‘Without blowing smoke up your ass, my first thought was that it was a jealous rival who wanted you for herself. Then I remembered what Emily said about the manner of her death. While there were a lot of wounds to make it look like a frenzied attack, the cut that killed her was delivered with precision. That suggests a deliberate attack by someone who knows how to use a knife. My next thought was that it might be a boyfriend who’d flipped after being compared to you. Following this line of reasoning, I went through her journal looking for the names of anyone local she’d dated.’

‘And?’ The sooner Alfonse arrives at the point the better, I’m tired after a long day, and the added mental strain from learning the victim was supposed to have been in love with me has done little to improve my temper.

‘I found she’d only dated three locals in the last eighteen months. Checking the dates against my memory, I figure she only dated when you saw someone more than a couple of times.’

If what Alfonse says is correct – and I have no reason to doubt him – it appears Kira was hedging her bets whenever she thought I might be in a relationship. When my brief sojourns ran their course, she would find a reason to dump the guy.

While Alfonse’s logic may well be sound, I don’t like it. I’m not egotistical enough to think anyone would behave that way over me. I’m nothing special, just a guy who likes hanging out with his friends, reading and earning an honest buck. On the flip side I also like getting into fights and once in a while drinking until I lose days.

Not enjoying this subject, I decide to move on from it. ‘So who’d she date?’

‘Pete Lester, Terrel Upson and George Chalmers.’

I know two of the names. Pete Lester is a builder who runs a small business, Terrel Upson works in a butcher’s shop on Main.

‘Do you know anything about this Chalmers guy?’

Alfonse passes me a sheet of paper across. ‘He’s an accountant. Works by himself and looks after local businesses. Small time and seems to be happy with it from what I’ve learned.’

The paper has a few details on Chalmers and a picture that looks like it has been lifted from a social media site.

While not great leads, they are the best we’ve got. We agree I’m to speak with them in the morning while Alfonse continues his digital excavations of their lives.

25

He waits until the sliver of moon is hidden behind a cloud and moves from his hiding place in the manicured hedge.

Each step is hurried but silent as he crosses the garden and approaches the house’s back door. Using a set of picks, he is through the door and inside the house in less than a minute.

He knows which room she’ll be in. He’s watched the house for hours, observing her movements. A trail of lights being switched off identified her bedroom at the rear of the house.

He is striking when the night is darkest. When the target is deepest in sleep.

She fits the pattern. She will die tonight. Her death will be a quick one. Painful for a brief spell, but quick compared to the Niemeyer slut.

As he moves towards the stairs he’s startled by the angry hiss of a cat. Inside the lounge a mangy tabby with fierce eyes arches its back.

Taking two steps forward, he reaches the lounge door and closes it while the cat is still deciding whether or not to attack.

Step by step he tiptoes up the stairs, keeping his feet against the left wall to minimise the risk of a creak betraying his presence.

The strong aroma of muscle liniment fills his nose, telling him the old girl has overdone it at the gym.

Reaching the top of the stairs he identifies the correct bedroom from the gentle snores.

His gloved hand clasps the door handle and he slips into the bedroom, taking care not to make even the tiniest sound.

Three brisk steps have him towering over her bed, the scalpel in his hand poised ready to strike.

26

I swing the Mustang into a parking bay and step onto the street. Four paces later, I feel the first prickles of sweat begin to encase my body. It isn’t usually this hot at this time of year, but it’s not unknown.

The growing heat causes me to be uneasy for another reason altogether. A friend has decided to take advantage of the good weather. He’s called with an invitation to an impromptu barbecue and pool party.

Claude is a lousy cook at the best of times. As a rule, his barbecuing produces more charcoal than a forest fire. Add to that a thirty by twelve hole filled with water and drunk people and you have a recipe for disaster.

I’d made vague promises, saying how busy I am, but I’ll try to get there if at all possible.

Before entering George Chalmers’s office, I take a moment to assess what I can see through the window.

Chalmers is seated at his desk with a vast ledger in front of him. To his left, nearer the door is the cleanest cut young man I’ve ever seen. He’s staring into a computer screen with serious intent when I hear the muted tones of a telephone.

Clean Cut lifts the telephone on his desk and speaks for a moment before transferring the call to Chalmers. Figuring Clean Cut is some kind of intern or trainee, I wait until the phone call ends then enter the small office. It’s the tidiest office I’ve ever stepped into. Nothing seems to be out of place. Even the papers on the desks are ordered and straight. A hint of cologne hangs in the air rather than the dusty smell of old files.

Before I can say a word, Clean Cut is out of his chair. ‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Chalmers Accountants. How may I help you?’

Not only is he too polite for words, he is even more clean-cut when close up. I reckon he’s never yet used a razor and won’t need to for at least ten years.

‘I’m here to have a word with Mr Chalmers.’

‘Do you have an appointment, Mr…?’

‘Boulder. No, I don’t.’ I look across the room to where Chalmers is pretending to look at the ledger while earwigging our conversation. ‘It’s to do with a case I’m working on for Devereaux Investigations.’

Give Chalmers his due, he doesn’t flinch at my words.

A shot of excitement fills Clean Cut’s face before professionalism and breeding remove it. He turns to his boss. ‘Mr Chalmers, do you have a moment to speak to a Mr Boulder about a case he’s investigating?’

Chalmers looks up from the ledger on his desk. ‘I have five minutes, Mr Boulder. I am afraid we are rather busy just now.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ I give a sideways nod at Clean Cut. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

He frowns then pulls a dead president from his billfold. ‘Michael, would you be so kind as to walk down to Sherri’s and get me my usual? I will take lunch at my desk today.’

Listening to Chalmers’s educated voice and his mannered speech pattern, the presence of Clean Cut begins to make sense to me. The younger man will be either a relative or a carefully vetted protégé.

As soon as the door closes, I pull up a chair ready to pepper Chalmers with questions about his relationship with Kira.

His nose wrinkles in distaste at my sitting without being invited, but I’m not too worried about his sensibilities. What I have come to discuss is far worse than bad manners.

‘Have you heard Kira Niemeyer was murdered?’

He nods. ‘A terrible business. Whoever could do such a thing?’

Not bothering to answer his question, I lock eyes with him. My intention is to go straight for the jugular with a candid account of Kira’s death. Get him on the back foot by offending his genteel nature. Perhaps I’ll get a flash of a darker persona lurking underneath. ‘Did you also hear how she was slashed seventy-two times before her heart was pierced? That her body was dumped half under a bush on a popular walking trail where it was sure to be found?’

The blanching of his already pale skin is the only answer I’m given. His eyes cloud with sadness as he considers my words.

‘Every cut was on her chest and stomach. Can you imagine what a mess that many wounds would do in such a concentrated area?’

He shoots from his seat and darts towards a door at the back of the room. I am three paces behind him when I recognise the room he’s entered is a bathroom. Chalmers isn’t trying to escape. He’s more concerned with hitting the toilet bowl with the streams of vomit pulsing from his mouth.

I step back into the office and return to my seat. There is nothing to be gained from standing over him, he’ll be out when he’s finished. Having witnessed his upright-citizen behaviour, I guess he’ll be shamefaced about his less than stoic reaction.

When he does emerge from the bathroom, his pallor has dropped a couple of shades to a hue interior decorators call apple white.

‘I am sorry. That was rather embarrassing.’

I wave away his apologies. ‘Don’t worry about it, you’re not the first person I’ve known to be sick after being told something horrible.’

He gives a small nod of thanks as he pulls a bottle of sparkling water from a desk drawer. ‘All the same, it is not very gentlemanly.’

There’s a danger we’ll keep going round in circles if I don’t change the subject, so I get to the real point for my visit.

‘Kira mentioned in her journal you and she dated. How long were you together, and when was it?’

‘We dated for around two months. It would be the middle of last summer.’

I cast my memory back and remember dating a dental nurse who’d wanted to teach me how to swim. Her increasing insistence had brought a swift end to our relationship.

‘Why did you split?’

He shrugs. ‘Why does any couple separate? I guess we were not terribly well suited.’

‘In what way didn’t you suit each other?’

He delays his answer by emptying the bottle of water into a glass. ‘Did you know Kira before she died?’

I nod and wait for him to continue.

‘You are a private detective. I am sure you have assessed me as a person, looked into my background?’

It’s my turn to shrug. ‘A little.’

‘Tell me, Mr Boulder, why do you think Kira and I parted company?’

It’s a good question. One whose answer makes sense.

Chalmers is a prig at best. At worst he’s a prissy little mummy’s boy who’ll expect his wife to conform to the Stepford model.

Kira and he wouldn’t be suited to each other in any way. While opposites are meant to attract, she was an untamed spirit who lived life at a pace that suited the rhythms of mood and moment.

Chalmers, on the other hand, is the type of person for whom routine is everything. A real ‘fish on a Friday’ kind of guy. He’d worship and provide a decent life for her and any kids they produced while suffocating her free-spirited nature.

Sure, physical attraction may carry them so far together, but his sort are planners by nature and Chalmers is at that age where the getting of a wife has been moved from the ‘one day’ to the ‘imperative’ column in his life ledger.

This line of thought almost leads me to discount him as a suspect until I have a second thought.

What if he’d fallen for her and had his marital offer discarded? I’ve learned from many a fight, the quiet ones often prove the most dangerous.

Perhaps her rejection had been the straw that broke the dromedary’s spine, flipping him from prissy clerk into a crazed killer, intent on making sure that if he couldn’t have Kira, no one else could.

As plausible as this sounds at first, the theory doesn’t bear much scrutiny. They’d been together last year. Suppressed personalities can be very unpredictable, but there had been no current trigger. If she’d been listed in the Casperton Gazette’s weekly round-up of engagements, there would be more cause to consider him as a suspect.

It wasn’t outwith the realms of possibility he’d found out Kira was hooking, but I doubt he has. While his office and clothes speak of a decent business, I can’t see an accountant being able to justify spending money on a hooker. Certainly not ones charging ten grand a time. While there is no particular kind or type of person who’d hire a hooker, I just can’t picture him booking one.

Still, I’m not ready to strike a line through his name just yet.

‘Okay, so you were different people who hooked up for a while. Tell me what you two did have in common. Where you hung out together.’

‘We did not exactly have a lot in common. We would perhaps watch a movie or go for dinner and then go back to my place.’ He blushes as his eyes look at anything in the room except me. ‘Our relationship was more physical than cerebral.’

‘I get it. When you first got together who instigated it?’

‘Kira did. I was quite taken aback at her forwardness.’

I have a struggle to keep my reply to that statement unspoken.

Kira would have eaten Chalmers up and spat out a chewed skeleton without her extra-curricular activities. With them it was a complete mismatch, which made David versus Goliath seem like a fair fight.

‘And who was it who called it quits? You or her?’

‘That was her too.’ He looks me in the eye for the first time in minutes. ‘I did not let it bother me too much to be honest. The physical benefits may have been enjoyable but it was never true love for either of us. In fact, the night she told me it was over she as good as told me she was interested in someone else.’

‘Who? What did she say?’ My words come out in a hurried jumble. This was the kind of information that could point us towards her killer.

Again Chalmers delays by taking a drink of water before speaking. It’s as if he is searching his memory or is afraid what he says will disappoint me. ‘She told me that she thought a lot of me, but I would never be Jake Boulder.’

I guess I must have gasped as he asks if I am okay. Chalmers could have punched at me for an hour without doing a fraction of the damage his words had.

My skin develops a sheen of sweat. The thoughts and ideas in my head are tumbling around too fast to comprehend.

I haul myself together enough to focus my eyes onto his face. Staring hard at him I find no trace of deception or animosity. There is a tinge of empathy and embarrassment at the confession that has compared us in Kira’s eyes.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’

I nod, not trusting the desert that’s masquerading as my mouth. Taking the water from him, I gulp a mouthful and follow it with a steady drink.

‘Thanks.’ I hand the glass back.

‘I can see that threw you somewhat.’

‘Just a bit.’ I give a brief smile and try to make light of it. ‘It’s just a wee bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘I am sure it was. If it is any consolation, I was most perturbed when she said it to me.’

His use of perturbed jolts me back to a semblance of my regular self. I know what the word means, but I’ve never heard it used in conversation before.

‘Tell me, when you were together did she ever take you back to her place?’

‘No. I suggested it, but she always had a reason why we should go back to mine.’

‘What about her family, did she take you to meet them?’

‘Again the answer is no. I was not particularly bothered about meeting her family if I am honest.’

‘Why not?’ I think I may just be back on track, at least in appearance.

‘I could tell we were into different things and I find the whole business of meeting parents rather intimidating. Especially when you consider how wealthy her father is.’

I couldn’t begin to guess how much Old Man Niemeyer was worth, but then again, money isn’t my God. So long as I have enough bucks to get by from week to week I’m happy. How much or little other people have is their business, not mine.

An accountant like Chalmers will be obsessed with money and will no doubt have a pretty good handle on where in Casperton all the money, and the power accompanying it resides.

Being as he is such a prissy fellow, I figure appealing to his decency will get me some answers. Unless I’ve misjudged him, Chalmers’s moral code won’t allow him to be deceitful on matters which don’t directly affect him.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me that may help catch her killer?’

Chalmers talks for a couple of minutes. I don’t think anything he says is helpful but I let him finish just in case.

27

Next on my list of people to see is Pete Lester. I know Pete from his occasional visits to the Tree. He is a big guy with a cheerful nature and ready grin.

He’s also living embodiment of beauty only being skin deep. Few are the times I’ve seen him without some girl or other in attendance, despite him looking as if he’d fallen from the top of the ugly tree and hit every branch face first on the way down.

As I drive across town, my brain chews at the implications of Kira’s words like a starving rat.

You’re no Jake Boulder.

Whichever way up I stand those words, in any context I can think of, they always return me to the same conclusion. Kira Niemeyer had fallen deeply in love with me. Not the usual hearts and flowers love the gift card industry markets. Hers was the bat-shit crazy obsessive kind of attraction which poisons common sense and taints reason until you have a twenty-four-carat stalker on your tail.

What astounds me more than anything else is the way I’d been left unaware of her true feelings. To my mind I was little more than a booty call or a friendly conversation when our paths crossed.

That Kira had possessed such a depth of feelings for me is a haymaker from a world champion. Whenever we’d gotten together she’d exhibited none of the typical signs of clingy or nesting behaviour which so terrifies both Alfonse and me.

On the contrary, her behaviour often verged on being aloof or distant.

Realisation dawns on me as I pull into Pete Lester’s yard and climb out of the Mustang. Kira had been two steps ahead of me.

Feminine instinct, her natural intelligence or some other factor had warned her of the result of trying to ensnare me into a proper relationship. Recognising my ingrained bachelordom, she’d played a different game – always leaving the door open for a return while seeming indifferent to my response.

Looking back at our liaisons, I realised just how much she’d set the pace and tone. Kira and I had been good together. We both knew it and yet neither of us had wanted to make it a regular thing.

At least that’s what I had always thought.

How the hell had I gotten it so wrong? Not picked up even the slightest hint she’d fallen so hard for me?

I see Pete and a couple of his men loading a pickup with timber windows. As I walk across they begin tossing ropes across the pile.

‘Hey, Jake. Whatcha after?’ A squint-toothed smile follows his words.

‘I’m here to ask you a few questions.’

‘No sweat. What’s your problem, dry rot? Termites?’

‘Alfonse and I are investigating Kira Niemeyer’s murder.’

‘Better you than that dumbshit Farrage and his cronies.’ His own cronies nod agreement.

I can’t help but smile at their endorsement.

‘Thanks.’ I give a nod to the far side of his yard where his office is located. ‘Can we talk somewhere more private?’

‘We can.’ A callused thumb jerks towards his men. ‘But when I get back they’ll just ask what we’ve been talking about. And I’ll tell them. I’ve no secrets about Kira as far as they’re concerned.’

‘Fair enough.’ It isn’t but there is little I can do about it without a badge to give me authority.

Pete’s eyes narrow as he detects the difference in my tone. ‘It’s cool, Jake. I dated Kira for about three months at the start of the year. Neither of us were looking for anything more than a bit of fun and neither of us were exclusive.’

‘Can you tell me about how you two hooked up?’

‘She came on to me. I didn’t have to do anything except not piss her off.’ His smile is joined by a lecherous wink.

We talk. I ask questions, he answers them.

I learn nothing new. He finds out a few details about Kira’s murder which remove the smile from his lips.

Before I know it, I have just one question left. It is the one whose answer I have to have, but am not looking forward to hearing.

‘Who decided you two should split?’

‘I did.’

‘What did she say when you finished it?’

‘She laughed in my face and told me I was just a stopgap until the man she really wanted became available.’

I say nothing. Silence is always a good asker of questions.

It looks like Pete is going to wait me out. After a minute or so his mouth opens. ‘You want to know if I asked who she was waiting for, don’t you?’

I nod and watch him rub the stubble on his face with a meaty hand.

‘I didn’t ask. I figured she was just getting a little payback for me dumping her.’ His eyes widen as a synapse fires behind his gargoylian features. ‘This other guy does exist and you think he’s behind it. I’m right, aren’t I?’

I shake my head, reluctant to tell him how bad Kira had it for me.

‘C’mon, Jake, you can tell me. This other dude, he’s the one who killed her, isn’t he?’

‘No. It’s definitely not him.’ The force of my answer surprises me and makes him lean back as if he’s expecting me to take a swing at him.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Trust me. I know it’s not the person she was waiting for.’

Twenty seconds later I’m driving out of his yard trying to figure out why Kira’s obsession is messing with my head quite so much.

It is getting to me way more than it should. I had no strong feelings for her. No long-term dreams of a life together. I’m mourning her passing as that of a close acquaintance rather than a dear friend or loved one.

On reflection, I realise it’s the fact I’ve been oblivious to her designs on me that is at the root of my distress. If I’d been aware, I’d have had Alfonse forever using it to mock or humiliate me.

With knowledge comes acceptance. All I have to do is accept this new knowledge and use it to my advantage instead of letting it debilitate my thought processes.

I park at the mall and walk along Main Street until I arrive at the butcher’s.

The shop is crowded, so I stand in line and pass the time eyeing up some of the steaks. I plan to grab a couple of fillets on my way out.

A young server with a face full of spots finishes serving a soccer mom and turns to me. ‘Hi – can I help you?’

‘I’d like a word with Terrel Upson.’

‘Sorry, he’s out of town for a few days.’

My interest level in Upson spikes to a new high. ‘Where’s he gone? When did he go?’

‘I don’t know.’ He waves a hand towards a door. ‘One of the guys in the back might though.’

I gesture towards the doorway and lift an eyebrow. He nods, his focus already on the next person in line.

Walking through the doorway, I find three men hard at work with meat cleavers, knives and the odd hacksaw. Two are cutting up sides of beef while the third has half a pig on his table. A ferrous smell hangs in the air from the blood. All three guys are dressed in white overalls with stained aprons covering their fronts.

All three have faces I’ve seen around before, but I can’t say for sure if I’ve ever spoken to any of them.

I have to raise my voice over the latest irritating jingle from KMDZ. ‘Guys, have you a minute to answer a few questions?’

‘What’s it worth?’

The speaker is a slim man with a buzz cut and a Texan accent. His drawl reminds me of movies hammier than the pig he is butchering.

‘Twenty bucks apiece.’

I have no qualms about loosening tongues with a few greenbacks. In this instance our client is more than wealthy enough to cover incidentals like the odd twenty bucks.

‘Make it thirty.’

Tex shoots a furious look at the speaker, a drawn man with long hair bundled into a ponytail tucked into the back of his overalls.

‘I think Jonno meant a hundred.’ His grin shows me ten reasons why he should visit an orthodontist. ‘Each.’

‘Fifty.’

‘Ninety.’

‘Fifty.’

I’m not trying to reduce Old Man Niemeyer’s bill, that doesn’t bother me at all. I am arguing the price down because of my inherent Scottishness and a desire to assume control of the situation. Tex is the kind of man who’ll try and dominate me and steer the conversation his way unless I rein him in from the start.

‘I said ninety.’

‘And I said fifty.’ I make sure the edge in my voice is sharper than the one in his. ‘Take it or leave it. I can always find someone else to answer my questions.’

‘Hey, no need to get so het up. I was just foolin’ with ya. Fifty’s cool.’ Tex gives a forced laugh and looks first at his buddies then me to see if we are laughing too.

They have wary smiles, but I keep my face implacable.

‘Where’s Terrel Upson?’

‘He’s gone to see his folks in Seattle.’ It is the third man who answers. He scratches at his bald head as he talks. ‘Apparently his mom’s not well.’

‘When did he go?’

Again it is the third guy who speaks. ‘Wednesday morning. I dropped him at the airport before coming here.’

That means Upson had left town before Kira had been murdered. Or at least found. I make a mental note to find out if Emily has established a time of death.

‘Do you guys remember him dating Kira Niemeyer?’

‘Sure. He was one lucky son of a bitch to be nailing her. Right, guys?’ Again Tex laughs and looks towards his perceived audience.

The third man ignores Tex’s insensitive behaviour. ‘Yeah, I remember. They dated for a while earlier this year. Terrel was pretty cut up when she broke it off.’

‘Was he?’ I address the question to the third man as he seems to be the most willing to help.

‘Yeah. His face was tripping him for weeks afterwards.’ He gives an exasperated shake of his head. ‘Dumb really. There was no way it was going to last. He was just a bit of rough for a rich little daddy’s girl. Sooner or later she’d have been married off to someone her father approved of. She never even took him to meet her family.’

There in a nutshell is the reason I was so relaxed about hooking up with Kira. Our respective social statuses would always prevent a long-term relationship. Her family would expect to marry her off to the son of some millionaire or other who had the necessary breeding and the right Ivy League education.

In her own way, Kira had rebelled far beyond anyone’s expectations. What intrigued me was the way she had kept her rebellion from her family. Upson, Lester and I all fell into the unsuitable boyfriend category, yet none of us had been paraded in front of her parents. In the same vein, she’d kept her hooking a secret from everyone.

I need to discuss this with Alfonse and maybe Dr Edwards.

Bringing my attention back to the issue at hand, I look at the third man.

‘Why did she break it off?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Didn’t or wouldn’t?’

‘Hey man. When a dude tells you he’s been dumped you don’t ask why. You buy him a beer and tell him he’s better off without her.’

He’s right. That’s exactly what happens. Alfonse and I have done it many a time.

Sensing there is nothing else to learn, I get Upson’s cell number from the third man and reach for my wallet.

Tex eyes the notes with open greed.

‘Yeah, boys. Easiest payday we’ve ever had.’

Tex’s laugh and look combination grate on me so I decide to default on our deal. At least as far as he is concerned.

‘Here.’ I hand the third man a hundred bucks as he was the one who’d answered my questions. Ponytail got the agreed fifty. A crumpled twenty is all I give Tex.

‘You said fifty.’

I hold my fist in front of his eyes and fill my voice with menace. ‘If you speak to me like that again you’ll end up paying your dentist hundreds. Do I make myself understood?’

I walk out while he decides whether or not to make an issue of it.

The spotty-faced youth is poking at one of his zits, so I reconsider my dinner plans. Perhaps a takeout will be healthier.

Climbing back into the Mustang, I see the folder Alfonse had given me last night. In it are a number of printouts from Kira’s journal.

I’ve delayed reading them as long as possible, afraid of how stupid and helpless I’ll feel. Afraid my blood will boil hot enough to have me seeking a vengeance that doesn’t belong to me.

28

The Watcher arranges the scarf around Evie Starr’s neck and checks about one last time.

This is a perfect way and location for her to be left. The scarf covers the incision made by his scalpel. Taking care, he folds her arms and rests her chin on her chest, making her look as if she’s fallen asleep while admiring the view.

The traces of stiffness in her body aren’t strong enough to prevent him from setting her just how he wants her. He’d feared rigor mortis would thwart his attempts to seat her on the bench but her cancer-ravaged body has little muscle to solidify. Draining her blood has helped.

With her in position, he lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow he’s used to transport her from the car. He pushes it into the bushes and trees of a small archipelago jutting into the reservoir. Reaching the water’s edge, he heaves the wheelbarrow into the still water and starts to make his way back to the bush where he’s stashed his ghillie suit and observation gear.

The bush will make an ideal vantage point, which is why he’s chosen it. From underneath its thorny boughs he can watch both the bench and the parking area at the end of the bay.

All he has to do now is wait. And watch.

Soon the next stage of the pattern will begin and he’ll be able to identify his next victim.

The Watcher knows the net is closing on him. Jake Boulder turning up today has taught him that.

The homicides being the subject of an investigation is only to be expected. That Boulder and his buddy Devereaux have been hired doesn’t come as any kind of surprise – everybody in Casperton is aware just how ineffective Farrage and his team are.

Now he’s accelerated his killing, it is only a matter of time before the bigger guns of the FBI are brought in. Their presence will limit his chances to continue, but he plans to keep going until they catch him.

Once arrested he’ll be stopped, but the authorities have nothing they can threaten him with. The nurse has already sentenced him to death with her laziness.

Her ignorance has robbed the law enforcers of their greatest deterrent. By the time he is arrested and a trial date set there is every chance he’ll be dead.

His greatest concern is being stopped before reaching the kind of numbers that will ensure his name goes down in history. With the police as inept as they are, there is little threat from them, but Boulder and Devereaux will bear watching. He knows their diligent attention to detail and intelligence is far superior to any of the town’s detectives.

A teenage couple walk into view. Hand in hand, they laugh and joke with each other as they move towards the bench. The guy leans into the girl and kisses her cheek.

She takes a playful swipe at him, then moves her head so they can have a proper kiss.

When they break apart, the Watcher sees the girl point at the bench. He hears their whoops and laughter abate as they show respect to the elderly woman on the bench.

A new possibility springs into the Watcher’s mind, causing him to stifle a shout of joy.

He watches as the teens walk towards the bench. With every step they take he releases a prayer they will realise the woman’s slumber is of the permanent variety.

If they do, the possibilities for him will become endless.

29

I curse at the message on my cell and put down the papers I’ve been reading. Of all the times to receive a summons from my mother, this is the worst.

Inept with technology at the best of times, Mother has never gotten the hang of messaging via a cell phone.

Trying to explain to her why texting in capitals is akin to shouting is like trying to educate a tiger on the benefits of a vegan diet.

To her the fact she is perceived as shouting is a good thing. She once told me ‘People react quicker to a shout than a whisper’.

While she’s a loving mother, she is still hard to handle. Now she doesn’t have to work or guard every penny, she fights boredom by having a social circle of women in a similar position.

Neither wealthy nor poor, the group has given her the friends she didn’t have time for in Glasgow. When not raising money for one charity or another, they shop, lunch or just interfere in the lives of their families.

Several times I have received one of Mother’s summonses, only to have one of her friend’s daughters ‘drop in’ while I was there.

There have been many arguments ending in a stalemate. She is left with the knowledge grandchildren won’t be along soon and I’m made to feel inconsiderate and selfish.

Still, despite everything, she is my mother and I love her. The text I’ve received has an urgency, beyond the shouting capitals, which makes it impossible to ignore or defer until later.

I enter her house via the side door. Finding nobody around, I am helping myself to a coffee when a loud voice rings out.

‘Jacob Boulder. Get yer scrawny arse in here right now.’

This isn’t good. Not only has she Sunday named me, the Glaswegian accent she’s worked so hard to lose is as strong as I’ve ever heard it.

I follow her voice to the lounge, where I find her sitting in her usual seat. Instead of being reclined in front of the fifty-inch TV, it is upright and facing the kitchen door.

Mother is even more upright than the chair. Her posture indicates a mixture of anger and worry, the crow’s feet on her face transformed into deep furrows.

‘Sit.’ The sole word is a command not an invitation.

I am getting spooked now. Mother deals with life’s blows in a matter-of-fact way. Drawing from her incredible reserves of inner strength, she tends to meet challenges head on and beats them through sheer force of will.

Combined, her posture, summons and accent tell me she is facing something she doesn’t believe she can conquer.

‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ I hate the concern in my voice but I can’t stop its presence.

‘I’m fine. It’s you who’s ill.’

‘Me?’ I start to laugh as relief courses through my body. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘There bloody well must be. Otherwise you wouldna be chasing after thon killer.’

To hear Mother swear is a rarity. Only in times of consternation or extreme sorrow will she permit a strong curse to pass her lips. Her accent has returned not just to Glasgow, but direct to the Govan estate where she’d spent her life before moving to Casperton. In her current state of agitation she looks and sounds just like my grandmother. In the interests of family harmony I don’t inform her of the fact.

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Is it no’? Explain it then. Stop an auld woman from worrying about her only son. Stop her fretting that the only chance she’s got o’ becoming a granny is hell bent on getting his sel’ killed.’

‘Enough!’ I raise my voice enough to shock her into silence. I need to stop her nonsense before she gathers a head of steam. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. You may even have the wrong stick.’

There is no point denying my search for Kira’s killer as she’s obviously heard who hired Alfonse and me.

‘Don’t you be raising your voice at me, young man.’ A knobbly finger points at me. ‘C’mon then. Tell me which stick I should have a hold of and which end.’

I try to play down my involvement as her concerns aren’t groundless. ‘Kira Niemeyer’s father hired Alfonse to look into her death. I’m helping out, that’s all.’

‘So it’s no’ just your own life you’re risking, you’re also putting the life of the best friend you e’er had in danger too.’

This is impossible; once she has an idea in her head it’s easier to move a sleeping elephant than convince her she’s wrong.

‘Settle down. We’re looking into a few leads and are working in full cooperation with the police. If we find a suspect, we’ll hand them over to the police and keep well out of it. We’re not stupid, so don’t treat me as if we are.’

‘So now you’re working with the police. Brilliant. Don’t they have guns?’ A liver-spotted hand slaps her forehead. ‘Of course they do. What have you got? Let me tell you what you’ve got. You’ve a reputation as a hard man, who fights for the fun o’ it. Tell me, Mr Don’t-You-Worry, what do you think this killer is going to do if you happen to confront him? Or get too close to him?’

I don’t have an answer for her. At least not one that will give her the reassurance she craves.

‘Don’t just sit there like a big stookie. Tell me you’re gonna stop this nonsense right away.’

I have to fight to keep my tone reasonable. Raising my voice to her levels will only result in a shouting match that benefits nobody. ‘I’m not going to stop anything. I’ll make sure I don’t put myself in danger, but there’s no way I’m going to stop.’

What I don’t say is that finding Kira’s killer has become personal. If she learns about Kira’s obsession with me she’ll start proclaiming it’s all my fault and that I’ll be the next to be killed.

‘I knew you’d say that. You’ve always been the same, Jake. You’re as stubborn as your bloody father. I’ve lost count of the times you’ve cut yer nose off to spite yer face. You never know when to back off and let it go.’

Try as you might, there’s very little you can hide about your nature from your mother. Mine knows me better than any other human alive and has enough about her to look at me with honesty. To see the real me.

I smile to try and diffuse her anger. A little flattery goes a long way with her. ‘I’m just like my mother. I have all her best qualities.’

‘Aye. An’ you’ve got a lot of bad ones from your faither.’ She isn’t smiling back but I can tell she’s softening.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to tackle a killer.’

‘Perhaps not. But you’ve got the MacDonald temper on you. What I’m afraid of is you getting yourself into a situation you can’t fight your way out of.’ She holds a hand out to forestall my protests. ‘That’s why I’m giving you this.’

She opens the handbag on the table to her left and pulls out a gun, which she proffers to me.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m making sure you have the means to look after yoursel’. You’re too pig-headed to listen to me, so I’m giving you this so you can get yourself out of the trouble I know you’re going to attract.’

‘Here.’ I give her the gun back. ‘I don’t know the first thing about guns. Beyond an air rifle I’ve never held one let alone pulled a trigger. I’ll be more likely to shoot myself than anyone else.’

She pushes her hands into her lap and leaves me standing with my arm outstretched. ‘Don’t be a fool, Jake. You don’t have to be a good shot. You might not even have to fire it. The idea is you have it so you can protect yourself. I don’t want you to go to jail any more than I want you to get hurt.’

I bring my hand back; the gun still rests in my palm. I give it a proper look for the first time – see the name Ruger. It looks small in my hand. Taking care not to point it at my mother, I try holding it properly. It is lighter than I expect a gun to be and despite looking small, it’s a good fit for my hand.

‘There’s a safety catch where your thumb is. I suggest you go out into the hills somewhere and fire a few shots, familiarise yourself with it.’

That’s the only thing she’s said to me today that I may pay attention to.

Her hand dips into the handbag and re-emerges holding two clips and a belt holster. ‘You’re allowed to carry it as long as it’s unloaded and not concealed.’

‘What about a permit?’ I am showing my ignorance, but guns have never held any thrall for me, therefore I’ve never bothered to find out about them.

‘You don’t need one.’

When Mother gets up and goes to the kitchen, I sink back into the seat trying to get my head round the surreal conversation we’ve just had. Not only have I just been given a gun by my mother, but it has been handed to me in a room crowded with porcelain ornaments and some of the chintziest fabrics known to man.

Her concern is touching in one way and insulting in another. Is she afraid for me due to a mother’s love or because she doesn’t trust me to keep myself safe?

Either way, I now have a gun I don’t want and am not sure I could use if the need should arise. Cracking a few heads is one thing. Pulling a trigger requires a whole different outlook.

By the time she returns with two steaming mugs of coffee, I’ve decided to take her advice and fire a few shots in the hills where nobody can get hurt and then stow the gun in the trunk of my car.

‘Now that’s dealt with, I want you to tell me why you’ve started seeing Dr Edwards.’

‘Isn’t what’s said between a psychiatrist and his patients confidential?’

‘Of course it is. But I’m your mother. Do you think so little of me that I’m not curious as to why after years of trying to persuade you to see him, you all of a sudden become his patient?’

‘I’m not seeing him for my own benefit.’

‘Then whose benefit is it for? I can scarcely believe you’re going for my benefit.’

I don’t give her the answer she is after. It’ll be less damning if she works it out for herself.

‘If you didn’t go to see Dr Edwards to talk about yourself… you were seeing him about someone else.’ She pauses as the cogs of her mind turn another revolution. ‘He won’t disclose anything about his patients, so you must have been using him as a consultant.’

I nod.

‘How can you do this to me, Jake? How can you use the man who knows everything about me and my fears like some reference book? Don’t you realise how this makes me feel?’ She pauses her tirade long enough to take a breath and reload her ammunition. ‘I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel sullied and humiliated by the way you’ve crept around behind my back discussing homicide with my therapist. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak to him again.’

This response is typical of her narcissism. I’ve had enough years of it to know how to deal with her though. So I go straight for the jugular and start asking her questions she can’t answer without tying herself in knots.

‘Don’t you think Kira’s killer should be caught?’

‘Of course I do. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘Do you think Farrage and his buddies are up to the job?’

‘No.’ She is hesitant now, suspicious of where I’m steering the conversation.

‘So you agree me and Alfonse are the Niemeyer family’s best hope when it comes to finding the killer?’

‘No!’ The word carries enough vehemence to start a war. ‘They’re rich enough to fly in a private eye who has experience in catching killers. You know, the ex-cop type of guy.’

‘Do you think such a guy would do better than us with our local knowledge?’

‘I don’t care whether or not someone else could do the job. My cares are with you. How am I gonna become a granny if you go and get yourself killed?’

I let that barb slide as I’m happy to let her score the odd point; she’s about to lose the argument and we both know it.

‘We’ve taken the case and we’re working it. I consulted Dr Edwards because you have repeatedly told me he is the best in Casperton. You do think we should have the best help available, don’t you?’

‘You know I only want the best for you.’

‘That’s why I went to Dr Edwards. He’s the best. Your words.’ I leave it there and say my goodbyes, with Mother firmly hoisted by her own petard.

30

I pull a can of soda from Alfonse’s fridge and sit opposite him at his kitchen table. I can tell he’s annoyed and frustrated by the way his normal jocularity is missing. It isn’t just that he’s all business, it is the way he’s carrying himself. The scowl on his face is also something of a clue as to the lack of progress he’s endured today.

He tells me everything he’s achieved today. Listening, I can feel his anger transferring itself to me. Every possible lead or clue he’s pursued has either been verified or resulted in a dead end.

‘I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere.’

‘You’ve achieved a lot. If nothing else you’ve eliminated a number of suspects.’ My words may be the truth, but I recognise their hollowness.

‘So what have you learned?’

‘Little more than you. To sum it up, I’d say I’ve learned Kira was playing those guys she was seeing. That she was obsessed with me. I also found out my mother knows more about guns than I do.’

‘What?’

I give him a condensed version of the visit I’d had with Mother. I can tell from his face he doesn’t know whether to laugh at me or share her concerns.

‘So what did you do with the gun?’

‘I left it in my car. Which is where it’s going to stay.’

He nods his approval.

What I don’t say is the gun will never be more than a hundred yards from me. At the same time, it won’t be at my side, inviting me to use it for all the wrong reasons.

‘So where do we go from here?’

I can’t give him a ready answer as I’m not sure myself. Everything we’ve learned has led us into an end so dead there isn’t enough room to turn around and come back.

His look at the digital lives of Chalmers, Upson and Lester has turned up nothing at all.

He’d called Emily to establish Kira’s time of death. She’d told him a time which was four hours after Upson had flown out of SLC airport. Even if Emily was out by a couple of hours there was no way he could have murdered Kira and still made his flight after a two-hour drive. And he did make his flight.

Like the detective he is, Alfonse had checked this fact as soon as he’d learned of its existence. He’d called Upson’s cell and had put to him much the same questions I’d asked Lester and Chalmers. Alfonse got the same answers I did. This is a shame as far as the investigation goes. Upson is an easy fit as the murderer. Him working as a butcher would give him access to many sharp knives and the knowledge of how to use them.

However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned assisting Alfonse, it’s that the simple option is almost never the real solution. Anything that involves human beings will always turn out to be messier and way more complicated than it ever needs to be.

Nothing in the digital records for the three men has shown up anything untoward. None of them is sitting on a pile of money. There are no convictions for assault. No grievances raised against them in the local courts. In essence they are a bunch of guys who’d happened to date the same girl.

What makes everything more interesting is the girl’s behaviour with each of them and with me.

I got that she was playing it cool with me. What I don’t get is why she bothered seeing those guys at all.

The hooking would satisfy any sexual needs she had and even if it didn’t, there are more than enough sex toys in her basement to make up for the lack of a man in her life. Companionship is out, as she kept her dates at arm’s length. They weren’t invited back to her house, asked to meet her parents or any of the usual stuff that happens in a relationship.

Instead they were picked up and discarded at will with the casual indifference a child has for a less than favourite toy.

None of the three had stood a chance of ever getting close to her, of forming a bond that would last through the decades. Even the priggish Chalmers had recognised his relationship with Kira for what it was.

Try as I might, I just can’t figure out why Kira was seeing them. At least not until I pull out Alfonse’s folder and go through the pages copied from her journal.

No wonder he is laying off with the wisecracks. There is some whacked out stuff on these pages.

Tough as they are to read, I go through them a second time.

Some part of my subconscious is aware of Alfonse moving around trying not to disturb me. I also know he’s keeping an eye on me as I read.

When I am finished my second pass, I get up and pace around the room. My boots sending out a metronomic beat on the laminate flooring as the movement helps me digest what I’ve just read.

Alfonse hands me another soda and takes the crushed remains of the first can from my hand.

‘Well?’

I shrug. I’m not yet able to organise my thoughts into a coherent sentence. It’s not every day you get to read the obsession-fuelled notes of your stalker.

The overriding element I’ve got is that Kira’s obsession with me appeared to be a case of undeclared love with psychotic overtones.

Upson, Lester and Chalmers had been selected as boyfriends so she could parade herself past me with them at her side. Every detail of her frustrations at the ploy not working has been recorded with intimate accuracy. The fact she’d repeated her actions a second and third time after the initial failure is described in self-critical terms where she’d railed at her own stupidity for not being able to make it work.

All blame is laid at her own door while I escape without criticism. The journal’s pages detail every occasion in the last two years when she’d seen me. Whether it is one of her nocturnal visits, seeing me at the Tree or just a chance meeting somewhere in town.

Times and dates are recorded, along with the clothes I wore, the people I was with and how I looked. Comments about any girls in my company are three points north of swivel-eyed jealousy.

Kira had vented against these unknowing innocents. She’d oscillated between describing them in every defamatory term ever uttered about a woman and comparing herself against them.

Every time I turn a new page I see further levels of obsession, self-flagellation at not being able to snare my attention and a further elevation of my appeal to her. It is as though all the setbacks, real as well as perceived, increased her affection for me.

Struggle as I might to get my head round the situation, I know Dr Edwards would find enough material in these pages to write several important papers.

The underlying theme is that I could do no wrong in her eyes and she was prepared to play the long game in her quest to snare me. There are screeds of pages where she is preaching patience to herself, stating I would tire of my single life and turn to her.

She’s even gone so far as to describe her hooking as a means to finance a decent lifestyle for the two of us should her father cut her free for not marrying someone he deemed suitable.

Reading this particular revelation twists a knot of responsibility in my gut. She’s written of her loathing for her clients and the depravities they paid her for. Yet she also rationalises the encounters as a necessary evil to provide a comfortable life for the two of us.

I feel shame that a friend, a sometime girlfriend who booty called me, should go to such lengths to create an imagined future. The fact I hadn’t had the slightest inkling of the depth of her feelings mocks me.

The logical part of my brain is trying to say otherwise, but the MacDonald blood in me is too proud to accept innocence. It wants action. Justice. A resolution for a young life ended many years too soon.

It doesn’t matter which part of my brain or nature I listen to. I know her killer has to be caught and brought to justice. This is no longer a case. It is personal.

‘You ready to talk about it?’ Concern laces Alfonse’s face and voice.

Am I showing my feelings that much?

I dismiss the thought as soon as it registers. He’s been my best friend for twenty-something years. If he can’t tell when I’m upset by now, he isn’t deserving of the title.

‘I guess.’

‘Tell me, what are you thinking?’ The phrase is unlike him. He’s never shy in sharing his opinions and then asking for my thoughts on what he’s said. I can only guess he’s jumped to some of the same conclusions I have and is afraid of putting ideas in my head. Either that or he’s thought of something I haven’t. After all, he’s had longer to digest the content of Kira’s journal than I have.

‘I think I’ve been stupid not to pick up on her infatuation with me.’ I throw a barb at him to keep him on his toes. ‘But then you never spotted it either.’

I get a scowl and a continue gesture from him.

‘For whatever reason, Kira fell hard for me. Yet she didn’t push the issue, preferring to bide her time and wait until I was ready for a proper relationship. She was using the guys she saw while I was dating someone. They meant nothing to her and they were mostly aware there were no wedding bells on the horizon. Therefore, only Terrel Upson was fool enough to fall for her.’

He nods and repeats the continue gesture.

I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment before sighing it out. ‘That she was obsessed with me isn’t in doubt. Whether it’s relevant to her murder is another thing altogether. If it is connected, I would have made a better target as her infatuation with me would have prevented her from settling down with someone else. On the other hand, jealous rage isn’t known for promoting logical thought.’

‘The killer could have been a coward.’ Alfonse skewers me with a stare. ‘It’s no secret around here that you can look after yourself. She would present a much easier target.’

He’s struck a low blow, yet I have to agree with his logic. Taking me on would be a much tougher proposition than attacking Kira. ‘You’re right – but it still doesn’t make any sense. By killing her, he’s cutting off his nose to spite his face.’

‘Your face. Remember he’s already lost her by this point. And since when did killing someone ever make any sense?’

‘I’m still not convinced that’s why she was killed.’

‘Of course you’re not. Your subconscious will be trying anything it can to wriggle out of responsibility. Real or imagined.’

I look at him, take in the concern on his face. ‘Suppose her feelings for me are the reason she was killed. Knowing the motive doesn’t help us find the killer.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

He is right. If we are on the money with the motive, we can use this information to direct the investigation.

A thought enters my head. ‘If jealousy is the reason she was killed, we’ve a whole lot of suspects to look at.’

Alfonse’s snort was half mocking and half derisive. ‘You flatter yourself. There can’t be that many people jealous of you.’

‘Who says they’re jealous of me? What about all the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients? Perhaps she had a secret admirer who somehow found out about her feelings for me?’

The dejection in my voice is echoed by the way Alfonse slumps into a chair.

With so many possible suspects it will be tough to get a handle on which, if any, of the wives or girlfriends had learned of their partner’s visits to Kira. Then it will be a case of working out if they’d taken matters into their own hands.

There is always the possibility they’d hired a killer. If the husbands can afford ten grand for sex, the wives would have twenty to hire a hitman.

While investigating this possibility we’ll be up against rich and powerful women with secrets to hide.

‘So what do we do then?’

He is really asking which direction we should point the investigation.

‘You been invited to Claude’s party tonight?’ He nods. ‘We go and hang out. Find out what we can about the guys she dated. If they’ve had any other relationships since Kira. Who they’re seeing. If they’re obsessed with Kira, they may have not bothered with anyone else.’

‘Kira did.’

I scowl at his double-edged statement. ‘Have you a better idea?’

‘No.’

A familiar look crosses Alfonse’s eyes. It’s the one he gets when his mind is travelling digital highways and is about to go off-road.

I guess he is thinking of ways he could learn more about the wives or girlfriends of Kira’s clients. Whether there is a way he can identify them without their knowledge.

Once he knows who they are, he can begin to trace their movements, both physical and financial.

I rise from my seat. ‘I’ll see you at Claude’s in an hour.’

31

I pull in behind the police cruiser and climb out. Chief Watson had called as I was driving from Alfonse’s.

So here I am. Summoned for the second time today – this one way more intriguing than the first. I doubt Chief Watson will give me a gun, although I hadn’t expected Mother would either.

The plastic crime scene tent erected four hundred yards from the car park is just visible in the fading light. Its presence confirms my suspicions about the reason for the chief’s terse call.

‘Come to the Panchtraik Reservoir public car park and ask for me. I need you.’ He’d rung off before I’d had the chance to agree or refuse.

Insects brought out by the cooling night air are starting their mating calls as I set off towards the plastic tent.

I hang back while the chief finishes his conversation with one of the Tyvek-suited examiners. Farrage and one of his buddies are off to one side talking to a young couple. From their body language and the tears streaming down her face I figure they are either relatives of the person in the tent or they had found the corpse.

Keeping well away from the lake, I skirt the area and take a look around. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just something out of place. Or missing. Or broken.

Like the branches of the dogwood bush by the side of the reservoir.

Not wanting to contaminate any possible evidence, I approach the bush from the side. Using my cell as a torch, I look at the ground to make sure I don’t trample anything I shouldn’t.

Up close and under illumination, the branch of the dogwood looks to have been broken within the last day or two. When I turn my eyes to the ground I find a tyre mark. Not wide like a car tyre but wider than you’d get from a bicycle.

The beam of light from my phone doesn’t extend far into the bush, so I can’t see if the tyre mark goes anywhere. I take care to retrace my steps backwards and grab the nearest officer and show him what I’ve found.

‘Boulder! With me please.’

Chief Watson may have said please, but there is no request in the way he’s called me over.

I match his pace as he strides back towards the car park. There is none of the huffing and puffing you’d expect from a man of his age moving so fast.

As we walk, he gives me the bare facts. An elderly woman has been found by a young couple. They’d thought she was sleeping until they saw the colour of her skin.

The initial examination has shown the woman’s throat has been cut right at the jugular. Beyond that, he hasn’t got much else to tell me. He doesn’t yet know who the woman is or why there is no blood at the scene.

‘Why did you call me, Chief?’

He stops walking and turns to me, one meaty paw massaging the deep furrows on his brow.

‘This is the third homicide victim we’ve had in as many days.’ A thumb jerks in Farrage’s direction. ‘Those assholes couldn’t find their way out of a room with one door and when I asked for a couple of detectives to be sent over from Salt Lake City I was refused. I need your help.’

‘What about the FBI?’

‘They’re not interested. Person I spoke to told me to call them when the body count reaches five. Asshole.’

‘Still, why me? Or should I say us?’ It is only right to include Alfonse.

‘Because you’ve shown more gumption than those morons.’ Again his thumb jerks towards Farrage. ‘You and your buddy achieved way more on the Niemeyer case in one day than they could hope to achieve in a month. I can’t run around wiping their asses while I’ve a whole town to run.’

I can see his predicament. Like every other sizable town on the planet there is an element of society in Casperton who’ll realise when the police are overstretched. Petty thefts will increase; one of the stores or banks may even be held up with the entire police force distracted by the homicides.

It is a balancing act and the keystone for the whole inverted pyramid is Chief Watson.

I want to help, but Alfonse and I are already out of our depth investigating Kira’s death.

‘I’m not saying yes until I speak to Alfonse, but what exactly do you want from us? I’m guessing you’re not gonna toss us a badge and declare we’re now deputies.’

My attempt at humour washes over him. ‘I want to use you in an advisory capacity. So I don’t have to think of everything myself. Those assholes have never had an original idea between them. Go phone your buddy, will ya. I need to get things moving around here.’

As I go back to my car to make the call in private, the officer I’d shown the tyre track to approaches Chief Watson.

Alfonse picks up on the third ring.

When I leave my car to go tell the chief we’ll help, I have to leap out of the way as a tan Chrysler shoots into the car park.

Despite all the police in the area, I run round the Chrysler and haul open the driver’s door. My fist is cocked ready to deliver an unforgettable warning about dangerous driving. At the moment I’m about to strike, I realise the driver is female.

A wave of eye-watering perfume hits me before her words do. ‘You the bozo I nearly run down? You should learn to watch where you’re going.’ She has one of those unmistakable Jewish New York accents. She points at my fist. ‘We both know you’re not going to use that so you may as well put it down and get out of my way.’

When she climbs out of the car the top of her head reaches my shoulder. A cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth drops ash onto her peach-coloured blouse. She doesn’t notice – her eyes are locked onto the tent.

‘So, I’m guessing with all the cops around we’ve got a third body inside that tent.’

I don’t answer. I don’t yet know who she is. The way she dominates everything she does proves she is a force of nature. Until I know more about her, there is no way I’m telling her anything that may come back to bite me.

A young cop runs over, his arms spread as if he’s herding cattle. ‘That’s far enough, Ms Rosenberg.’

‘Is that Chief Watson I see over there?’ She makes to brush past him but he shifts his feet to block her.

‘He’s there and I’m sure he’ll speak to you when he’s got something to say but right now he’s busy.’

I leave the young cop trying to obstruct the formidable presence that is Ms Rosenberg, and head back to the tent and Chief Watson.

I’ve heard of, but never met Ms Rosenberg. She is lead reporter for the Casperton Gazette and carries a reputation as a hard woman who brooks no obstruction in her search for the truth. According to legend, it is so long since anyone has used her Christian name even she’s forgotten what it is.

Regardless of her nature, she is a good journalist and her scathingly insightful articles are the main reason Casperton has so little corruption in public office. A cub reporter I’d once dated told me how Ms Rosenberg would spend much of her spare time scouring public documents in her search for irregularities in the finances.

She might not be a nice person or a careful driver, but she keeps the local politicians honest, which means we all owe her a debt of thanks.

Chief Watson sees me coming and leaves the dogwood bush to join me. ‘That was a good find you made there. The tyre marks go right to the water’s edge and then disappear.’

‘Do you think they’re relevant?’

He kneads his temples before answering. A sure sign of his stress. ‘I think it’s too much of a coincidence not to be associated. My guess is her killer moved her from the car park using a wheelbarrow, then dumped it into the reservoir to hide the evidence.’

‘Makes sense.’ I am stating the obvious, but it won’t hurt for him to have his opinions verified. He needs support, help carrying the burden before he has an aneurysm. ‘I spoke to Alfonse. We’ll be happy to offer you some help in an advisory capacity.’

‘Thanks.’ Already he is looking younger and less like a condemned man.

I hold up a hand to cut him off before he starts on another tack. ‘You’ll need to put Farrage and the rest of your detectives in the picture. Catching a killer is too important to waste time in pissing contests. If we get any grief from them, I’ll kick their arses then Alfonse and I will walk.’

Determination sets on his face making me fear I may have overplayed my hand by threatening his subordinates.

‘Farrage!’

His voice carries to the lieutenant who turns and walks over, contempt decorating his face and body language. ‘Yeah?’

I keep my face neutral as Chief Watson explains the new regime. Such is the ferocity of the chief’s words and tone, there’s no way Farrage can misunderstand the consequences of failing to obey.

As Farrage makes to return to his interview, the chief has a final warning for him. ‘If I learn there is one missing word or even a comma from any of the reports you send to me and Mr Boulder, you’ll be out on your ass and the first person I’ll explain your sacking to is Ms Rosenberg. Then I’ll take you round to see the families of the deceased so you can explain why playing games was more important to you than catching a killer. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Chief.’

Farrage’s demeanour changes at the threat. Gone are the insolence and contempt. The twin threats of public humiliation and being forced to explain his actions to bereaved families are enough to make him sharpen up his act.

‘I shouldn’t have, but I enjoyed that.’

‘It’s been a long time coming, Chief. He deserves every word.’

I think Farrage has gotten off easy. In the chief’s position, I would have thrown punches at anyone who showed me the same lack of respect.

‘You got a strong stomach?’ Without waiting for my answer he starts walking towards the protective tent.

32

The smell of cooking meat wafts across the air causing my stomach to flip like an Olympic gymnast. I would have eaten before coming, but, after entering that tent, I didn’t trust myself to keep anything down.

The chief had filled me in on the details of Paul Johnson’s murder and had called back to the station to have the desk sergeant email me all of the reports.

Rounding the back gate, I find the party in full swing. There’s a couple of dozen of the usual crowd, plus a few of Claude and his girlfriend’s family members. I know most of the family members from past events. It’s a relief to see Claude has abdicated the chef’s position in favour of the barman’s role. Nobody will be sick from anything other than a hangover.

I grab a soda and join Alfonse who is talking to a group of friends. I hear him asking about Peter Lester, so I turn to a buddy I sometimes played pool with.

We shoot the breeze for a while until his girlfriend ushers him off to meet someone.

I keep my eyes open for anyone who may be able to help with our enquiries. Seeing a couple of girls I know, I wander across and join their company. I start with small talk, then begin to seed in the odd question. They give me straight answers, some of which are useful.

When I leave the group to get another soda, I’m surprised to see George Chalmers talking to Claude. Thinking about it, I realise that since Claude’s business has grown there’s every chance he now needs a professional accountant.

The bigger surprise is the girl linking arms with Chalmers. I’m no expert on the subject, but I’d say she’s at least six or seven months pregnant.

Ever the gentleman, Chalmers introduces me to the girl. ‘Mr Boulder, this is my fiancée, Ruth.’

Ruth’s face is a picture of contentment, and when she speaks her speech patterns and vocal intonations mark her as the perfect match for Chalmers.

Judging by the lilac twinset and the pearls around her neck, I reckon they’ve both met their soulmate. Their lives will be already planned out, right down to the Florida retirement complex they’ll move to.

They’ll live safe and sensible lives together with respectability. A pool boy or a secretary may engage them in a dalliance but they’ll never leave the security of their marriage.

What I can’t believe about their relationship is her being pregnant with only one ring on her finger. As far as I’m concerned, Chalmers is too careful.

As they move off to talk to other guests, I turn to Claude. ‘How long they been together?’

‘I think they hooked up some time last year. It must have been before I opened the new shop. They were at the opening party. They’re a natural couple don’t you think?’

I remember the opening party, but I don’t recall seeing Chalmers there. Although I do remember being somewhat distracted by the attentions of Claude’s rather forward cousin.

Casting my mind back and doing some mental arithmetic, I work out Chalmers must have met Ruth a month or so after splitting from Kira.

I keep my eyes on them as I talk with Claude. Everything about their interaction depicts them as a genuine couple. If Chalmers is faking it to cover his feelings for Kira, he should be a Hollywood star not an accountant in a town like Casperton.

Throughout the evening, I make sure to circulate and speak to everyone I want to. As alcohol loosens tongues, I learn lots of different things but only a small fraction of it is useful. Having already agreed to meet at his place after the party, Alfonse and I stay apart to better talk to as many people as possible.

A game of water polo starts in the pool, but I keep my distance.

As midnight strikes I am talking to a couple of regulars from the Tree when a drunken guest trips over his own feet and cannons into me. I stagger back a few steps before my feet catch on something. Twisting as I fall, I see water rushing towards my face.

Instinct makes my hands go out to break my fall, but they don’t get any resistance from the water as I tumble into the pool.

I go in head first. I can feel my knees hit the edge of the pool as water swirls around my head. My eyes and mouth are pressed shut as I thrash my arms around to try and escape the water. The only effect it has is to draw my legs into the pool after me.

Despite my terror, I feel them slithering over the pool’s edging. I can also feel my heart racing as panic sets in.

With my body submerged, I thrash for what seems like hours until I find the right way up.

Pushing my feet down, I locate the bottom of the pool and thrust upwards, desperate to be out of the water as soon as possible – to feel cool air on my skin.

I just hope I’m not at the deep end. If I am, I’ll have to be rescued.

When my head breaks the surface I gasp in a precious lungful of air. My push off the bottom is so fuelled by terror it sees me shoot so far out of the water that I lose my balance and stumble backwards when I land.

A firm hand on my back stops me going under again. My eyes seek the shortest route to safety. I’m three large steps from the side, but the chest level water slows my exit from the pool.

To my mind it is a living beast, clinging to me, holding on so I can be pulled into its depths and pressured by invasive rivulets, until I open my mouth for air and let it conquer me.

Concerned with nothing but escape, I ignore the laughter of the party-goers. It’s not their fault they don’t know I can’t swim. That any body of water deeper than a puddle scares me witless.

I feel a hand on mine. It’s Alfonse reaching into the pool and guiding me to the chrome steps. I realise for the first time my eyes are stinging and my mouth has clamped shut.

Clambering up the ladder, I see concern in Alfonse’s face and mirth in everyone else’s.

‘Sorry, dude. Dunno what I tripped on.’ The slurred words come from the drunk who’d bumped me.

Knowing that delivering a gut punch to a drunk is a good way to get hurled on, I grab his shirt with shaking hands, shift my weight from one hip to the other and toss him into the middle of the pool. Let the water beast have him.

He’s lucky. If there weren’t still kids running around, I’d leave him lying in a bloody heap.

Claude arrives and tosses a towel at me. ‘C’mon. I’ll loan you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.’

I follow him into the house, happy to be out of everyone’s gaze and away from the water.

33

The Watcher settles down in front of his computer with an energy shake and a packet of power bars.

His fingers tap out the beat of the seventies classic rock songs blaring from his iPod. He’s too young to have liked the bands in their heyday, but when he reached his teens, he fell in love with the riffs and lyrics. It’s a love that has deepened over time. Now he won’t listen to anything else.

He chases threads of intelligence as he probes the lives of those who’ve helped him select his next victims.

He’s thankful for the internet, for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Each of these networks is loaded with information about his targets and helpers.

It doesn’t take long to draw up a list of possibles. After that he just has to whittle down the list until he can select the most appropriate victims. The next ones must have a different connection. Must be able to be taken down together.

The opportunity has come along to throw a delicious curveball into the pattern and he is excited about making the pitch.

He knows how much the police are under pressure. He’d watched the cars arrive at Panchtraik Reservoir.

It had been inspired to place Evie Starr’s body up there.

After Paul Johnson’s body had been found on the road towards the reservoir, the siting of the old woman’s body would make the cops think it was someone travelling that way.

Wait until the coroner got her on the slab, cut her open. Then they’d see the power of what they were dealing with.

Getting the addresses for potential targets and reconnoitring via Google Street View, he learns as much as he can from the internet.

Satisfied he can do no more without carrying out some physical reconnaissance, he turns his attention to the kills themselves.

He writes down a new method on a scrap of paper, scrunches it into a ball and tosses it into the glass bowl with the others.

After mixing them up with a finger, he picks one out, unfolds it and reads the contents. He smiles; the method is a good one. He’s been looking forward to it being selected.

Next he has to work out where to leave their bodies. Unsure whether he should go for two separate dump sites or put them together, he weighs up the pros and cons until an idea strikes him.

He examines the idea from a few angles but finds nothing wrong or dangerous about it. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the better it seems. If set up in the right way, their final resting place will throw police suspicion away from himself. It might only buy him a few days, but any advantage gained can only be a good thing.

Every day wasted by his pursuers will mean another victim to add to his tally.

He only has two concerns now.

The tally.

The pattern.

34

I arrive at Alfonse’s house dressed in clothes loaned from Claude. By a stroke of luck, before I was knocked into the pool I’d passed my cell to someone who wanted to check it out before their next upgrade.

Alfonse and I take our usual seats at his table ready to compare notes. I gesture for him to start and lean back in my chair, hoping he’s learned more than I have.

‘I take it you met George Chalmers and his fiancée?’

I nod. ‘Yeah. I think it’s safe to remove him from our enquiries. He was never a likely suspect. Besides, he’s now engaged and about to become a father. You’d have to be a certified whack-job to get into that position while still obsessed by an ex.’

‘Agreed. I spoke to a few people about Pete Lester. Megan Hutchison told me he’s been seeing her sister for the last six months. Apparently they got together while he was still dating someone else. Megan couldn’t remember the other girl’s name but said her sister had been yelled at by her one night when she was at the Tree with Pete.’

I cast my mind back to try and recall some details but nothing comes back to me. It isn’t unusual for two girls to get into a slanging match at the Tree. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the situation is calmed down by friends or the man whose attention they are competing for.

It is the other occasions when things get out of hand. When men fight they tend to punch or kick at each other. Women, on the other hand, claw, scratch and pull hair, which makes it much harder to separate them. Plus, of course, I can’t retaliate when they start attacking me.

‘So, with Upson out of town at the time she was murdered and the other two in stable relationships, it’s not looking as if it’s any of those three. Agreed?’

He nods. ‘So that puts us back to the wives and girlfriends.’

‘Unless it’s nothing to do with her clients and is something else altogether.’

‘Like what?’

‘A family member doing it to stop her hooking. Or…’ I fall silent, trying to pick the right words.

‘Or what?’

‘Or it’s someone killing people at random. Three people have been found murdered within four days.’

‘You don’t really think there’s a serial killer out there, do you?’

‘I’m not sure, but it’s a big coincidence if there isn’t.’

‘Are there similarities with the victims? The murders? Are the victims connected?’

Alfonse’s questions are good ones. All three answers are negative. Other than the fact all three bodies were found in a public place, there is no apparent link between the victims. There may be when Chief Watson identifies the lady found at the reservoir; until then, there’s nothing to link the three victims.

‘There aren’t any connections or similarities that we know of. But what’s worse – a serial killer targeting the residents of Casperton or three separate killers?’

He doesn’t answer so I explain my theory to him.

‘If it is a serial killer, maybe by helping the police we can use their resources to help us find the person who murdered Kira.’

‘I see your point.’ His lips purse as he gives a pointed look at the clock above the sink. ‘So, what’s our next move gonna be?’

‘You look into the wives and girlfriends angle tomorrow. I’ll read over the police reports and get a handle on where they’re up to. I’ll see you about nine.’

I take his sigh as confirmation. I can manage on less than six hours’ sleep, but he likes a solid eight every night.

Sleep isn’t in my plans when I get home. There are far too many questions assaulting my brain for it to allow itself to be shut down.

35

I dump my keys on the counter and flick on the stereo. It’s not that I’m lonely, it’s just sometimes I need a background noise to keep me sane. Living alone suits me, but whenever I read I like to have other voices around me. I select a playlist comprising soft rock ballads and recline my chair.

I start with the police reports about Paul Johnson.

Like Kira, he lacks any known enemies. It isn’t that he was well liked, more that he was inoffensive. Reading about his life via the statements taken from co-workers and family members, it seems like he was insignificant to a lot of people.

He kept his business private, did what was expected of him and then went home to his apartment.

According to his sister, Johnson’s ex-wife had put him out one day, only to move a boyfriend in the next.

He’d gone without a quibble. It was the sister who’d put a roof over his head and spent long nights talking him through the break-up. When he was ready, she helped him find a rental apartment.

The police report detailing his finances doesn’t show any obvious reasons for him to be killed for money. His alimony payments were made on time and there were regular deposits into his daughter’s bank account. A footnote indicates his daughter is studying sociology at the Community College in Salt Lake City.

A search of Johnson’s apartment has found a life insurance policy naming his daughter as the main benefactor. The payout isn’t enough to put the daughter in the frame. Compared to what he was already giving her, the payout would cover no more than three years in college.

Following the same logic, I look down the columns until my eyes land on the one detailing his balance.

Imbalance may be a better term. He’s five hundred bucks overdrawn.

The next page I read shows his credit card statement. While not maxed-out it is near its limit. A look back at the bank statements and I find what I expect to.

His salary is due to be paid in a few days. Johnson is living in a boom and bust cycle with most of his income going to his ex-wife and daughter. Left with just enough to get by on, he’ll have been ever fearful of unexpected bills. I spend more per week on groceries than he’s got left to pay for food, gas and other incidentals.

It is stories like this that keep me single. A decent man has been discarded by an unfaithful wife and left to live the life of a pauper. With no money to spare on luxuries, he’d struggle in the dating pool. All he had to look forward to were lonely nights and the day when he’d be free of his responsibilities.

The feelings of bitterness would be overwhelming. Like a cancer of the mind, the resentment would devour happiness as his self-confidence plummeted.

These are my fears. After Mother was abandoned by my father, I saw first hand how corrosive rejection can be. I’ve felt it once, and it isn’t an experience I want to repeat. Despite Mother’s reassurances that it was her my father left, Sharon and I had talked long and often about the fact he’d rejected us too.

My realisation of the irony in the situation brings a wry smile to my lips as I turn to the next page. I’m investigating the murder of a woman besotted with me and a man I am terrified of becoming. What Kira wanted from me would leave me as vulnerable as Johnson had become.

The next pages I read tell me little about Johnson’s life, but give me great detail on his death.

In clinical terms, Emily Green’s neat handwriting tells of the blunt trauma from a wheel wrench found with his body. Hedging her bets, she estimates there are between ten and fifteen separate blows to his head.

The terminology is unfamiliar to me, but I don’t need to be a doctor to understand he died from having his brain bashed in.

The accompanying pictures from the crime scene and autopsy don’t make for easy viewing, but I examine them for clues regardless of my distaste.

When I’ve finished with the pictures, I lie back in the recliner and close my eyes. A slide show of Kira, Johnson and the as yet unnamed woman plays as I consider the different methods of their deaths.

Kira died from a precise stab after suffering a frenzied attack and was dumped under a bush.

Johnson’s head was staved in and his corpse bundled into the trunk of his car.

The old woman had her throat cut in a very exact way. Then she’d been cleaned up and deposited in a public place where she was sure to be found.

Considering the attacks as a whole, I look for commonalities. Two of the attacks have shown frenzy at some level. To counterbalance this, there are also elements of precision and forward planning.

There had been no blood on the old woman’s clothes and very little where Kira was found. This speaks of them being killed elsewhere and deposited at the places they were found.

The precise cut on the old woman and the single penetrating stab to Kira’s heart tell of an attacker who knows the human body and how best to attack it.

Johnson’s death speaks of opportunism, the wheel wrench to hand when the killer happened upon Johnson changing a flat.

My next thought is Kira and the woman are connected while Johnson is a random victim, killed as much by chance as by his murderer.

36

The Watcher raises the takeout coffee to his lips as he walks down Third. The early morning light glints off the dewdrops as he savours the Java. It’s a rare treat and is for cover more than anything else.

A dozen or so yards ahead of him is a potential target. The pock, pock, pock of her heels on the sidewalk is at odds with the tree-lined avenue and the hour. It’s the sound of the city, of business. It’s measured and regular, not the arrhythmic clack of a drunk girl staggering home.

Her Facebook status told him she was an HR manager for one of the oil companies. It also told him she had a colleague from head office joining her for the day, which hotel the colleague was staying at and the hour she was supposed to collect him.

Facebook holds a lot of other information about her. Like how much of a dog lover she is; how terrible she feels for her niece who’d discovered a body. Best of all there was even a post detailing the time she’d be dropping off her colleague at the airport.

The three-mile drive from the airport to town would be deserted so late in the day and Facebook had armed him with the perfect ruse to get her to stop.

He watches as she enters the hotel right on time. The business suit and brisk manner speak of a life spent adhering to the clock and a series of deadlines.

A smile crosses his lips. He’s identified a target and the car she drives. If he can get the other in place he can execute the plan just the way he imagines it.

The HR manager’s adherence to the clock will make her an easy target. Predictable in her movements, she’ll be in the right place at the right time. At least as far as he is concerned it will be the right place. For her it will be something else altogether.

He crosses the road and rounds a corner in case she comes out and spots him. He stops at the pharmacy and buys something he hasn’t bought for years, before returning to his car to begin the next phase of his reconnaissance.

Next on this morning’s to-do list is a drive past the homes of two of the boy’s relatives.

It is a toss-up between the boy’s older brother and his uncle as to which one will be the easiest to capture.

Acquiring and taking down two targets in the space of a day will be tough, but the payoff is worth the risk.

Every day will see another kill.

Every kill will add to the tally.

Every kill MUST adhere to the pattern.

37

I reach Alfonse’s house at five to nine. It’s late by my standards, but I’ve spent an extra ten minutes in the shower trying to massage the cricks from my neck.

Falling asleep in the chair had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it hasn’t worked out so well. When I woke, my neck felt like a gorilla had spent the night attempting to twist my head off my shoulders; there was also an unfamiliar taste in my mouth. Of salt and more than a little fear.

The less said about my dreams the better. The few scant hours of sleep I managed were plagued with nightmares of drowning. Of being sucked into murky depths where all I could see were the bodies of Kira, Johnson and the old woman. The mental aberrations of my mind were intense, with a clarity of sound, taste and vision giving a sensory validity to my nightmares. I couldn’t tell where the water was, but I remember sharks and whales swimming in the distance.

I am surprised to find Alfonse sitting at his table spooning cereal into his mouth, while his free hand works the screen of his iPad.

‘I take it you read those reports last night?’

I nod. He knows me too well.

‘So what did you come up with?’

‘Nothing yet. But I was trying to final a connection based on what’s in these reports. If we can find out who the latest victim is, maybe it’ll help us find a pattern.’

‘You’re asking a lot.’

I know what he means. He’s more experienced in these matters than I am, but I’m aware there are times in an investigation when new revelations offer confusion rather than clarity.

‘Have you heard anything from the chief this morning?’

I shake my head as he turns his iPad round and pushes it towards me.

Picking it up, I look down at the email he’s selected for me.

It’s from his best client on the oilfields. The guy is suspicious of a company delivering supplies into one particular area and wants Alfonse to look into it.

He offers double the usual rate for Alfonse to drop whatever he’s working on and start right away.

I wince for Alfonse. This guy gives him at least five months’ work a year. He’s tried to entice him into joining the company full time a minimum of four times to my knowledge.

‘What you gonna do?’

He shrugs. ‘What can I do? I can’t leave a murder investigation just because he clicks his fingers. I’ve explained what I’m working on and that I’ll make him my next priority.’

I give him a silent thumbs up to show my approval.

He is taking a gamble on his future by refusing to be bought. The guys running the oilfields expect local businesses to jump when they speak and there is every chance Alfonse has just burned a very lucrative bridge.

On the other hand, murder trumps theft every time. It all boils down to the amount the guy suspects is being stolen or embezzled and how much stress he is under. The offer of double pay, plus the request for an immediate start indicates both are high.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell. Chief Watson’s name is on the screen as the second ring sounds.

‘Yes, Chief?’

I listen to his rapid words for a minute, then agree to join him.

I hang up the call and look at Alfonse. ‘Your girlfriend did the autopsy on the old woman last night. Chief wants us there when she gives him her report.’

He shakes his head. ‘No point two of us doing the same thing. You go. I’ll stay here, start looking into Paul Johnson’s life a little deeper than the police have.’

What he says makes sense. Farrage and co have performed their search in a professional manner, which smells of the chief’s influence, but their reports lack the details Alfonse would have uncovered. There were no insights, revelations or theories raised. Just flat answers to basic questions.

38

Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting with Chief Watson in Emily Green’s office. His face looks the way my neck felt earlier. I’ve had three hours’ sleep and it looks as if he’s had less.

‘Let’s have it then. What did you find?’ The chief’s brusque manner highlights the stress he’s under.

Emily ignores his rudeness and hands each of us a sheaf of papers.

‘That’s my full report on the autopsy so far. Blood results and toxicology will take a few more days to come through.’ She looks at Chief Watson. ‘If you agree the budget, I can get the lab in Salt Lake to push them up their priority list.’

‘Consider it agreed. I want every scrap of information as soon as humanly possible.’

I speak for the first time. ‘What did you find during the autopsy?’

‘The Jane Doe was riddled with cancer. I doubt she’d have lived more than a year at best. She had a hip replacement.’ A raised hand forestalled the chief. ‘Yes, I’ve taken the serial number from it and phoned the hospital. They’re coming back to me as soon as their records office opens.’

From the corner of my eye, I see the chief looking at his watch and bet myself he’ll be on the phone to them before leaving the building.

‘What else did you find?’

‘It’s more what I didn’t find.’ A carefully plucked eyebrow arches upwards. ‘There wasn’t a drop of blood on her body. Whoever killed her washed the body and dressed her before placing her at the dump site.’

The chief and I don’t speak as we consider the implications of her words.

‘There was very little blood left in her body. When you look at the pictures of her in situ and on my table you’ll see there’s next to no blood lividity.’ She glances at the chief and then me. ‘She’s been drained and then cleaned up. I found traces of soap in her wound. I’ve sent samples to the lab but it’s my guess she was killed at home and the froth will prove to have come from the bottle of shampoo in her bathroom.’

I nod agreement at her logic. ‘I didn’t pay attention yesterday, but what was her hair like?’

The chief fixes me with an incredulous stare but I turn to Emily for my answer.

Her eyes might be red from lack of sleep but they shine at my question. ‘It was flat, unstyled, yet clean.’

‘Like it had been washed, dried and just left?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Any traces of make-up or cosmetics on her face?’

‘No.’

‘Was she wearing underwear?’

‘No, but you’d be surprised how often our visitors aren’t.’

I look at Emily first and then the chief. ‘Well, at least we know her killer is a man.’

It takes him a fraction of a moment to catch up but when he does he gives me a curt nod.

‘You’re right. A woman would attempt to put on her cosmetics or style her hair. A man wouldn’t bother.’

‘Unless it’s a woman double bluffing you.’ The negativity of the words is matched by Emily’s tone.

The chief’s scowl would scare a mountain lion. ‘The hell with double bluffs, we work on the understanding this is a man. What else you got for us?’

‘The time of death is interesting.’

‘Why?’ Both the chief and I speak at the same time.

She grimaces a little and tilts her head to one side. ‘I can’t give you an exact time without knowing how long she was on the bench and where she was before that. But my best estimate is between eighteen and thirty hours before she was found.’

Emily stops talking to answer her cell. ‘Hello… Yes… I see… Is that a definite? … Of course I trust you… You don’t have an address for her, do you?’

The pen in her hand scrawls the address onto a stick-it label.

Finishing the call she looks at us. ‘Your Jane Doe’s name is Evie Starr. She’s fifty-eight and lived at four-sixty-three Park Way.’

Park Way runs north–south through Casperton, three streets east of Main. Four-sixty-three will be at the south end of the road.

‘Don’t suppose they gave you a next of kin?’

Emily shakes her head at the chief’s question.

‘Thanks anyway. I appreciate you working through the night.’

I trail the chief as he stalks through the corridors towards the car park. Both of us have cells pressed to our ears. We relay the same information to different people and make similar requests. I’d bet my dime to the chief’s buck Alfonse gets the information first.

The chief finishes his call and waits by his car for me to end mine.

‘Jump in. I’m going to her house and want you there.’

‘You sure you want a civilian there when you tell the family?’

I don’t want to go with him. The last place I want to be is at Evie Starr’s house when the police turn up to inform the family.

It will be messy. There will be tears, recriminations and questions we don’t yet have answers for. Nothing we can say or do will bring her back to them.

The chief is experienced enough to know what I am thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I had Darla check the electoral register. Mrs Starr lived alone. Darla’s going to let me know the next of kin as soon as she’s got an address for them.’

I guess Darla must be the person who mans the police switchboard. Or considering the quality of Casperton’s Police Department, she could be a civilian secretary who’s earned his trust and respect through the quality of her work.

As I climb into the chief’s car, I wonder just what I’ve signed up for. Does he see me as a partner? A sounding board? Or just another pair of eyes to verify his own thoughts and instincts?

There is one problem we need to address before we get too far involved.

‘Chief. You’re aware a lot of the information Alfonse and I may produce won’t be admissible in court?’

‘You mean the stuff your buddy finds out by hacking into private areas?’

‘He prefers to call it executing a thorough investigation.’

The chief takes his eyes off the road to look at me. ‘I don’t give a damn what he calls it. There’s a killer or killers attacking the residents of Casperton and I have to stop them. We’ll deal with admissible once we’ve made arrests.’

His pulling of his cell from a pocket signals the matter closed.

39

I pull on the nitrile gloves the chief has given me and follow him towards the house. The gloves feel odd on my hands and there is the faint smell of talcum powder coming from them.

Evie Starr’s is the last house before the road ends and scrubland begins. The garden is neat and tidy but there are the first signs of neglect on the house. Paint is starting to peel from the clapboard walls. The windows are clean but they too need a coat of paint.

My best guess is she’d lost her husband a year or two ago and her family haven’t stepped in enough to help her with all the household maintenance.

‘Do I need to tell you not to touch a thing and take care where you step?’

I give him a stare which tells him that if he does, he’ll be looking for another consultant.

He goes to the front door and tries the handle. Nothing happens, so we move to the back of the house. I’m in front of him so I try the back door.

It opens.

The chief brushes past with his gun drawn. I stay back and take in my surroundings. The kitchen is just like a million others. Or what they would have been like thirty years ago. The only hint of modernity is the coffee machine. The air smells old – not in a bad way, it just carries the memory of a thousand and one home-cooked meals.

Hearing no gunshots, I trace the chief’s footsteps. The lounge is less dated than the kitchen but it’s still not modern. Even the TV is old enough to drive.

I move into the hallway. The newel post at the bottom of the bannister has a pile of coats hanging from it.

The chief appears at the top of the stairs. ‘You’d best come up.’

At the top of the stairs he directs me to a bedroom and puts a hand on my shoulder when I reach the door.

The bed clothes are the dark burgundy of congealed blood. There’s a smell in the air like a butcher’s shop but without the harsh tinge of cleaning fluids.

A closet in the corner is open; various clothes and outfits are strewn on the floor.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see what he wants. A gloved finger is pointing towards an open doorway.

Stepping forward I look inside the door and see a bathroom. The shower has blood stains on all four sides although the tray at the bottom is clean. A plastic bottle lies on the carpet, its open top leaking blue shampoo into the fabric.

Towels lie scattered on the floor as if dropped by a child.

I turn to face the chief. ‘This what you expected to find?’

‘Pretty much.’ He massages his temple with the heel of a hand. ‘Doesn’t mean I’m happy to find it though.’

I’m with him there. It’s bad enough to have guessed what had taken place without seeing the aftermath.

I point at the floor. ‘A dime says those towels are still wet.’

‘A dollar says you’re right. C’mon, we better leave this for the CSI team.’

40

Once the CSI team arrive at Evie Starr’s house, the chief drops me back at my car. Neither of us says much. We are both wrapped up with our thoughts. We agree to meet at six and go our separate ways.

I make a call and find I’m in luck. Or out of it depending on your point of view. Dr Edwards has a window. Still, I’d rather see a psychologist than inform a family of a loved one’s murder.

I sit on the couch in his office, wondering if any of Mother’s friends have spied me. Knowing what vampiric souls they are, I can imagine them shaking with excitement as they fumble with their cells in their desperation to call Mother and ask why I’m seeing Dr Edwards.

‘So, Jake, what can I help you with today?’

‘You’ll have heard about the other two murders by now?’

He nods.

‘Alfonse and I are helping the chief in an advisory role and I want your input on a couple of theories I have.’

‘Okay. Same terms as last time though.’

I expected this arrangement would continue and have tried to prepare some answers to the questions I suspect he’ll ask.

He gets a tight smile as my confirmation. ‘We talked about Kira’s hooking last time I was here. Have you had any further thoughts about that?’

‘A couple but none that will help you.’ He sees me waiting for an explanation. ‘Just that she was either narcissistic or she had an end game in mind. Do either of these options say anything to you?’

I hesitate, not wanting to reveal Kira’s obsession with me. ‘Anything’s possible. Now, about the killings. Two of the three have shown signs of anger or rage but two have also shown a calculating mind. Is it possible the same person has killed all three victims?’

‘Can you give me a few details so I can better answer your question?’

I tell him what he needs to know and allow him time to consider what I’ve said.

‘They sound very different, but I can see why you’re asking.’ He scratches a cheek. ‘First impressions are they’re unconnected. Yet the precise cut on Mrs Starr and the coup de grâce on Kira both speak of a person who can exercise a great deal of self-control. Mr Johnson’s death appears to be frenzied and opportune but there may be more to it than –’

‘What do you mean?’ These insights are the reason I am here.

I get a stern glare for the interruption. ‘As I was about to say. A town like Casperton sees very few homicides, so there’s every chance these killings are connected. If I was you, I’d be looking for a connection between the victims rather than their deaths. If you can find a common thread, there may be a way of identifying the killer.’

‘I’ve got Alfonse looking into it.’

‘So what about you? How do you feel about the idea an ex of yours was murdered by what may turn out to be a serial killer?’

I can’t do anything except be honest with him. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she was cut up before being killed.’

‘And would you like to see her killer brought to justice?’

‘Definitely.’ The word comes out with more vehemence than I’d expected or planned.

His eyebrow lifts a fraction. ‘What do you think would be a fitting justice?’

‘Death.’ I soften my tone. ‘My turn, Doc. If there is just one killer out there, what kind of psychoses may he have? Other than homicidal mania, that is.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not going to attempt a diagnosis on someone I’ve never met. All I can tell you is he is intelligent, adaptable to circumstances and he’s playing a game.’

‘A game?’

‘There’s no doubt in my mind he’s enacting a fantasy or has what he sees as a mission.’ He picks up his pad and pen. ‘You seem very determined this killer deserves to die. Why does it bother you so much? Is it because of latent feelings for Kira?’

I pick my words with care. ‘I believe no man should take another’s life without forfeiting his own right to live. That anyone who kills three people in such a cold manner should be removed from the face of the earth.’

‘So you believe in an eye for an eye rather than the justice system. Isn’t that what you’re saying?’

‘No. I’m saying he should be caught, tried and sentenced to death.’

‘What do you think you would do if you came face to face with this person?’

‘I’d take him down and then hand him over to the cops.’

He makes a few notes on his pad. ‘You seem very confident of yourself.’

I shrug. ‘One on one, I haven’t lost a fight for a very long time. So, you think this guy may have a mission or purpose driving him. What might this be?’

‘It could be anything. Revenge against people who’ve slighted him in some way. Not feeling respected or valued can often prey on a person’s mind until they snap. It could be someone they owe money to. Because they haven’t paid up or are disputing the amount, this guy has taken it into his head to get them back.’

‘Could it really be something that mundane?’ It doesn’t seem credible to me. ‘People don’t become serial killers because someone owes them a few bucks or hasn’t shown them enough respect.’

‘Don’t they? You’d be surprised how petty grievances can be blown out of proportion. I take it you’ve heard about how Chinese water torture works? By the slow incessant dripping onto a prisoner’s head.’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘What starts out as a negligible irritation grows through time and repetition into a major source of discomfort. The next drip – or slight in this case – becomes expected. Anticipated to the point where the person on the receiving end is already bitter about it. The resentment is built in before the slight is delivered. Paranoia is a very powerful driver.’

‘I see what you mean. It’s like having a permanent sense of defeatism. Even innocuous comments are taken as digs.’

He smiles at my understanding. ‘Exactly. Now imagine this situation carrying on for months or years until you’re a ball of twisted resentment. Every word or gesture to you scrutinised for insults that may or may not be there. Any kindnesses towards you rejected due to the irrational fear you’re being lured into a humiliation-filled trap.’

His words are painting a terrible picture. It’s hard not to imagine myself being in this position and fighting to retain sanity and decency. It would be too easy to lash out with verbal barbs or physical blows.

I’m aware I have confidence in myself, that I’m unafraid to speak my mind and stand up for myself. If that self-confidence was eroded away, would I still voice my thoughts or raise my fists?

The answer to my question is no. In such a situation the safe mentality would be to keep your head down. To go unnoticed and hope the insults aren’t too cutting and the slights can be passed off as insignificant.

‘So what happens? Does a switch just flick and the person in question turn into a maniac?’

‘It’s not as cut and dried as you suggest. There can be many different manifestations of a complete lack of self-confidence. Self-harming, a narcissistic side, a tendency to overspend and act out in an attempt to impress people into liking you. These are the better options for society.’

‘How so?’ I’m intrigued by what he’s saying but unsure of how any of it is better.

Dr Edwards puts down his pad and looks right into my eyes. ‘The worst-case scenario is if, and I stress if, there is a serial killer lacking self-confidence, he’ll probably be a loner, an introvert who’s never quite fitted into any social circle. I suspect he may have fantasised about killing for years before actually doing it. Once he’s taken the first step, he will have felt a sense of empowerment.’

‘Empowerment?’ I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

‘Absolutely. Imagine, if you will, a constant sense of worthlessness, feeling inadequate at all times, as if everyone looks down on you. Then all of a sudden you have the power of life or death in your hands. You see fear in the eyes of your victim instead of contempt. You hear their pleas, their begging and it strengthens you. Gives you a sense of worth. It may even arouse you.’ His eyes shine as he talks.

‘The murders of Kira and Mrs Starr appear to have been premeditated and acted out to suit his purpose. I’m only guessing here, but perhaps he was trailing Mr Johnson in preparation for an attack when an opportunity presented itself. The seized chance would account for a difference in the method of the kill. Also, consider the fact this attack took place beside what is a fairly busy road. He wouldn’t have had time to fully enact his fantasies.’

I figure Dr Edwards is enjoying this distraction from the usual complaints and worries. He hasn’t even tried asking me a question for a good ten minutes.

‘What you say makes sense, in a scary kind of way.’ I shift position, the frame of the couch squeaking at my movement. ‘I know it may constitute a breach of ethics, but do any of your patients fit into this category?’

His fingers steeple. ‘First of all, I have a duty of care to the community, so it wouldn’t be a breach of ethics for me to warn the police of someone I felt was a dangerous individual. Second, I don’t have any patients who display such a lack of self-confidence. Third, anyone with these symptoms wouldn’t deem themselves worthy of therapy. They’d figure themselves a lost cause, a waste of the therapist’s valuable time.’

I wasn’t expecting him to give me any possible suspects, but it’s still a blow to not get even one suggestion.

‘Considering the way this conversation has gone very much in your favour, I’d like to ask you one question and get an honest answer.’

‘Shoot.’ Answering one question is a small price to pay for all his answers.

‘Every time Kira’s name is mentioned your pupils narrow for a heartbeat. To a psychologist, it’s the equivalent of a distress flare. I want you to tell me why you are reacting this way.’

I want to call him names or storm out rather than give him this information. However, a deal’s a deal. I owe him honest answers in return for his professional opinions.

Ten minutes later he knows everything. His pen scratched all the way through my recital of the facts.

I finish speaking and he lays down his pad and pen to steeple his fingers. I’m now familiar enough with his body language to recognise the gesture precedes one of his pronouncements.

He makes me wait a minute or two before opening his mouth. ‘Stop me at any point where I’m wrong, but I think this has come as a great shock to you. The knowledge of this engenders a feeling of responsibility. You’re no longer after her killer because you’ve been hired. It’s now become personal. There are probably some feelings of inadequacy and self-chastisement for not being aware of her feelings. Knowing how she felt for you has transposed your normal morals with a burning need to bring this guy to justice. There will of course be anger. At Kira for not telling you how she felt, towards the killer for obvious reasons, although most of your anger will be channelled inwards at yourself for not being more aware.’

I realise I’ve nodded agreement to each of his points. There’s no way he will have missed that so I give him a verbal confirmation. ‘You’re right.’

‘I know.’ There isn’t any conceit in his voice, just a statement of fact. ‘You’re a proud man and I’d be surprised if you haven’t wondered how many people knew about her infatuation. If those same people have been laughing at you behind your back.’

I say nothing while making sure I don’t give him a nod of agreement.

‘What I suggest you do is focus on catching the killer or killers. It’s unlikely Kira has told anyone. If she did confide in someone, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

41

I walk up the path and knock on the door of Mrs Halliburton’s house. She’s been top of my list of people to see since I saw her named as Johnson’s next of kin, but it’s only now I’ve had time to make the visit.

I wonder if it’s the same Mrs Halliburton who taught me history. It will be good if it is; common ground always helps people to open up.

The door opens to reveal a woman in her mid-fifties. I recognise an older version of the passionate teacher who’d worked so much harder than her peers to make her lessons interesting to bored teenagers.

I extend my right hand. ‘Mrs Halliburton, I’m Jake Boulder. You used to be my teacher back in the day.’

‘How may I help you?’ She looks me up and down, her red-rimmed eyes registering little.

‘I’m working with Alfonse Devereaux and we’ve been asked to help the Casperton PD with your brother’s murder.’ I make a point of slipping Alfonse’s name into the conversation as he was always popular with the teachers.

‘Yeeess. I remember you both.’

The way she draws out the yes makes me unsure she does remember us, but at least she’s being polite and not asking me to leave.

‘Sorry if this seems rude, but why are the police hiring civilians?’ She gives a dismissive wave. ‘Scratch that. One of their detectives was round earlier.’

I gesture inside the house. ‘I won’t take much of your time.’

‘You can have the next year if it helps catch the swine who murdered Paul.’

The underlying fury in her tone tells me she’s gone past denial and has landed in anger.

I follow her into the house. Like her, it’s homely and lived in. Nothing is dirty except a coffee mug, but there’s enough untidiness to make it a comfortable, welcoming place.

She points me to a seat and pets the Labrador puppy flopping its way around her ankles. There’s no offer of coffee or any other kind of drink.

I sit as instructed before starting with my questions.

‘Can you tell me a little bit about Paul – where he worked, his family, his interests and hobbies, any enemies he may have had?’ I already know the answers to these questions, but I’ve read enough fictional interviews to know you should always start by establishing a baseline of emotions by getting the subject to recount known truths.

She takes a deep swallow. ‘He worked up at the reservoir. His job had some fancy title like systems analyst when all he did was sit on his butt making sure the dials were all pointing the right way. He was separated from his wife, and his daughter is at college in Salt Lake.’

A handkerchief is pulled from her sleeve and used to dab her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, I know this must be tough for you, but everything you tell me can help us catch the man who did this to your brother.’

‘I know.’ The handkerchief is lifted to her face again.

I give a gentle prompt. ‘His interests and hobbies.’

‘Yes. He didn’t have a lot in his life. He worked every hour they’d let him so Leah could go to college.’

‘And when he wasn’t working?’

‘He’d do odd jobs to raise a few extra bucks. You know, mowing lawns, painting. That kind of thing. Virtually every penny he made went to his ex-wife or Leah.’ The amount of resentment in her voice makes me wonder just how acrimonious his divorce had been.

‘He didn’t go bowling or date or anything?’

‘Nothing. He had no life other than work.’

‘What about enemies?’

She laughs in my face. ‘Paul wasn’t the type of man to have enemies. He went through life unnoticed. Nobody bothered with him beyond polite conversation. After the divorce he worked, slept and then worked some more.’

I can tell by her body language she disapproved of his empty lifestyle but won’t put a voice to her criticism in front of me.

Once I’ve exhausted all my questions, I thank her and leave.

Next on my list of people to visit are Evie Starr’s family.

42

I step out of the shower and reach for a towel. After invading the lives of two grieving families, I was left with the need to wash. To cleanse myself of their misery and the dirty feeling I got from causing further hurt.

After dressing I make a sandwich with some cold meats from my fridge and the last slices of bread. The bread is harder and drier than I care for, but with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had time to collect any fresh groceries. The glass of milk I pour myself is a day past its use-by date, but smells okay, so I risk it.

I take a seat and begin a mental recap of everything I’ve seen or heard today. There’s a lot to chew over, but I work my way through it until some ideas have formed.

One idea I can’t shake, despite knowing there’s no way it can be correct, is Paul Johnson is almost a perfect fit for Dr Edwards’ suggested psyche of our possible serial killer. He has the loneliness factor and after the way his ex-wife discarded him, he was sure to be harbouring more than a little resentment.

Every fibre of my body tells me associating a victim with a killer in this way is wrong. While I’m not going so far as to speak ill of the dead, the uncharitable thoughts are still coming.

What I can’t get my head round is how we’re meant to identify the killer. Everything I’ve learned about each of the victims is unique and individual to them. Other than being lifelong residents of Casperton, there is no common thread. No shared interests, hangouts or friends.

Even their ages are disparate, with there being at least half a generation between any two of them.

I make a note to look deeper into the financial side of their lives. If they share a tradesman or professional of some kind, there may be a connecting link to give the investigation a focal point.

This is the type of work Alfonse excels at. It’ll become his task while I busy myself with something more people orientated.

Looking at my scribbled notes, I wonder if either Johnson or Evie Starr kept a diary. It’s a question I never asked and its omission nags at me.

With a half hour to go before I’m due to meet the chief, I call Alfonse asking him to join me there. Having everyone in the same room will save any repeated conversations.

To kill time, I pick up the last pages of Kira’s diary in the hope of finding a clue of some kind. I don’t expect to, but a part of me knows I need to read them just in case.

43

Upon entering the station I’m waved right through to Chief Watson’s office where I find him on the telephone.

I’m not sure who he’s talking to, although it’s a fair bet they’re not enjoying the chief’s words as much as I am.

The handset rattles when he thumps it into the cradle. ‘Sit down, Boulder, and wipe that smirk off your face.’

I obey the first half of the command. ‘That was a great use of language. Most people would have just sworn at him.’

‘I don’t believe in using curse words with my men.’

I get the smirk off my face but can’t remove it from my voice. ‘Sorry, but it’s the first time I’ve heard a detective being described as less use than a syphilitic camel’s rotting carcass.’

He kneads his temples, a grimace turning down the corners of his mouth.

‘He deserved it. I’ve just had Evie Starr’s son in running his mouth about insensitivity. The son said you’d been there too. Said you’d shown way more tact and understanding.’

I give a shrug and a nod of thanks in one movement.

The visit to her family hadn’t been pleasant for anyone, but all through it, I’d known they were suffering way more than I was. It was written on their faces and translatable from their body language.

Interpreting the way he looked at me over the top of his mug as an invitation to speak, I hold up two fingers and pull out my cell.

‘You’re late and the chief’s waiting, where are you?’

‘I’m here.’ I hear Alfonse’s voice in my ear as his head pokes round the chief’s open door.

I scowl my disapproval at his poor timekeeping, but as usual he ignores me.

‘What have you got then?’

The chief’s question is aimed at both of us, but it’s Alfonse who speaks first. ‘I’ve spent most of my day looking at the wives of Kira’s clients in case it was one of them seeking revenge. None of them seemed likely to have gone that far and unless they have secret accounts in false names, none of them have withdrawn large amounts of cash.’

‘I’m guessing you mean to pay a hitman rather than do it themselves.’ The chief’s words are a statement not a question.

‘Yep. There was nothing I could find to suggest any of them had dropped out long enough to travel here. These women have little to do and are constantly updating their Twitter or Facebook feed.’ He gives a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Once I’d identified them, it didn’t take long to rule them out.’

‘Is it possible they have offshore accounts that didn’t show on your searches?’

‘Yes, but it’s not likely. I tapped into their email servers and checked their historical emails to locate their bank statements. Once I’d done that, it was just a case of having a look at their income and expenditure.’

‘I see what you meant about inadmissible.’ The chief shoots me a look then turns back to Alfonse. ‘How do you know their offshore accounts are linked to that particular email and they don’t send their statements in the mail?’

‘Nobody who has a secret offshore account wants their statement put in the mail. Some of them had more than one email, but the software I used to get into their PCs or tablets scans for historical searches on any browser. One of the things it flags up is sign-up pages for email accounts. Therefore, I’m ninety-nine per cent confident I’ve got all their email accounts covered.’

I believe him and can see Chief Watson does too. These days, everyone is tuned in to their cells or tablets as if they are a magical gateway to a better world.

It’s all a nonsense – what’s happening is the erosion of societal manners and consideration for others. Just last week I saw a guy in his late twenties so engrossed with his cell he walked into a busy intersection without noticing. When confronted by angry drivers blaring their horns, he’d flipped them the bird as though they were the ones at fault, before continuing to the nearest sidewalk with his cell still held in front of him.

If just one of those cars hadn’t screeched to a halt, I’d have witnessed Darwinian selection first hand.

‘So you think they should be eliminated from our thoughts?’

‘Yeah. After doing that, I started to look into the other two victim’s finances.’

Score one for Alfonse. ‘I was hoping you would. What did you find?’ I keep my voice matter of fact, not wanting the chief to realise I hadn’t considered it until after it was done.

He addresses the chief rather than me. ‘Paul Johnson lived a pauper’s life only one large bill away from disaster. He had no secret accounts or hidden stash. Unless it was cash stuffed into his mattress.’

The chief shakes his head. ‘We didn’t find anything like that when we searched his house. I saw where his money was going for myself when I looked through his statements. You would too, Boulder. What about, Evie Starr?’

‘She had some money, but not what you’d call a lot. Ten grand and change in a savings account, plus a pension which paid enough to cover living expenses so she could use the savings for luxuries.’

‘Where’s the pension from?’ I’m wondering if a small businessman is cutting off bad payers and trimming outgoings from the firm’s pension fund.

‘One of the oil companies.’

His words nix that particular theory. It is enough of a stretch a local firm was protecting their pension fund, but the global companies involved in the oilfields wouldn’t care about such trivial amounts.

‘Did you find any common purchases? Had they all had building work done by the same firm or something like that?’

I’m pleased the chief and I are on the same wavelength. Not only does it validate my own thoughts, but it’s good to see he is smart and capable of independent thought.

His predecessor had been rooted in the old ways and had all but condoned the lacklustre efforts of Farrage and his buddies. With Victor Watson, Casperton, for the first time in many years, has an intelligent and decent man as chief of police.

Alfonse pulls three sheets of paper from the leather document folder he brought with him. ‘I haven’t had time to cross-reference them yet but these are the last six- month’s-worth of purchases for each of the three victims.’

He hands me a sheet and another to Chief Watson. ‘I’ve put them in alphabetical rather than date order.’

Five minutes later we’ve finished checking the lists. Only four businesses feature on all three: Casperton Auto Repairs, a fuel stop in the centre of town, the 7-Eleven and Sherri’s.

Almost everyone in Casperton uses the 7-Eleven, Sherri’s and the fuel stop. Their inclusion was a given for any local. I use them myself, as does Alfonse.

Johnson had visited Sherri’s just once, and by the time of the transaction and amount paid, I’d guess his daughter was home for the weekend.

Which means the one common business used by each of the three victims was Casperton Autos. This brings us back to Lunk.

Again, a lot of people use Casperton Autos. Whatever else he may be, Lunk is a fine mechanic and his rates are way more reasonable than the dealerships on the edge of town.

‘Did you have a chance to look at the accounts of Casperton Autos?’

Alfonse and I exchange knowing glances at the chief’s question. Like everything else about Lunk, his accounts will be a mess. It would surprise me if his accounts are on paper let alone a computer.

Any bill I’ve ever had from him was handwritten on cheap paper headed with nothing more than a variety of oily fingerprints. For minor jobs like new tyres or an exhaust, he’d pull a number out of his head and I’d pay cash without ever seeing a check. I’m sure the IRS are long overdue an investigation into his accounts, but that, quite literally, is his business.

‘What about you, Boulder? What have you learned today?’

I tell them of my day, the visits to the grieving families and the hour I spent with Dr Edwards.

He listens without interrupting, the pen in his hand scratching out notes onto the cluttered desk pad. His scrawled handwriting follows no logical pattern or direction. Notes are jotted at random points of the compass, the text assuming whichever direction his hand finds easiest. How he makes sense of it is beyond me, but it must work for him – he’s too experienced not to have learned the best way to work.

When I finish he lays down his pen with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve learned more from you two than I have from any four of my detectives.’

There’s nothing we can say to this so we stay quiet waiting for him to continue.

‘You mentioned Evie Starr’s family were adamant she was loved by all who knew her. It’s a cliché, I know, but did you get any feeling they were looking through rose-tinted glasses?’

‘Not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘I spoke to one of her neighbours as well. She was always the first to contribute to bake sales or to help others whenever they needed it. She was so popular the kids in the neighbourhood called her Auntie Evie.’

The chief kneads both temples at once.

Now we’ve given him his information, it’s time for him to reciprocate. ‘Have you heard anything from the CSI team?’

He nods and consults the mess of scribbles on his desk pad. ‘They found everything we expected them to and nothing we didn’t.’

I know what he means. What had happened in her house was pretty obvious, but still we’d had an idea or two, which may help the CSI team get us a suspect, our best theory being the killer may have removed his gloves to wash the blood off her body.

‘Did they find any fingerprints in the shower?’

‘Only hers. The shower controls all had partial prints, which had been smudged. Piers, who was the lead investigator, said it’s typical of what happens when someone wearing gloves touches something.’

The fact I was expecting this news doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

‘What else did they find?’

Again the chief’s fingers reach for his temples. ‘Nothing that tells us anything new. Everything they told me just confirms what we suspected.’

‘What about how he got her from the house to the reservoir?’

‘There were no tyre tracks in her driveway other than the ones from her own car. A shed at the back of the house was found to have its lock broken.’

A thought hits me. ‘Did you find the keys for her car?’

‘I didn’t know we were supposed to look for them.’

‘A dime says you don’t find them anywhere you’d expect them to be.’ The chief scowls so I keep going. ‘I’m guessing he used her car to drive to the reservoir. The broken lock on the shed is too coincidental not to be connected. Therefore, I figure he stole a wheelbarrow from the shed to carry her from the car to the bench. Once she is in place he takes the car back and walks away.’

‘Goddamn it, I think you’re on to something. If you’re right it explains why the neighbours didn’t see any strange vehicles in the area.’ He points at me. ‘You’ve been at the house – you’ve seen how easy it would be to approach from the back without being seen.’

He reaches for the telephone on his desk. Dialling a number from memory, he waits for an answer then barks out a series of instructions. Whoever is on the other end of the line is left in little doubt of how quick the chief wants them to act.

Ending the call, he turns to me. ‘That tyre print you found. I’ll bet a week’s salary it was the killer dumping the wheelbarrow into the reservoir.’

I’ve had the same thought. ‘Do you know anyone with diving equipment who can find out for you?’

A malicious gleam twinkles in his eye. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is always talking about pool parties. I’m sure he’ll be able to swim down a few feet and find out if we’re right.’

As much as I hold Farrage in the contempt he deserves, I don’t envy him the task of having to swim into the cold depths of the reservoir. Down below the surface in the shade of the trees there will be murky blackness, indistinct shapes and the pressure of the water squeezing his body.

The water will push at his closed mouth, trying to force a way into his lungs. If it finds no entry there, it will refocus its attention on his nostrils. Whatever other faults he may have, Farrage will earn my respect if he can propel himself into the depths and find the wheelbarrow.

‘Here.’ The chief passes a folder to me and one to Alfonse. ‘I got these reports just before you arrived. I haven’t had time read them myself yet.’

All three of us read in silence. It doesn’t take long to go through the pages. Not only are there few details to consider, but the detectives have shown their laziness by only recording the barest information in the briefest way possible.

I expect their training will have taught them to record only the pertinent facts using the fewest words possible, but their idleness has progressed to new levels, thereby robbing the reports of any character. Not once is a theory offered forward, there’s just fact after fact delivered as a series of bullet points.

There are statements from the young couple who found Evie Starr and the report from the CSI team who’d examined the dump site.

Nothing my eyes land on does anything more than confirm what I already know or suspect.

The chief slaps his papers onto the desk and glares at us. ‘Nothing. That’s what I get from these – absolutely nothing. Tell me you’ve got something.’

Alfonse shakes his head while I remain still and silent.

‘You found something, Boulder?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t figure out what it is.’

‘Figure quickly.’ Yet again the chief’s hands stray to his temples. ‘I want you to focus on the two women. The more I think about it, the less I believe Johnson’s murder is connected to the others.’

I disagree with his way of thinking, but I’m aware he has more experience than me when it comes to hunting killers. Besides, unlike Farrage and his cronies, I don’t have to follow his every order.

The chief looks at his watch. ‘We’ll meet here at noon unless something breaks through the night. If you think of anything, call me, regardless of the time.’

44

I get home and settle into my recliner with the reports. The thought nagging at me hasn’t come into bloom yet, but I intend to read them as often as necessary until it steps forward and identifies itself.

Finding a rhythm, I pour over page after page until I’ve read every report twice.

Inspiration eludes me as I try to reshape my questions to fit the knowledge accumulated so far.

I make some notes which I score out when I realise other facts refute their validity.

No matter which way I approach the problem it stays resolute, defiant of my attempts to solve it.

I pick up the remaining few pages of Kira’s journal. Perhaps a change of focus will freshen my tired mind.

As is always the way, it’s one of the last pages that gives me the breakthrough. There, among her ramblings about me, is a passage that makes my heart beat faster as the jigsaw in my mind begins to form a clear picture.

If I’m right, there’s a serial killer targeting Casperton with a bizarre way of selecting his next victim.

I grab my iPad and begin to seek out the registries Alfonse has shown me. I type in the hacked password he gave me and start my search.

First I look at the local births and marriages register, tracing back the family tree of Evie Starr. Knowing she had two daughters and a son helps and it doesn’t take long to pinpoint their dates of birth.

Finding the son’s children is easy as they will have the family name. He is the proud father of two sons. Both are unmarried so I can strike them from my thoughts.

I cross-reference the dates of birth of the two daughters against the register of marriages. Using their married names, I return to the dates of birth and check for any children. One has two daughters but neither carries the name I’m looking for.

Next I look at the second daughter and learn she’s been married twice. I’ve been looking for children from her second marriage. The first one only lasted two years but she’d produced a pair of twins.

There in a small font is the name I am looking for. To be certain I have the right person, I enter her name into the search box. It comes back with one entry. Hers.

I realise with a jolt I’ve gone about this the long way. If I’d started with her name and traced backwards I would have gotten the same verification of my theory two or three hours ago.

I call Chief Watson. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message and call Alfonse.

He listens as I tell him my theory and the research I’ve done. He agrees with my logic and promises the information I need within five minutes.

Feeling adrenaline pulse through me, I try the chief again. He answers with a gruff voice laden with the nuances of the recently awoken.

45

The chief looks extra stressed as I stride into his office. One hand appears to be fixed to his temple as he speaks into the phone. The fact he’s not getting any joy with his requests for help shows on every crease of his face.

The phone slams down and he glares at me as if it’s my fault. ‘Are you positive about this, Boulder?’

‘I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t.’ I pass across the printouts I’ve brought with me and hope he notices the needle in my voice. He can treat his subordinates however he likes, but I don’t take insults from anyone.

He scans the pages and gives a terse nod. ‘You’re right. They are connected.’ He grabs a folder off his desk and waves at me to follow him as he moves towards the door.

As we pass the front desk he leans over it, invading the desk sergeant’s personal space. ‘Get every officer you have the number for into this office in the next twenty minutes. I don’t care whether they’re traffic, detectives, off duty or retired. I want them here by the time I call you. Am I understood?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, so I match his pace as he hurries outside. I climb into his car without bothering to ask if he wants me along.

The chief stands on the gas with vehemence. The tyres lay down a strip of rubber as the car shoots out of the parking lot with lights and sirens in full operation.

‘That’s a good call you made, Boulder.’ He sighs as his mind realigns itself from administration to action. ‘What put you onto it?’

‘I was reading Kira Niemeyer’s diary when I found out her cousin had discovered a person who’d hanged themselves. I remembered Kira’s body was found by Mrs Halliburton who is the sister of Paul Johnson. Two coincidences like that seemed a bit of a stretch, so I looked into the person that found Johnson’s body. She turned out to be Evie Starr’s granddaughter.’

He negotiates a corner so fast the protest of tyres can be heard over the siren.

Upon reaching our destination, the chief screeches to a halt on the wide road and jumps out. I’m a half pace behind him.

He bangs on the door of a stereotypical house until the glass splinters. Still he bangs and hollers until a light comes on and a dark shape appears behind the glass.

The door opens to reveal a man shaking off the effects of the sudden awakening. Stepping back, I can see other lights in the house turn on.

‘Mr Masterton, I’m Chief Watson and I need to talk to you at once. You are not in any trouble but members of your family may be in danger.’

Masterton looks at me, then the chief and back to me, his brain still too near sleep to process the information it is being given.

I step forward and usher him backwards. ‘Your family are in danger. Get everybody in the house downstairs. Now!’

My last word being shouted jolts something inside him. He stumbles up the stairs shouting names as he goes.

Two minutes later his family are gathered in the lounge. There’s a son of college age, another in his mid-teens and a wife. All of them are sleep-tousled and the wife’s expression is that of a professional lemon taster. A cat stalks along the floor then leaps into the lap of the youngest son.

The chief points at the elder son. ‘When Frederick here found the body of Evie Starr, we believe he was being watched.’

‘By whom?’ Even in her current state, the sour-faced woman gets her grammar correct.

‘The person who killed her and dumped her body there.’

‘I presume you’re connecting that lady with the two murders in the Gazette?’ Again it’s the woman who speaks. It doesn’t take much deduction to work out who rules this particular roost.

The chief raises a hand towards his temple only to stop the movement at shoulder height. ‘Our intelligence leads us to think the killer watches to see who finds the bodies. Once he’s identified them he selects a member of their family as his next victim.’

What little colour is in their faces drains away as the chief’s words sink in.

‘We need you to provide us with a list of your family members, their addresses and phone numbers.’

‘Beth. What about Beth? She was with me. Won’t she be at risk as well?’

I turn to Frederick. ‘We’re going there next. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

Mrs Masterton takes control of the situation. ‘Frederick. Will you bring me a pen, some paper and my cell please? The sooner we do this, the sooner they can go and warn her.’

Her eyes lock onto the chief. ‘What happens when I give you this list?’

‘I’ll send officers to everyone’s house and your entire family will be escorted to the station for the rest of the night. We’ll look at getting some more comfortable accommodation for you tomorrow. We’ve only just made this connection and don’t have anywhere else we can guarantee your safety.’

‘Is it safe to go upstairs and get dressed?’ It’s the younger son who asks. He’s close to tears and has an arm round the father.

I give him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure it is, but would you like me to go up and check for you?’

He nods so I make my way towards the stairs I’d passed on the way in. Not having any official capacity leaves me feeling like a voyeur. The chance to check through the house in case the killer is lying in wait is too good to pass up.

I give the house a thorough if unconcerned search. Any killer present is bound to have heard the chief’s banging and hollering. Half of what I’m looking for is signs of forced entry.

With both halves of my search coming up empty, I return to the lounge where the chief is on his cell, relaying the details noted down in Mrs Masterton’s neat script.

Hearing a knock at the door, I look out and see the two patrolmen the chief had summoned on the drive over.

The chief ends his call and issues his orders to the patrolmen.

As he strides towards the door he throws me a sideways nod. ‘C’mon, Boulder. We’ve got the Tanners to see now.’

What neither of us have mentioned is how the killer identifies the people who find the bodies. It’s not the kind of information shared with the press or mentioned outside of law enforcement circles.

Therefore, the killer is either being fed information by the police, is a member of the force or is watching the dump sites.

It’s a question which cannot remain unanswered. ‘How does the killer know who finds the bodies?’

‘Lord knows.’ He scratches at his chin while screeching around a corner. ‘I looked into all my men when I moved here. They may be useless and in some cases downright stupid, but none of them have been in trouble for excessive force or anything like that. I don’t know them well enough to vouch for them, but for the most part I’d say they’re too damn lazy to go to all this trouble.’

For the most part I agree with his assessment, but there is always the element of the unknown.

The idea one of them is sharing information with the killer doesn’t fly. As soon as they’d worked out what was happening they’d have stopped. The only way they’d have continued is if the killer had threatened their families.

Which is possible, but not likely.

That leaves a third option. ‘Do you reckon he’s watching the dump sites then?’

‘What other explanation is there?’

I can’t think of one. I would push a bit harder, but we’ve arrived at the Tanner’s house.

46

When we return to the station, I find a seething mass of bodies crushed into the reception area. The adults are sitting on a variety of office chairs while the children are either sitting on their parents’ knees or are cross-legged on the floor.

Every face is filled with worry and anger. I can empathise with their concerns. Nobody enjoys being roused from sleep and told they or their loved ones may be in danger from a serial killer.

Farrage is being harangued by a group of angry men who demand he leave the station and catch the killer at once.

Frustration and a feeling of impotent rage fills the air with a noxious tension, turning the room into a powder keg of emotion. One wrong word in here could start a fight as discomfort and worry combine.

As soon as the chief is recognised, the men surrounding Farrage abandon him and focus on the higher power. At least Farrage has the decency to hide his face so nobody except me sees his relief.

The chief lifts his hands, palms outward. ‘One at a time please.’ His voice isn’t raised but it carries enough of an edge to cut through the chatter and silence the room.

‘You first.’ He points at the man on the left of the group. ‘What is it?’

The man is mid-forties and carries himself well in spite of the situation. ‘It’s my wife. She didn’t come home tonight. He’s got her, hasn’t he?’

‘We don’t know that for certain. Boulder, take him to my office. I’ll be there directly.’ The chief turns to the next man. ‘Yes?’

I lead the man into the chief’s office.

‘What’s your wife’s name?’

‘Wendy… Wendy Agnew.’

‘What time was she due home?’

‘Around midnight. She was dropping a colleague at the airport after work.’

I look at my watch. She’s two hours late.

‘How come you’ve just noticed she is missing?’

Guilt replaces the worry on his face. ‘I knew she was gonna be late so I went for a couple of beers after work. Had a couple more when I got home. When I got woken and brought here, I never looked at the time. I just assumed she wasn’t home because it was before midnight.’

I don’t know what to say to that. If he’d been sober he would have noticed sooner. Yet I know all too well the pull of another beer. It’s one of the reasons I drink so rarely.

‘Have you called her cell?’

‘Of course. It just keeps going to answer phone after a few rings.’

The fact it is ringing is good news to balance the bad of it not being answered. If it was going straight to voicemail there is a chance it has been destroyed or isn’t picking up a signal.

I pluck a pen from the desk and point at the chief’s desk pad. ‘Write her number on there for me.’

I pull out my own cell. Alfonse picks up before the first ring is complete.

‘Run a trace for me.’ I recite the number Agnew has written down. ‘Call me back as soon as you have a location.’

‘Do you think he’s got her? Do you think she’ll be his next victim?’

I don’t reply because my answer to both of his questions is yes. Instead I change the subject. ‘What car does she drive? What’s her licence plate?’

My distraction works. A part of him understands giving me information is more important than anything he wants to know. I jot the details down on the corner of the chief’s pad and tear it loose.

A thought enters my head before I leave to get the chief. ‘Have you called her work to check she left?’

‘No.’ Hope springs into his eyes as he reaches for his cell.

‘Are you part of the Tanner or Masterton family?’

‘Tanner.’

He turns away as his call is answered.

The hunch of his shoulders as he asks his questions relaxes for a moment before returning with more intensity.

When he turns to tell me what he’s learned, I see fat tears tumbling down his cheeks. ‘She left at eleven-thirty.’

I’m about to leave the room and get the chief when he enters with a woman. She’s in her forties and is dabbing at reddening eyes with a paper tissue.

The chief is the first to speak. ‘This is Gayle Prosser. Her husband Donny went to work at seven this morning and never came home.’

I get her attention by touching her elbow. ‘Are you related to Frederick Masterton?’

‘He’s my nephew.’

I step into the corner of the room and gesture for the chief to join me. ‘How much do you know?’

‘They had a fight this morning and he hasn’t answered her calls all day.’ He gives an exasperated shake of the head. ‘She says it’s not the first time though. When they fight he tends to go for a beer. He doesn’t usually stay out all night, but this morning’s fight was a big one.’

‘Have you put a trace on his cell?’

Defeat fills his voice. ‘I’ve requested one, but I was told not to expect an answer before tomorrow afternoon.’

‘What’s his number? Alfonse will get it long before then.’ He hesitates. It’s one thing hiring us to help out, but to actively encourage us to break the law goes against every principle he is paid to uphold.

I watch his face as he conducts the internal debate. It doesn’t move beyond a tiny flickering of the eyelids. I know he’ll be balancing the probability of Prosser lying asleep on a buddy’s couch against the fact he could also be in the hands of a serial killer.

Concern for the safety of a civilian wins the battle with his instinctive law-abiding morals.

As he begins to open his notebook, my cell rings.

I listen to what Alfonse has to say, then read him the second number right from the chief’s notebook.

Taking the chief’s arm in my hand I make for the door.

47

I turn onto Main Street and stop at the first set of lights, which are showing red. There’s no traffic but I have the chief of police sitting beside me. I’m only driving because his car was blocked in and mine wasn’t.

‘Dammit, Boulder. Put your goddamn foot down. Ain’t nobody in this town gonna give you a ticket tonight.’

I obey his instruction and streak through town until I’m heading towards the airport.

With Casperton behind me, I open up the Mustang until it’s approaching three-digit territory.

My eyes keep flicking to the odometer. Before hanging up, Alfonse told me Wendy Agnew’s cell was seven point two miles from the edge of town.

When I reach six and a half, I slow down to thirty in case his calculations are off. The chief opens his window and shines his flashlight onto the scrub at the side of the road.

We’re not sure what we’re looking for, but we’re looking anyway. I just hope it’s not a body we find. Apart from the fact another innocent will have died, us discovering one of his kills will put our families at risk from the killer.

My headlights bounce off a metallic silver car. The same kind of Ford Wendy Agnew owns.

I glance at the odometer. It shows seven point two miles travelled.

As I draw up beside the car, the chief uses his radio to summon two deputies. We climb out and circle the car, looking around as we do so. Finding nothing obvious, I stare out into the blackness as the chief shines his flashlight inside.

‘There’s nobody in the car.’

He gives me a pair of nitrile gloves and pulls on a pair himself.

We’ve found the car, but not the owner. The car being left here is odd. There is no real place for parking, no junctions or side roads. There isn’t even a track leading into the scrub.

I hear the chief trying a door handle as my eyes scan the darkness again. I can’t see anything due to the cloud cover but it doesn’t stop me sensing there’s something out there.

There’s a slight creak from the hinges as the car door opens. The chief reaches in and presses the button to release the trunk.

There’s a thunk as the mechanism releases the catch.

We move to the back of the car as if choreographed. My eyes never leave the wilderness surrounding us. My vigilance is involuntary, fuelled by an instinct borne of some primeval sixth sense.

The way the chief doesn’t comment on what I’m doing makes me realise he feels the same way. That he’s trusting me to keep lookout is a comforting endorsement, only offset by the fact he shares my nerves. When an experienced law enforcer like Chief Watson gets the jitters, it’s not without good cause.

‘It’s empty.’

He takes over guard duty while I sink to my knees with his flashlight and look underneath the car.

There’s nothing there except a small patch where oil has dripped from the engine. Standing up, I shake my head and return his flashlight.

I leave him shining his flashlight into the nearby brush and lean into the car. There’s an open handbag in the passenger footwell. It’s filled with the usual paraphernalia along with a cell phone and a woman’s purse.

I fish the scrap of desk pad from my pocket and use my cell to dial the number Agnew gave me. The cell in the bag rings, providing all the confirmation we need.

So where is she?

I don’t profess to be an expert on women, but I’ve met enough to know there are very few who’d leave their car in the middle of nowhere and go off without their bag or cell.

Therefore, this is the site of her abduction. Which brings us back to trying to work out who took her.

The realisation does something to me. I’m not sure whether it provides adrenaline or a higher state of consciousness, but I no longer fear whatever may be hiding in the shadows. The killer won’t be watching the abduction site. His style is to watch the place where he dumps his victims.

Looking around I see enough brush and scrub bushes fleetingly illuminated by the chief’s flashlight to know we’ll never find Wendy Agnew’s body tonight even if it’s twenty feet from here.

‘When the deputies get here, I’ll leave them to guard the car. We can start a search in the morning. You heard from your buddy yet?’

I shake my head. The chief’s subtext is I should call Alfonse to ask. There’s no point, he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s located Donny Prosser’s cell.

A check of my watch shows the time as five after three. If Alfonse takes the same time tracing Prosser’s cell as he did with Wendy Agnew’s my cell should ring within ten minutes.

We wait in silence until a patrol car arrives. When it does, the chief walks over and starts issuing orders before the patrolmen have fully exited the car.

I stare at my cell, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.

The chief joins me in my car, his raised eyebrow asking the question again.

I ignore him and start the engine.

We’re a mile or so from Casperton when my cell rings. I listen to what Alfonse has to say without commenting. There’s not a lot I can say, but an inner cussedness is making me enjoy the chief’s exasperated impatience.

Making a mental note of Alfonse’s directions, I end the call and hang a left at the first opportunity.

‘Well?’

The chief’s sole word carries insistence along with the full burden of his worry.

‘His cell was at his place of work until six thirty. After that Alfonse traced it to a couple of bars.’

‘I don’t want its family history, Boulder. I want to know where it is now.’

‘The last signal he got from it was a half mile out of town. He says it was near the bridge over Hangman’s Creek.’

‘That’s on the Forty towards Denver ain’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

I’ve forgotten just how new he is to Casperton. He’s still finding his feet in this town, learning the place and the people.

Like me, Alfonse and a lot of the other incomers, he’ll never achieve total acceptance by the town’s original inhabitants no matter how long he stays. If I have any children born and educated in Casperton, they’ll be classed as locals, but it’s not a status granted to anyone who moves into the town.

I ignore him as he pulls out his cell and starts issuing orders. My concentration is on my driving as I throw the Mustang into corners and hurtle along the deserted streets until I link with the Forty.

As we leave town, I slow in case Prosser’s cell is lying in pieces at the roadside. Nearing the bridge over Hangman’s Creek, I can guess why the trace on Prosser’s cell ended here.

The creek may only be a few feet wide at this time of year, but I can hear its roar as I park my car on the bridge.

The chief plays his flashlight down and picks out the frothing waters of Hangman’s Creek. I grip the railing a little tighter and try not to think of the water below me tumbling and fighting to gain passage through the rocky gulch.

I turn to face the chief. His silhouette shows against the first rays of morning sun. ‘How much do you want to bet Prosser’s phone is down there somewhere?’

He scowls at me. ‘You don’t know that for sure. Could be he just decided to skip town after fighting with his wife. Tossed his phone over the bridge on his way to a new life.’

‘So he worked all day, went for a couple of beers then just up and left town. Didn’t go home for a change of clothes or to say goodbye to his kids.’ I scowl back at him. ‘Do you believe that’s what happened?’

‘I’d like to, but no.’

We spend a few minutes scouting about the area without finding anything except scrub and rocks.

‘Take me back to the station, Boulder. I’ve search parties to organise.’

I keep my thoughts to myself as I drive him back. I’ve nothing useful to say and I know he’s got some thinking to do. If he kneads his temples any harder his knuckles are going to meet in the middle.

As we approach the station, I ask what he wants me to do next.

‘Obviously my priority is finding these missing people. I need you to help me speak to their families, while I send my detectives out to speak to anyone who may have seen Prosser last night.’

48

I let myself into my apartment and decide not to bother Alfonse until I’ve had a shower. The need to wash the night’s discoveries off me is more compelling than checking a simple fact with him.

After scrubbing myself for five minutes, I drop the water temperature as low as it will go. The cold water does far more to energise me than yet another cup of coffee will. My body and brain feel sharper and more able to tackle whatever else the day throws at me.

Once dressed, I call Alfonse. For once, luck is on my side. Now I have this piece of information it shouldn’t be too hard to verify or discount an idea which has been bugging me.

The last two hours had been spent trying to extract details of favourite haunts, drinking buddies and so on from Prosser’s wife and his brother. While there was always the possibility he’d loaned his cell to someone or had it stolen, I don’t think that is the case and neither did his wife.

She had been so vehement about him never lending his cell to anyone, including her, it made me wonder if there was a specific reason he never let her use it. Being a cynic, my first thought was the reason may have blonde hair, long legs and a less confrontational nature than his wife.

A quiet word with Prosser’s brother when she nipped to the restroom had nixed this idea. With constant glances at the door, he’d told me how Prosser had been caught straying in the past and how close he’d come to losing his family over it. He described his brother’s experience as a hard-learned lesson.

I drink the last of the orange juice in my fridge and lift my keys from the counter. When I leave my apartment building I find a car blocking my Mustang into its usual space.

It’s a black Lincoln, which makes the FBI my first guess. My second thought is that unless Mr Steroids works for the FBI, my first guess is wrong.

Three of his fellow drug abusers clamber out of the car. They flex their muscles and throw mean stares around as if they want to intimidate someone or something.

I look behind me and see nobody else to intimidate, their target must be me as the garden doesn’t look scared.

It’s a shame they’ve travelled so far to waste their scowls. I’m guessing they aren’t here for a gurning competition.

Mr Steroids points at me. ‘That’s him. That’s the jerk who put me in plaster.’

I take a better look at the three lugheads as they lumber towards me. The one on the left is the same height as me but twice as wide, giving him the appearance of an orangutan. The one in the centre is the tallest, has a bald head and a goatee, while the final one is wearing a vest top which shows off full sleeve tattoos. The ones on his right arm appear stretched where the steroids have added bulk to an already tattooed arm.

It’s obvious why they’re here, so I start calculating the best way to deal with them. Three against one isn’t a fair fight, but I’ve faced worse odds.

They have muscle on their side but I have unpredictability and intelligence. It’s only Goatee who shows any spark in his eyes. The others have the dull bovine look of a cow being led into a slaughterhouse wondering why it can smell blood.

I’ll need to be quick about this. Superior strength and numbers will always beat a cunning fighter in a long-drawn-out battle.

Orangutan swings his arms wide, completing the look as he pumps himself up for confrontation. ‘You hurt our buddy. We’re here to make you pay.’

I reach into my pocket and pull out a dime which I flip at him. ‘That’s all you’re getting from me.’

It’s a petty insult but he charges at me with a great bellow. The move so predictable I have a smile on my face as I duck his flailing arms and deliver a thumping blow to his solar plexus. He falls, gasping for breath.

One down, two to go.

The other two are cagier now they’ve seen I can handle myself. They advance as a pair, shoulders a scant inch apart.

Goatee feints a right as Tattoos throws a left. My right arm flies up instinctively and makes enough of a connection to turn the punch into a glancing blow rather than a direct hit.

With my attention on Tattoos, Goatee grabs hold of my left wrist and delivers a savage tug.

It feels as if my shoulder has been torn from its socket but I don’t have time to dwell on the pain.

I dance two steps to my right so Tattoos is in Goatee’s way and then stride towards him feinting a left and delivering a roundhouse right. He ducks back causing me to miss, but there’s a thud as the back of his head collides with Goatee’s chin.

My foot connects with his groin before he has a chance to recover from the clash with Goatee. As he clutches his groin, I send a second roundhouse which connects with his chin.

‘Just you and me now.’ I accompany my words with a devil-may-care grin.

I see a hint of doubt in Goatee’s eyes, but still he presses forward.

He feints a couple of times then springs at me. A jab connects with my chin but I’m moving back so it doesn’t do too much damage. The right to my ribs does though.

Taking advantage of the blow’s impact he wraps his hands around my throat and slams me against the wall of the apartment block, pinning me against the rough bricks.

As his grip begins to tighten and his thumbs dig into my larynx, I kick out at his legs. My kicks land but with my back against the wall I can’t get enough of a swing to hurt or unbalance him.

With that tactic out, I have no option but to raise the stakes to another level.

I throw my hands out until my knuckles touch brick. Jerking them together in a pincer movement, I slam the heel of each hand into Goatee’s elbows.

The way he’s got me held, with his arms extended and his elbows locked, makes him vulnerable to this kind of retaliation. There’s a dual snap as both joints shatter.

He yelps and staggers back with his arms hanging and a dumb look on his face as if he doesn’t know what to do.

I solve his problem with a nose-destroying headbutt followed by an uppercut, which drops him in a heap.

Crossing to the Lincoln, I fix Mr Steroids with a more intimidating stare than his buddies could ever manage. ‘This ends here. This ends now. If you come after me again, I’ll finish you and anyone you care to bring with you. Do you get what I’m saying?’

‘Mr Young ain’t gonna be happy with you for this.’ There is bravado in his voice but fear in his eyes.

‘How happy do you think he’d be if I got a friend of mine to tap into his website and identify all the people who have ever hired one of his courtesans? How happy do you think he’d be if my friend was to send an email in Mr Young’s name blackmailing all those clients?’ I’m making this up as I go but pricking his bubble is too much fun to pass up. ‘How happy do you think Mr Young would be if my friend was to send a full list of his clients to every journalist, blogger and radio station in the country?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to go back into my apartment for a shower. When I come back out, which will be in approximately ten minutes, you and anyone you brought with you are going to be gone.’

I turn to see Orangutan trying to rise from his knees; Tattoos is sitting up attempting to clear his head by shaking his brain some more and Goatee is still lying where I’d left him.

My second shower of the day sees me turn the water as hot as I can stand it. Now the adrenaline has left my body, the pain from Goatee’s punches and the yank he gave my arm is kicking in.

A check out of my kitchen window shows Mr Steroids and his friends have left.

The chief calls as I’m locking the apartment door. I’m half expecting this call, but being right doesn’t make the news any easier to accept.

49

The Watcher enters his kitchen and takes a mouthful of pills. He has two hours to spare before he’s due at work. As a rule, he should have started by now, but he’s lied about a visit to the dentist as a way to buy himself a late start.

He’s pleased with today’s finder. She was a good friend of Melanie’s and as such he knows a few things about her family.

Never caring for the woman himself, he’d tolerated her non-stop chatter because she and Melanie had been friends since childhood, the two of them inseparable until marriage and careers had forced them apart. Still, there had been the obligatory dinner once a month where he’d have to listen to the woman’s husband bitch about taxes and how supermarket chains were destroying small local stores.

His career in the Marines had spared him from these get-togethers but once delisted he’d endured them for Melanie’s sake. Putting up with a chatterbox and a bore for a few hours, twelve times a year was a tiny sacrifice he was happy to make for his wife.

Now the woman’s gabbling has proven useful. He knows about her family. Where they work. Their passions.

Her father seems to be the easiest target. He has spent time in his company at one or two social occasions.

Getting close to him won’t be hard. His place of work is an ideal location to dump a body and remain unseen.

He lifts his bowl and stirs the scraps of paper before selecting one. Opening the scrap of paper, he finds a single word. ‘Seppuku’.

He laughs. Using the Samurai’s method of self-disembowelling as a way to kill is something he’s been waiting for. He’s even managed to get his hands on the correct type of short sword for the ritualised death: the Tanto.

He remembers what he’s learned about Seppuku – the various rituals, the way Samurai warriors used it to avoid shame or falling into the torturous hands of a victorious enemy. For a time it was also used as a form of capital punishment.

Laughing again, he looks forward to plunging his Tanto into the engorged belly of the chatterbox’s father and moving the blade across and then up. Setting the scene will be important on this one too. He’s keen to observe the ritual as closely as possible.

He will act as the father’s Kaishakunin. It will be an honour to deliver the death stroke.

With a glance at his watch, he gathers what he needs and sets off to hunt his next victim.

The kill won’t take place this morning. He’ll do that later when he can watch the corpse without being missed by anyone.

He knows his cover of being at work won’t last much longer, but he needs to eke out every last scrap of benefit it can afford him. With so many homicides in such a short time, it can only be a matter of days before the authorities start to close in on him.

Yet the pattern must not alter. It and the tally are the points that matter, the staging of the bodies nothing more than a delaying tactic designed to confuse those investigating the murders.

50

The chief ushers me towards his office. Where the reception was awash with a throng of people earlier, it’s now littered by a scant few members of a different family. The smell of stale bodies and nervous tension lingers on, infecting the new arrivals with its all-pervading tentacles of fear.

In his position I’d do the same. After rousing two families from their beds, he’d kept them at the station all night, until he had to deliver the news none of them wanted to hear.

‘So tell me about the bodies that were found.’ I take a seat by his desk.

‘Kelly Oberton was out for an early morning run when she saw a car with bloodstains on the window. She went forward to get a closer look, hurled her guts up, then she ran home to call us.’ He scratches at the white stubble on his chin. ‘As soon as I heard, I sent the boys out to round up her family.’ His voice holds strength and conviction in his decisions, but there is a hint of resigned fatality seeping in at the back.

‘Have you got them all?’

‘No. Her brother left town to go to a conference in Vegas and her father refused to come into custody. Said he’s got too much to do at work without the police jumping at shadows.’

‘So what have you done with the father then?’

He raises his hands from the desk. ‘What can I do, arrest him? He doesn’t want our help and we’re already getting slaughtered by public opinion. I haven’t read it myself, but apparently that Ms Rosenberg took more than a few potshots at us in yesterday’s Gazette.’

‘I trust you’ve got someone on him?’

‘I wish I had the manpower. If I start providing detectives or even patrolmen as bodyguards for every family member who doesn’t do what I ask of them, there’s no way I’ll be able to look after the ones who do. Let alone the rest of the town.’ His scowl lifts for the briefest moment. ‘At least that’s what I told his daughter.’

I smile at the chief’s cunning. He’s using the father as a tethered goat. By not assigning an obvious bodyguard or shadow, he’s creating an opportunity to catch the killer before his selection process becomes public knowledge.

Once that news breaks, the killer may change his methods, move on to a different system or leave town and start all over again in a different town, city or state.

A thought comes to me. ‘Have you tried the FBI again? Got them to check their records for anything similar in other states?’

‘No. The thought occurred to me, but I haven’t had time to follow it up yet.’

‘You said their bodies were found in a car. What have you learned from the scene itself?’

‘To be honest, I’ve never given it a thought. At this moment in time, I’m more concerned with protecting the Oberton family than chasing after the killer.’ He shrugs. ‘If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to keep them safe until an arrest is made.’

‘Your best chance is that he targets the father and whoever you’ve got on surveillance duty catches him before he strikes.’

‘Right now it’s the only chance we’ve got of catching this guy.’

It’s a rare admission from the chief and it makes me understand just how much the strain is affecting him. Not only are the words semi-defeatist, his tone is riddled with the cancer of utter dejection.

‘Do you mind if I go and have a look at the scene?’

The gratitude in his face makes me feel as if I’m the one doing him a favour.

‘Not at all.’ He lifts the phone on his desk and presses a button. ‘Boulder is coming out there. I want you to make sure he gets treated the way I would. If I hear any different, you can leave your gun and your badge on my desk.’

As I reach for the folder he’s handing me, he notices the bruises on my neck and the swollen redness of my knuckles.

‘Have you been fighting, Boulder?’

‘I got jumped by three bozos connected with the strip joint near Salt Lake City.’ I wave a dismissive hand. ‘They attacked me. I defended myself. They learned not to attack me.’

I leave the room before he gets too far into it. There’s nothing to be gained from telling the chief of police how I beat up three men on a public street at eight o’clock in the morning.

51

As I drive to where the bodies of Wendy Agnew and Donny Prosser had been found, I find myself thinking about what I’m about to witness, the questions whose answers I will be seeking and the direction this investigation has taken me.

What started out as helping Alfonse look into Kira’s murder, has in a few short days seen me become the chief’s go-to option in the search for a serial killer. From my initial request for assistance by way of information sharing, I am now being relied on to help steer the investigation.

The responsibility weighs heavy on me, yet I am experiencing a fraction of the burden the chief will bear. In addition to the multiple homicides, he has the everyday concerns of keeping order in a town of twenty-odd thousand.

The biggest worry I’m facing, is the feeling I’m to blame for the latest deaths. If I’d made time to read all of Kira’s journal sooner, both Prosser and Wendy Agnew may still be alive.

While my rational brain tells me it is only a perverse masochistic streak that made me read them in the first place, I’m aware the best breakthrough we’ve made so far has been identifying the killer’s selection process. While not helping us to catch him, it at least gives us a chance to prevent his next strike.

Another part of my psyche is pointing fingers. It has the voice of my mother and the critical attributes of a scorned lover. Like a devil nestling on my shoulder and whispering into my ear, it is telling me I’m out of my depth. That a doorman at a bar shouldn’t be playing detective. It tells me I’m going to fail and people will die because of my failure.

I hear it whispering their blood will be on my hands. That my incompetence has already caused two deaths.

It takes an effort, but I cast the demonic utterances to the back of my mind and force the doubts away.

The road twists and winds its way through the woods. Beristow’s Bluff is a local beauty spot by day and a make-out place by night. Named after one of the founding fathers of Casperton it holds memories for almost every resident.

I reach the car park and leave my car next to Ms Rosenberg’s Chrysler. She’s arguing with a patrolman. He tries to deny me access, but Lieutenant Farrage shouts across and the patrolman steps aside ignoring the protestations and insults coming from Ms Rosenberg.

Give Farrage his due, while he might not like me being there he accepts my presence. The strain of the investigation is starting to show on his face too. Thinking about it, I realise he’ll be under pressure from the chief. As mayor, his father will also be pressing him to solve the case and to top it off, Ms Rosenberg has spent months lampooning him and his abilities. Add the fact no sane person likes to see another human lose their life and it’s no surprise he’s looking so punched out.

His being unfit to lead the investigation is bound to be another factor eating at him. He’ll know for certain he’s out of his depth. The chief bringing Alfonse and I in to help is a public slap to his face, yet he has gone beyond bitterness. For perhaps the first time in his gilded life he is seeing the bigger picture.

Some CSI guys dressed in hooded Tyvek suits complete with overshoe booties are searching the car for evidence.

I see a number of square foot pads leading to the car. I know from my reading it’s how CSI teams approach such a scene. First the ground is scouted for evidence. When the search is done a foot pad is laid and they move forward a couple of feet.

Farrage approaches me. Extends a hand. ‘Look, Boulder, I don’t like you being here any more than you can imagine. But the fact is we need all the help we can get. I can put our differences aside. Can you?’

The gesture and his admission take me by surprise but I don’t hesitate to shake his hand.

‘Of course.’ I point at the car with blood on the windows. ‘What have you got from the scene?’

‘Why don’t you take a look for yourself?’ He reaches into the CSI van and brings out a Tyvek suit, gloves and a pair of overshoe booties.

‘Sure.’

The word carries more than acceptance. It unites us as witnesses to the horror man can wreak on his fellow human beings.

It’s a struggle to wrestle my frame into the suit but I manage not to fall over or rip it in the process. Clad in the protective gear, I place one foot after the other and step onto the foot pads.

As I approach the car, I see the residue of brain matter mixed with the blood on the windows. The stench of vomit carries across from where Kelly Oberton voided her stomach.

I’m glad I haven’t yet eaten. The inside of the car is a grisly mess and has me fighting back the dry heaves. It takes a couple of manful swallows to get me close enough to peer through the windshield. The tableau inside tells a complete story.

Wendy Agnew is sitting in the passenger seat. Her blouse is unbuttoned and one breast has been freed from the functional bra. There is a neat hole in the left side of her face and a larger hole above her right ear.

Around the smaller hole are what look to be scorch marks caused by muzzle flash.

I turn my attention to Donny Prosser and make mental notes of the facts. He’s shirtless, the bullet hole in his right temple shows no burn marks and there are no wounds on his body. His right arm is slumped between the two seats. The dark shape of a handgun lies in his palm.

Looking away from the bodies, I let my eyes wander around the interior of the car. I see a couple of things which suggest a scenario. However, it’s not one I’m inclined to believe.

Breathing only through my mouth, I study the car for a few minutes, then step away with ideas bombarding my brain, twisting and contorting known facts into the semblance of actual events.

I return along the path of foot pads and strip off the protective clothing.

Farrage is waiting for me with an expectant look. ‘What do you think?’

‘It looks like they were about to get it on when he shot her. Then realising what he’d done he turned the gun on himself.’

‘I agree. I’m not sure it’s connected to the other homicides.’

There. Right there in one sentence is the reason nobody in Casperton trusts his detective skills.

He is investigating a serial killer and has taken a look at a dump site and believed everything he’s seen. Without the capacity to think along different lines, everything presented to him is taken at face value, regardless of how much it contradicts known facts. Used to the straightforward and predictable he can’t get his brain to think beyond the obvious.

Some tact is required to avoid disrupting our new-found truce. ‘It looks that way, but maybe the killer wants you to think it’s not connected. Maybe he’s staged the bodies to look this way. Right down to the open box of condoms on the floor.’

‘Why would he do…’ Farrage stops mid-sentence as he realises why a killer would stage a dump scene.

As I watch his face, I can see his mind trying to work out what the next move should be. Fun as it is watching him struggle, I need answers to some questions and his men can be used to obtain them.

‘We need to eliminate the murder suicide angle.’

I spend the next five minutes making suggestions as to what his men should be asking the families of the two victims.

Ms Rosenberg tries to question me as I return to my car, but I blank her, my mind focusing on what to do next.

52

I drive back to Casperton still unsure of what our next move should be. As I’m driving towards the police station, a newspaper headline displayed on an A-frame causes me to pull over.

After snatching a copy of the Gazette from the pile, I start reading while I’m waiting to pay for it. The headline that caught my eye is repeated at the top of the front page.

Serial Killer Stalks Casperton Families

I scan the front page but see few details and a lot of conjecture. The most disheartening thing about it is the journalist has also recognised the pattern. Tracing my finger down the page, I look for the byline. As expected it bears the name of a certain Jewish lady with a New York accent.

This revelation will throw the local population into a state of fear. It’s bad enough there’s a killer on the loose, without every man, woman and child in the town being terrified to call the police in case someone they love becomes the next victim.

I wonder what the chief will make of this latest development. In my mind’s eye, I see him kneading his temples in a forlorn effort to relieve stress.

When I call his cell, I’m met with a recorded message. I leave a short one thankful I don’t have to look at him when he learns of this news.

Next I call Alfonse and get him to check the credit and debit cards of the two latest victims. His voice carries surprise when I tell him to share his results with Farrage as well.

My thinking is Farrage’s men can check the restaurant and hotel spends with their families. It may be tactless and even cruel to make such insinuations, but as improbable as it may be, we need to discount the theory of them having an affair.

Something about the dump site is nagging at me so I call Dr Edwards’ office. I’m not expecting a full appointment to be available at short notice, but after a little pushing I’m granted fifteen minutes on the condition I’m there within five.

I make it with seconds to spare and may get a ticket for the way I’ve abandoned the Mustang, but I’m here.

Taylor the receptionist smiles at me as I burst through the door.

‘Do you always cut things so fine?’ There’s a mocking glance at her watch as she ushers me towards Dr Edwards’ office.

I take my usual seat on the couch and remain silent until he looks up from the notes he’s studying.

‘We don’t have much time, Doctor, so I’ll agree to an appointment where you can ask me anything and get an honest answer if you answer my questions now.’

He scratches at his beard. ‘I trust you to be a man of your word so that’s acceptable to me. What do you want to know?’

I explain how the way the bodies have been arranged is bugging me. How I can’t seem to make sense of, or find a pattern to it.

He scratches his lips and leans back in his chair to think. When he straightens he reaches for the intercom on his desk.

‘Can you reschedule Mrs Harman to a five-thirty appointment please, Taylor?’

When she replies her voice is distorted. ‘Will you need me to stay late?’

‘No, I’ll manage, thanks.’

He releases the buzzer and looks at me. ‘Working on the presumption the latest two deaths are connected, I can think of a number of different scenarios which may be at play here. As you suggest, the killer could just be toying with the investigating officers. Another theory is that he is recreating scenes which are relevant to a hero of his.’

‘A hero?’ I fight to keep the incredulous tone out of my voice. It’s not a battle I win.

‘Yes, a hero. I am by no means an expert on the subject, but it is entirely normal for people to copy or imitate those who they look up to. Add in whatever psychoses this man is suffering from and it is not beyond the bounds of belief the person he worships is a famous serial killer.’

I say nothing. My brain is too busy trying to comprehend the horror of what he’s suggesting.

‘Another theory is he is working to a pattern. The semi-random choosing of the victims gives him an element of control while also leaving some in the lap of the Gods.’

‘So the way he’s leaving the bodies is him saying something?’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’ He jots a note on his pad and then lays down his pen. ‘Have you also considered the methods he’s using to kill these people?’

I have and I haven’t. Being forced to think about it makes me realise it is controlled yet random. Two separate victims died of knife wounds. A third was bludgeoned to death while the last two were shot. Probably within seconds of each other.

Dr Edwards looks at me with expectation.

‘Not enough to draw any firm conclusions. What are your thoughts?’

It’s a cheap shot, turning the tables on him like this, but I’ve won plenty of fights using cheap shots.

His smile acknowledges my sidestep. ‘From what you’ve told me, four different weapons have been used to kill five people. This suggests pre-planning to me. As does the various ways he’s left the bodies to be found.’

‘What about Paul Johnson? He was bludgeoned to death and dumped into the trunk of his car.’

‘He fit the pattern, didn’t he? Both before and after his death. What does that tell you?’

I’m here for answers not questions, but the solution comes to me. ‘It tells me the killer was following him waiting for an opportunity. He found Johnson changing a flat and took his chance. It may not have fit his plans but he reacted to the situation.’

‘Precisely. And what does that tell you about him?’

I think about the physical and biological person rather than the psychological make-up. ‘He’s clever. Adaptable. Resourceful too. The change in his plans didn’t throw his pattern. He still managed to watch to see who found Johnson’s body.’

I remember Johnson was found at night. The killer must have used some kind of night-vision goggles to observe the person who found the body. Those aren’t the kind of things you carry about with you. Unless you’re expecting to need them.

‘He’s prepared. Either he always carries a few different weapons and other things he may need in his car or he takes them with him so he’s always ready.’ I think of the gun in the trunk of my car. ‘He’s also in a position where he can afford the time to commit these murders, therefore it’s unlikely he has anything of a family life.’

‘Good. I’d add that he’s either never been in a long-term relationship or has been on the receiving end of a vicious divorce.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Both situations foster anger, depression and a need to exert authority or control over others.

‘I’ve never been married or in a long-term relationship.’ I keep my tone mild, but he recognises the challenge of my words.

‘No, but you like to fight, don’t you?’

He has me there.

‘I thought we’d agreed to talk about me another time. What about the staging of the bodies? Do you have any idea why he’s leaving them in such ways?’

He leans back in his chair again. His eyes close and the forefinger of his right hand wags from side to side as he considers my question.

When he leans forward his eyes reflect troubled thoughts.

‘The dumping of the bodies in a way they’ll be found is important to him. It helps him select a new target. It also matters that they are found. Most people who kill try to hide the bodies. He’s doing the opposite, which tells me he wants attention. The pattern he’s using as a selection process is complex and requires either a lot of local knowledge or good research skills. It is very important to him otherwise he would have abandoned it.’ He scratches his beard and scribbles a note. ‘I think he started off with basic dumps, and as he’s escalated the killings, he’s tried to misdirect the investigation by changing the scenarios and locations.’

A thought hits me and it isn’t one I care to have. As soon as I get out of here, I’ll have to rush home to verify the details before I pass the thought on to Alfonse and the chief.

‘If as I suspect he’s intelligent, doesn’t he realise that sooner or later someone will realise how he’s selecting his victims?’

‘Of course. It’s why he’s trying to mislead you with the various ways the bodies are arranged. The individual tableaus won’t hold any significance for him unless he’s replicating a hero’s actions. He may feel an element of smugness or self-satisfaction from his own cleverness, but I don’t believe there’s anything more to it. All he’s doing is buying time so he can claim more victims. He knows he will be caught or killed by the police but he won’t be worried about that. All he’ll care about is the next victim.’

‘You think he’s prepared to be caught or killed?’

‘Absolutely. He’ll keep going until he is stopped one way or the other. If there is an element of hero worship, he’ll be determined to match or surpass the number of kills his hero was credited with.’

The doctor’s theory collides with my earlier thought and chills my blood.

53

The Watcher pulls into a parking bay at Stanforth Lake Nature Reserve. A call to his boss claiming a bad reaction to the dentist’s anaesthetic has bought him time to observe Angus Oberton. In his rucksack he carries the Tanto and a short-handled woodsman’s axe along with his usual equipment.

He always enjoys stalking his prey, although he’s not sure of the best place to dump this body. It’s something he’s given a lot of thought to. The random choice of method has given him a glorious opportunity but also a problem as far as setting up a dump site.

The murder won’t take long, but it may have more of a noise element than the others and he doesn’t want to move this one. Seppuku has many traditions and he wants to observe as many as possible.

He enters the visitor centre and pays the admission fee. Seeing the newspaper headline in the gift shop, he buys a copy and scans the relevant pages.

The news of the police’s breakthrough in identifying his pattern doesn’t surprise him, but he’d hoped it would be another few days before they made the connection.

Scanning the page, he sees a special edition focusing on the serial killer is due to be published later in the day. Reading it will be fun. Educational even.

He pushes the news to the back of his mind and concentrates his brain on the matter at hand. This will be the last of the easy ones.

He waits for an opportunity as he walks around the public areas. When it comes he hops over a fence and hides in some of the bushes. After a short crawl through the underbrush he finds a well-worn trail.

Turning right will return him to the visitor centre with its tacky gift shop and overpriced cafeteria. Left will take him further into the reserve.

He turns left. The target is zealous about his work and had jabbered about the breeding pens hidden in a small cleft in one of the valleys. Knowing how involved Oberton is with the breeding programme, he’s sure he’ll either pass this way or visit the pens at some point during the day.

After a few yards the bushes thin out, allowing him to see a half mile along the trail. Someone dressed in a ranger’s outfit is walking away from the visitor centre.

A movement off to his right catches his eye. It’s human shaped so he locks onto the person with his eyes while fishing a pair of binoculars from his rucksack. As he does this, he takes a few steps to his right and several backwards until he is shrouded by a chokecherry bush.

He adjusts the focus, finds the man and takes a proper look. The guy is dressed in store-bought camouflage. It’s a desert pattern, which doesn’t quite match the local terrain.

Examining him in detail, he sees a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck and an unnatural bulge at the back of his waistband. When he wriggles into a more comfortable position the Watcher sees the glint of gunmetal.

The man settles himself and puts the binoculars to his eyes. Provided the Watcher’s memory of Oberton’s enthusiastic spiel is correct, the breeding pens are just beyond the corner the binoculars are aimed towards.

If the guy in the ranger’s uniform is Oberton, why is the guy on the hillside watching him?

He remembers the newspaper. The guy must be a cop trying to protect Oberton.

He smiles. The game just got interesting. Challenging. It’s what he’s been waiting for. Anticipating.

Now it has become a real battle of wits and skill between him and the police. Every successful kill will be a victory for him. Capture or death are the only ways he can now be defeated.

He packs away his binoculars and starts to move, his intended course a wide circle. The destination being the cop on the hillside.

It takes him an hour to get within a hundred feet of the cop. Every step is taken with care. No branches are trodden on or bushes rustled. His feet placed with gentle steps so as not to send loose stones tumbling downhill.

The one thing he has in his favour is the cop is an amateur at this kind of thing. He is observing Oberton from a position where the sun is in his face. Every look through the binoculars will send glints of sunlight flashing across the valley.

When he gets within fifty feet of the cop, he drops to a crawl. Foot by foot he closes the gap on hands and knees.

Now close enough to grab the prone cop’s boot, he wraps his fingers around a fist-sized rock.

Bracing his toes against a large rock for purchase he launches himself forward, his right hand swinging a powerful arc towards the cop’s temple.

He makes the perfect connection. The cop is out cold, his limp body easy to secure with the duct tape in his backpack. Binding the cop’s arms and legs takes less than a minute, gagging and blindfolding him seconds.

His old Marine drill sergeant would have found a number of faults with the takedown, but he’d been a hardass for a reason and the Watcher is content with his actions.

He steals the cop’s gun, binoculars and a knife shoved into the top of a boot. It’s tempting to kill him, but it doesn’t fit the pattern so he lets the man live.

When he looks down the valley, he sees he has a good view of the breeding pens. He pulls out his binoculars with the anti-flash lenses and watches Oberton.

The ranger works alone and is wrapped up in his task. Never once does he look around or bother with anything that isn’t part of his job.

The Watcher tweaks his plan and decides on a course of action.

He returns to the trail making regular checks on Oberton’s whereabouts as he goes.

Ten minutes later he’s a few yards from the breeding pens.

‘Hey, Angus. How ya doin’?’

‘Hi, Norm.’ The Watcher sees the surprise on Angus’s face. ‘You said to drop by sometime, so here I am.’

Angus recovers his composure. ‘Would you like to see round?’

‘Sure.’

Norm follows him round the breeding pens, feigning interest in Angus’s litany on each animal.

Once that part of the unofficial tour is complete, Angus leads him around some of the behind-the-scenes areas.

Norm is keen to get on with the kill before someone joins them or they reach the more public areas. Being introduced or recognised will result in him having to abandon Overton as a target. He points at a small building. ‘What’s that, Angus?’

‘It’s our reptile house. We keep snakes and a variety of insects in there.’

Norm catches glimpses of the public areas, so he decides it’s the perfect location for the kill.

As Angus gazes towards the reptile house and recites a list of its inhabitants, Norm pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

Next he removes the Tanto from his backpack, takes a silent pace until he’s behind Angus and crashes the sole of his boot into the tendons at the back of the older man’s knees.

Angus drops to his knees. Norm reaches the same position a fraction of a second after him.

Norm stretches his arm round Angus’s body and plunges the Tanto into the left side of his stomach. Pulling the Samurai knife to the right he opens the ranger’s belly, before drawing it three inches upwards.

The wound is a total of eighteen inches in length as it traverses the bloated stomach. Angus’s hands clasp at it, trying to hold in the wriggling eels that are his intestines. His mouth hangs open but no sound comes out. Shock from the sudden pain has immobilised his body.

Norm removes the woodsman’s axe from his rucksack as he rises to his feet.

He glances around. Seeing nobody watching him, he lifts the blade above Angus’s exposed neck.

The axe drops.

Five minutes later, he’s a quarter of a mile away, wearing his ghillie suit, and has his binoculars to his eyes. Ready to meet the next link in the chain.

54

I rifle through the pages printed from Kira’s journal until I find the one I’m looking for. Scanning down the page, I locate her cousin’s name.

The entry doesn’t name the dead person, but there’s enough information there to get me started, or rather sufficient for me to ask the right questions of Alfonse and the chief.

It’s the chief I call first. He listens in silence. When I’m done talking, he lets out a string of inventive curses about the killer, before telling me he doesn’t have a spare body with enough live cells to follow the lead I’m suggesting.

I put Alfonse’s name forward and he agrees. He also suggests Alfonse goes to the station and gets Darla to show him how to use the police computers so he can go through their records.

After telling the chief what I learned from Dr Edwards, I hang up and call Alfonse.

With twenty minutes to spare, I embrace the chance to do a spot of uninterrupted thinking.

There’s a lot to consider. Such as what motivates the killer; who his possible hero might be, and whether there would be any point in me also staking out Kelly Oberton’s father.

It’s not so much that I don’t trust any of the Casperton police, it’s just they are all way out of their depth. I can’t think of one who has the subtlety and intelligence to stay unseen by someone as cunning as the killer.

The peace is shattered by my cell ringing. I look at the display and see ‘Mother’. Since first seeing the newspaper headline, I’ve been waiting for her to call.

It’s a wonder it’s taken her this long to find out.

My finger hovers over the cell. If I answer it, there will be another narcissistic tirade dressed up as motherly concern. If I don’t she’ll keep calling until I do. Worse, she might even come looking for me. I may be the wrong side of thirty, but that won’t stop her voicing her concerns in a public place.

I decide it’ll be easier to take the call here in the privacy of my own home; I press the green area of the screen.

She talks for ten minutes straight without giving me chance to try and answer even one of her rhetorical questions. Realising there’s nothing I can say to calm her, I let her say her piece and promise to go and see her later.

It’s a promise I daren’t break, much as I’d love to.

55

I find Alfonse has been afforded a side office in the station. He is sitting with a heavy woman dressed in a blouse loud enough to require ear defenders.

Even while she’s teaching him about the computer system, it’s obvious she has the kind of personality you can’t ignore.

Her voice has a booming quality and her round face has more than its share of laughter lines. The earrings she wears could be used as lures for barracuda and her fingers have more garish rings than Saturn.

‘Thanks Darla. I think I’ve got it now.’

Darla is old enough to be his mother’s elder sister but the difference in their ages doesn’t stop her flirting with him as she leaves the room.

In other circumstances I’d be ripping him to shreds over his new admirer. This is neither the time nor place, though I do flash him a grin to warn him of what is to come.

‘I hope to God you’re wrong, Jake.’ There’s fear in both his face and voice.

‘So do I.’

As he gets to work, I lean back in my seat and think about the information Farrage’s men have given me.

I’d given them a series of questions to ask the families of Donny Prosser and Wendy Agnew. Most of the questions were the same for both families but I’d added some questions to only be asked of Prosser’s family.

Neither family had the slightest cause to suspect the victims were having the affair suggested by the way they were found. A check of their credit card statements further disproved the theory as every item listed could be accounted for.

Both parties were more accustomed to family activities than solo pursuits.

The final clinchers for me are the answers to the questions I’d had asked of Prosser’s family.

He was left handed.

He didn’t own a gun.

He had no interest in guns.

This contradicted the suicide tableau which had him using his right hand to hold the gun to his temple.

Before I’d driven away from the scene, I’d sat in my car and mimed out the sequence of events for the deaths to be the murder suicide the crime scene suggested.

Even pretending the gun was kept in a door pocket, there was enough time for Wendy Agnew to turn away from him.

When I’d recreated where the gun must have been fired from, I’d had to twist and contort my body into an uncomfortable position to get my right hand into the right area.

There were easier ways to position myself so I could fire with my right hand, but none of these put the gun in the correct place.

When I’d checked their bodies for marks or signs of a fight, I hadn’t seen any fresh scratches or bruising where Prosser had perhaps held Wendy against her will. His body was also free of injuries, which told me any fight between them must have remained verbal. That it hadn’t escalated to any kind of physical violence before a gun was introduced made the two shootings even less believable.

When I add all these facts together, it becomes obvious the killer is trying to deflect the police investigation by staging the bodies in a way that indicates something other than murder.

The chief has done a good job rounding up all of the Oberton family. For the sake of their comfort, he’s even managed to get them into a hotel on the east side of town.

I don’t know what security arrangements he’s made, but it’s a fair guess a number of detectives and patrolmen will catch a shift or two on sentry duty.

Hearing the gruff tone of his voice accompanied by rapid footsteps, I stick my head out of the office door. ‘We’re in here, Chief.’

‘I’ll be there in five.’

Leaving him to do whatever he needs to, I throw a questioning glance towards Alfonse.

He doesn’t see it despite looking right at me. Or to be more accurate, right through me.

‘What you got?’

‘Uh?’

I repeat the question without ire, aware his attention is focused on the computer and the information he’s extracting from it.

‘I’m sorry to say you’re right. I’ve found three before Kira and there are a number of deaths that have been ruled as suicide or accidents which may also prove to have been his doing.’

I keep quiet as he reaches for the mouse again. Being right has never seemed so wrong.

I feel the determination compelling me to catch this killer being replaced by a cold anger. I no longer want the killer to pay for his crimes. I want him to suffer for them.

My fury isn’t the religious eye-for-an-eye type. It’s the rage of the aggrieved, the empathetic person who’s seen too much suffering and needs to nullify the cause.

I’ve no doubt the chief feels a similar way. Yet if I’m confronted by the killer I would not want to end his life myself. I’d rather he receives his retribution at the hands of the state than stoop to his level myself.

Barring an insanity plea, he’ll be an odds-on favourite to spend a few years on Death Row before being strapped down and given a lethal injection.

The idea of him having years of false dawns as appeals fail is one which pleases me.

I’ve read how studies have proven Death Row inmates suffer in a way no other prisoners can begin to comprehend. After preparing themselves for death, they are given a stay of execution for one reason or another. Full reprieves are rare, but there are many reasons why the carrying out of their sentence may be delayed.

By the time they make the final walk to the execution chamber they are so mentally weary of the torturous process they are looking forward to the escape death brings.

I recognise this is a cruel thought, but I believe it’s no less than this monster deserves.

‘Well?’ The chief strides into the room. ‘Was Kira his first victim or not?’

‘She wasn’t the first. Without looking at coroner’s reports I can’t be sure, but I’ve traced four other deaths before hers which have the same connection between the person who finds a body and the next victim.’

Four? How many deaths is this guy responsible for?

‘The son of a goddamn bitch. Are you telling me there’s been a serial killer at large and we’ve only found out after he’s killed nine people?’

Alfonse fails to meet the chief’s eye. ‘Like I say, I need to verify the details, but that’s what it’s looking like.’

A thought occurs to me. ‘What’s the time frame on these deaths – and were they recognised as murder victims?’

‘They span over the last three months give or take a week. Two were classed as suicides, one was misadventure and the other was a hit and run that was never solved.’

‘How far apart did they occur?’

Alfonse checks the notes he’s made. ‘Working back from Kira, they were ten days, fifteen days, four weeks and three months.’

The chief and I exchange a knowing look. The killer has escalated in the last few days, going from sporadic unconnected dates to regular daily attacks. It is classic serial killer behaviour right out of the big book of clichés and stereotypes.

‘At least he’s broken cover now.’

The chief’s words stand at odds with his position within the community, but I know what he means. Until Kira Niemeyer was discovered as an obvious victim of a violent attack, nobody had thought to consider that a killer was preying on the residents of Casperton.

By changing his methods, he’s alerted us to his existence. There’s no telling how long he could have stayed under the radar if he’d stuck to his earlier routines and kept passing the murders off as something else.

Now we are aware of him we have a chance of ending his spree. Or at least of getting some help from the FBI. When all is said and done, one police chief, a squad of inept detectives and a pair of amateurs is nobody’s first choice to go after a serial killer.

I look to the chief. ‘Surely the FBI will step in now.’

‘Once I have proof of this guy’s count I may be able to bring them in. Until then I can’t expect to, and I quote, “call the FBI for help every time one of my detectives comes up with a half-assed theory”.’

His words leave a bad taste in my mouth. Their abandonment of him in his hour of need is typical of beaurocratic organisations. Always quick to protect their own careers, they’ll be only too happy to demand proof from the chief before allocating any of their precious resources.

All possible future blame for a false call will lie at his door, while they’ll be safeguarded.

A devil’s advocate may suggest they can’t come running every time someone cries ‘wolf’. While that position may be understandable, this is a case of life and death.

I try another tack. ‘What about the commissioner in Salt Lake City? The mayor? Can’t they get you some help?’

‘The commissioner’s office told me I should contact the FBI as they have no spare bodies. And as for the mayor.’ He gives a snort of disgust. ‘He’s only helpful if you want something opened or have a camera to point at him. The rest of the time he makes his son look like a picture of efficient ability.’

‘You’re joking.’ I know Farrage is little more than a waste of space, but to hear his father is worse comes as a shock.

‘Believe me, I’m neither joking nor exaggerating. The mayor is brilliant at civic functions, but as a politician he’d be outclassed by a stuffed bear. The people in his office run this town while he swans about playing golf and posing for the camera.’

‘Never mind the mayor, you two.’ Alfonse’s voice is raised to attract our attention. ‘I’ve got another here. A Miss Ganderson was found dead on the college campus with a needle sticking out of her arm. The cause of death was a heroin overdose, but the coroner’s report says there were no signs of a history of drug abuse. Her death was passed off as someone who’d experimented and gotten it wrong. She was found by the sister of the next victim.’

The chief’s face turns from puce to ashen and back to puce as anger and shock compete for control of his arteries.

I make a slight change to the subject before the chief has a coronary.

‘This is all useful information, but it’s not going to help us catch this killer.’ I point to Alfonse but keep my eyes on the chief. ‘If he gets all the information and the necessary proof, have you a spare body who can write it down in cop-speak so you can present it to the FBI?’

He nods. ‘Darla could do it.’

‘Then let them do that while we try and figure out a way to catch this guy.’

The chief lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, relief of a shared burden in his eyes. ‘Thank you, Boulder. You make good sense.’

We move to his office to give Alfonse peace to work. On our way, the chief stops Darla and informs her of what he wants done.

‘Sure thing, honey.’ Her tone is rich with her native Caribbean patois, but it’s the way she calls the chief honey which grabs my attention. From anyone else the word would be met with a scowl at best. On her lips it sounds like a natural term to use when referring to a boss.

The chief and I stare at each other for a moment when we reach his office. I’m waiting for him to speak first but a wave of his hand indicates he wants me to lead.

‘I’m not convinced about the safety of the Oberton guy. I think you should bring him in. By force if necessary.’

‘I would agree if it weren’t for one fact.’

‘Which is?’

‘He’s a vet. Spent time in ’Nam. Our killer goes after him – he may just bite off more than he can chew.’

‘It’s still a hell of a risk with a civilian.’

‘He’s under surveillance, remember?’

I get what the chief is saying and I can see why he’s prepared to use Oberton as a tethered goat, but the Vietnam war happened a long time ago. Once-sharp fighting skills have had many years to dull.

Age weakens the body far more than the mind accepts. I guess the chief is much the same age as Oberton and still believes his generation capable of putting up a good fight against a younger, fitter opponent.

‘Supposing your man does spot this killer stalking Oberton. What then? One man can’t be expected to take down a serial killer.’

‘He’s to call for backup and protect Oberton. If possible he’s to make an arrest.’ The chief’s voice is strong but lacks conviction. His eyes are landing on everything except mine.

‘Seems like a lot for one man to do, doesn’t it?’ I keep my tone conversational but I can tell he doesn’t like what I’m saying.

A hand slaps down onto the desk. ‘Have you a better idea? I’ve got no spare manpower and cannot guard every damn fool who refuses to heed my advice.’

‘We’re repeating ourselves. We went over all this earlier. I’ve been thinking about it and while I know you’re doing the best you can, I feel there’s more that can be done to protect him.’

‘You got a squad of detectives I don’t know about? Or perhaps a few trained bodyguards?’

I pay no heed to his sarcasm. In his shoes I’d be way more caustic.

‘I’ve got me.’ I fix him with a determined stare. ‘Until something else happens, there’s nothing I can do but sit and think. I don’t believe the coroner’s report is going to contradict anything we’ve already worked out about the last two victims. If I’m going to be sat motionless, I may as well do it where I can be of some other use.’

His head shakes left to right in a slow deliberate motion. ‘Thank you for offering, but there’s no way I can let you put yourself at risk like this.’

I stand up. ‘Is there a way you can legally stop me from going where I want provided I don’t break any laws?’

‘No.’ He doesn’t move from his seat, but a hand snakes across the desk and lifts the telephone. A button is pressed on the console before he puts the receiver to his ear. ‘When did you last hear from Steve?’

He listens with an inscrutable expression on his face then fixes me with a stare. ‘Last we heard from Steve was an hour and a half back. Everything was okay then.’

‘When’s he due to check-in next?’

The chief’s face takes on a sheepish expression. ‘There’s no fixed schedule.’

‘Then at least get someone to message him that I’m going to be in the area too.’ The last thing I want is for some overeager cop to put a bullet in my back by mistake.

He nods. ‘Is there nothing I can say to stop you going out there?’

The click of the door latch is my answer.

By the time I’ve reached my car, I have a growing feeling that I’ve just been played.

56

I pull into the parking lot of the Nature Reserve where Oberton works and head towards the main building. Behind me the Mustang’s engine is ticking. If it was human it’d be gasping for breath.

Entering the long, low building, I find the ticket kiosk and push to the head of the queue, ignoring the loud protests of a Canadian-sounding woman with more than her fair share of dewlaps. The woman issuing tickets is a regular at the Tree and recognises I’m not being rude for the hell of it.

I memorise her instructions on how to get to where Angus Oberton will be working. As I thank her and make for the door she’s pointing at, the Canadian woman steps in front of me to share her indignation. And halitosis.

I don’t bother to hide the involuntary recoil my body gives as she gets into my face. ‘Excuse me, young man, but it’s about time you learned to show some manners and not barge your way to the front of a queue like that.’

Contenting myself with the knowledge that if she’d been male I’d have knocked her unconscious by now, I put my right hand on her right shoulder and start walking forward.

The move is designed to either force her backwards or spin her enough to allow me past.

Something in my eyes must tell her I’m not going to take her nonsense as she yields before I’ve taken a second step.

I can hear her shifting her aim onto the girl in the kiosk and offer thanks she hasn’t tried to follow me.

It only takes me a few seconds to make my way through the back rooms of the centre. I find the exit door and turn the handle with care.

I wonder if I should don one of the ranger uniforms hanging from a peg before going outside. Deciding against it, I go outside and find myself on a worn trail through dense bushes.

There’s a vibration in my pocket. When I retrieve my cell, I see I have a new message.

ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I KNOW I’M ONLY YOUR MOTHER BUT IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF SUCH DETAILS.

As usual when reading her messages, I’m not sure whether to smile or to launch the cell into orbit.

I settle for sending back the happy emoticon. I don’t like using them, but I know she despises them with a hatred she normally reserves for politicians and rap musicians.

As I advance forward, I assess my options. If the killer is already stalking Oberton, seeing me approaching his target will scare him off. In a similar vein, if I try to find a good vantage point to watch over him, I could either warn the killer of my presence or stumble across him.

I’ve no problem with an encounter, but I’m realistic enough to know the killer is too clever an opponent to be found by chance. The likelihood is he’ll be aware of me coming and will set an ambush.

There’s no point in cursing myself for not having thought about this on the journey here. That can wait. I follow the trail until I reach the end of the cover afforded by the bushes and shrubs.

The trail winds through the scrubland but I can follow it with my eyes. It goes towards a low valley between two hillocks. According to the kiosk girl, Oberton should be working in a cleft a few hundred yards into the valley.

I look over the terrain hoping I’ll see something to inspire my next move. I see plenty of sage brush amid the sparse rocky ground but not a lot of cover.

Decision time beckons me. Waves me forward into making a choice.

Covert or blatant?

As I take a half step to my right with the intention of trying to sneak into a good vantage point, I hear a scream.

It’s not one of excitement or laughter. It’s a scream of pure terror.

Instinct takes over my body. Legs and arms pump as I race towards the scream. My eyes are scanning the public areas I’m racing towards. Rapidly they assess the body language of everyone I see. I ignore the turned heads of people looking to identify the screamer. It’s the rigid stance of the horrified I’m looking for.

My heart sinks when I find her. A girl of about twelve is wrapped in what I assume are her mother’s arms. Her mouth is wide open as more screams pour forth, while her eyes are screwed tight in case they again see whatever made her scream.

I hear soft words of comfort. Gentle questions about what’s wrong but I don’t hear anything from the girl except screams.

I can guess what has caused her distress. It’s what I steel myself to look for now. Angus Oberton. The latest victim.

The mother takes steps backwards rather than letting go of her daughter. I approach them – my intention is to guide the mother so she doesn’t trip. A man sprints around the corner.

My fist is clenched and travelling back ready to surge forward, when I see the concern on his face.

He sees the cocked arm and lifts his own hands.

I drop my fists but his stay raised as he advances towards me.

This is the last thing I want. Right now I’m more concerned about finding whatever made the girl scream than fighting anyone.

‘Olly. It’s okay. He’s helping us.’

The hands go down as Olly embraces the woman and girl.

‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ He bends his lanky frame so he’s on a level with the girl who has her face buried into the woman’s neck. ‘What’s up, Harriet?’

She doesn’t answer him. Her head saws back and forth. Another scream escapes her lips, this one longer and more piercing now her brain has had time to process and embellish whatever caused her screams.

I catch the mother’s eye. ‘Where was Harriet when she first screamed?’

She points at a seat cut from a tree stump.

‘Wait here, please.’ I walk over to the seat, conscious of the fact that if Oberton has been killed, this family is next in the killer’s sights.

Standing by the lump of rough-hewn wood, I rotate through three sixty degrees but find nothing. I stoop until my head is at much the same height as Harriet’s would have been. I repeat my sweep.

Still I see no cause for her terror.

Thinking like a pre-teen, I climb onto the seat and stand on its highest part.

Before gaining enough balance to straighten up, I see the cause of her terror. The sight of Angus Oberton’s mutilated body elicits a sharp gasp from me, despite the fact I’m expecting to find something horrible.

It’s bad, as savage as Kira’s death, with none of the finesse shown to Evie Starr.

Oberton is in a kneeling position. His head is three quarters severed from his body. A flap of skin holds it upside down with his nose pressed against his breastbone.

Below the white stubble on his head a large gash has opened his stomach. Blood covered hands appear to have tried and failed to hold in the slippery coils of intestine.

The wooden handle of a long knife sticks out from a belly swollen by years of unhealthy eating.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and force myself to observe every detail I can.

The only thing holding him in position is his obese frame. Even sliced open, there’s enough gut to support the rest of his body.

Lifting my eyes, I examine the stump of his neck. The bizarre hinging effect of the remaining skin is unsettling. I can see the severed remains of his spine, throat and arteries. A cloud of flies is already swarming around his head and it’s only a matter of time before other insects and animals become attracted to this unexpected buffet.

I’m unsure what to do next. I need to keep Harriet and her folks close so the rounding up of her family can start as soon as possible. I also have to make sure nobody tramples over the crime scene.

Then there’s the question of where Steve is. He could be lying dead somewhere close by or he could be in pursuit of the killer.

Plus, there’s a possible chance one of the other visitors to the reserve has seen something which could help identify the killer.

Staying on the stump chair, I pull out my cell and call the chief to break the news and seek guidance.

He doesn’t answer so I leave a message demanding he call me at once.

Harriet and her mother are being guided back towards the entrance by Olly. The move is understandable. I don’t want to be here, and I’m an adult who was expecting to find something grisly.

Jumping down, I run after them, circling round so they can all see me.

I give Olly a sideways nod. ‘Can we talk?’

He’s on the ball and understands the females in his family shouldn’t hear what I’m about to say.

‘Harriet sweetie, Daddy needs to talk with this man for a minute.’ He points to a small pool twenty yards away. ‘We’re gonna be just over there where you can see me the whole time, okay.’

There’s a sniffling nod before she buries her tear-streaked face back into the mother’s neck.

I follow him towards the pool.

‘Let’s be quick about this. I need to get her home.’

I’ve never had to break any kind of bad news before so I’m unsure of the best way to do it. Guessing it boils down to the same theory as the removal of a sticking plaster, I opt for the quick method.

‘Your daughter has just found the latest victim of a serial killer.’ My soft tone so as not to be overheard is at contrast with the hard news it delivers.

His eyes widen in disbelief and fear. ‘You mean the guy who is targeting family members of the people who find the bodies?’

Damn that Ms Rosenberg for her publicising of the killer’s selection method.

‘Yes.’ I seize the moment and use his fear to my advantage. I don’t like doing such things but sometimes it’s better to save lives than feelings. ‘You need to tell your wife and daughter and then get every member of your family who lives in or near Casperton to report to the police station as soon as humanly possible.’

‘I’ll tell them and then we’ll go and start getting the family together.’

‘No. You need to stay here where I can protect you. Call your family. Anyone who doesn’t answer will be rounded up by the police.’

Fear overtakes his features. The hand lifted to cover his mouth shakes as his body reacts to the news of the peril he and his loved ones are in.

‘Olly!’ My raised voice causes his focus to snap back onto me. ‘You need to be strong. Your wife and daughter are relying on you right now. I know it’s tough, but you have to go over there, break the news to them and then start calling the rest of your family. I’ll be within twenty paces at all times and promise to protect you until the police get here.’

Olly’s back straightens as he pulls himself together and faces up to his responsibilities as a husband and father. ‘Thank you.’

I just hope my promise isn’t put to the test. Whoever the killer is, he’s got a supply of different weapons and the knowledge of how to use them. All I’ve got is a history of bar fights and a gun locked into the trunk of a car parked a quarter mile away.

With Olly returning to his wife and daughter, I try the chief again. He answers this time.

I deliver a brief but potent report.

When he stops cursing, I ask what I should do. He tells me to look after Harriet and her parents and to make sure nobody goes near the body until he gets here. He’ll get Darla to call Steve’s cell. If there’s no answer he’ll organise a search party for him when he arrives.

I understand the chief’s torn loyalties. On one hand there’s a police officer who may be lying injured or dead, but on the other, there are members of the public who are definitely at risk.

Choosing one over the other is a gamble either way, but his sense of duty compels him to protect the public.

While I agree with his choice, I hope for Steve’s sake that if he’s unhurt he’s got an unimpeachable reason for not preventing the murder of Angus Oberton. Never mind what the chief may say to him, or the fact he could lose his job and the associated pension, if he’s been idiotic enough to fall asleep or become distracted playing on his cell, he’ll have to live with the knowledge a man has died because of his negligence.

57

Norm hands money and a false smile to the storekeeper. In the bag on the counter are four cartons of cigarettes, a copy of the Casperton Gazette’s special edition and a bag of apples.

The cigarettes aren’t for him. He doesn’t yet know who they’re for, but he knows they’ll kill whoever he gives them to. Not the long slow death of a smoker, but the sudden death of someone who has ingested a deadly poison. All he has to do is prepare the cigarettes in the correct way and introduce one or two drops of the resulting mixture into the target’s body.

The solution will be so potent it can be added to a drink or meal with fatal consequences. If the target is already a smoker, by the time a blood sample is taken, the traces will be so insignificant they’ll fail to alert even the most diligent coroner.

Driving home, Norm lifts the six-page special edition at every pause in the traffic. Skim reading the articles, he grasps the basic facts, leaving the detailed analysis for later.

One thing is clear to him by the time he pulls into his drive. Jake Boulder is becoming an increasingly sharp thorn in his side.

He wonders if there’s a way to deal with Boulder without compromising the pattern. It would be good to take him down, to send a message that no one is untouchable.

The flip side of this is Boulder won’t be the kind of easy target he’s grown accustomed to. Sure, it’ll be a challenge, but he’s confident of his own abilities.

Norm enters the house and dumps the apples into the fruit bowl. He selects one, polishes it on his shirt, then pours himself a glass of milk.

The picture of him and Melanie pinned to the fridge door by a magnet bought from some place or other draws its usual smile from him. They’d just gotten engaged when the picture was taken. Melanie’s face radiates utter joy as she cuddles against him, left hand raised to show her new ring to the camera.

He remembers the night well. Sitting in the restaurant with the ring in his pocket he’d been more nervous than the first time he’d faced combat. After their desserts were cleared he’d gone down on one knee to ask a question which would change their relationship forever. His mouth had been an arid wasteland in which his tongue had stumbled from one mispronounced word to the next.

When she’d said yes, his entire being changed. Gone were the dry mouth and the uncontrollable tongue. Nerves were chased away by a new-found confidence.

He’d felt ten feet tall and invincible, his natural shyness dissipated by the feelings of euphoria. When the news spread throughout the restaurant and a round of applause started he’d lapped it up.

One of the waiters had produced a camera and taken the photo which had adorned their fridge ever since.

Pushing aside thoughts of what Melanie would think of him, Norm crosses to his computer to start researching the next target.

With the police aware of his pattern, things have become harder. Yet the extra challenges make it more interesting. If he can continue raising the tally his reputation will be enhanced. With luck he’d join the greats.

To those who follow, he’ll be a deity. FBI students will be taught about him and his methods. Psychologists will analyse his psyche from afar and make spurious pronouncements on his motivations.

He may even be included in true crime books or one of the many books about serial killers. Perhaps one day someone will write a book solely about him or commission a TV documentary.

Maybe they’ll even turn his story into a movie. Sure, Boulder, the chief or some FBI guy will end up as the hero, but his story will still become famous.

Norm is aware of just how captivating a villain can be in the hands of the right actor. British actors like Alan Rickman and Anthony Hopkins have more than proven that particular theory.

He ignores the sudden urge for some fava beans and refocuses his mind onto the research he needs to do.

It takes him ten minutes to get a name for the finder. Next he identifies family members who live in the area. Of the twelve names he jots onto the pad at his left, three are under the age of eighteen and therefore discounted as not being viable targets.

That leaves nine. The parents, both sets of grandparents, two aunts and a cousin.

He fancies going for the cousin or an aunt but now the pattern is public knowledge it’ll be good to have one of the parents next.

With his research done until the surveillance can begin, he moves to a more comfortable chair and sits down with another apple and the special edition.

Reading between the lines of conjecture and speculation he finds there is little he doesn’t already know, other than just how involved Jake Boulder has become.

The beginnings of an idea start to form in his mind as he absorbs the articles. Each is written with a sense of detachment apart from a strong opinion piece by Ms Rosenberg.

Never one to hide her views, she takes multiple potshots at Casperton PD, the chief in particular, and the whole law enforcement system within the state of Utah. Only Boulder seems to avoid her scathing rhetoric, although his presence is used as another stick to beat the police with.

Even though he’s the cause of the fear-inspiring piece, he thinks she’s being harsh.

A government trained killer, selecting what appear to be random targets, then killing them in a variety of ways, is something no police department is equipped to deal with.

Norm knows he’s gotten away with the first twenty-five killings. They’d all been passed off as accidents or suicides just like he’d planned.

The Niemeyer bitch had been the breakthrough for him. Number twenty-six was the one he’d selected as the first to be an obvious murder. To escalate the game and invite an investigation. To provide an opponent.

It had succeeded twofold. Chief Watson and Jake Boulder now stood against him.

Soon it will be time to find out who is the worthiest.

58

The station is awash with agitated people when I return. A pair of patrolmen are trying without success to manage the crowd.

I hear their complaints as I push and wriggle my way through. They range from queries about past deaths being related, to demands the killer be caught before he strikes again.

Lord help Chief Watson when he gets back from the nature reserve. He’ll be mobbed. If he stops to answer each person, there’s no way he’ll be able to do his job.

Seeing Harriet ensconced once again in her mother’s arms, I make my way towards them.

Olly is off to one side. He’s neither part of the crowd nor separate from it. Instead he’s hanging in limbo as he tries to gather information, while also being there for his family.

I can tell from his face he’s achieving neither and feels useless because of his failure.

Taking his arm, I guide him off to one side. ‘Are all your family here?’

His nod elicits a mental sigh of relief from me, as his eyes wander across the crowd.

‘Gather them up and tell them to leave the people on the desk to do their jobs. As soon as the chief has something to tell you, he will. All they are doing is making things harder for the police.’

I can see my words are being taken in, but his mind isn’t working at full speed and it takes a few seconds to process the data I’m giving him.

His gaze locks onto Harriet. ‘You’re right. The sooner we leave them to do their jobs, the sooner all this will be over.’

I cast my eyes across the reception area and see Kelly Oberton’s grief-stricken face, Mrs Halliburton’s mouth set with grim determination and a host of other faces filled with sorrow or anger.

Taking the coward’s way out, I slip unnoticed into the office where Alfonse was working earlier.

He’s right where I left him, staring at the screen in front of him with furrows across his brow.

‘What you got?’

There’s pain in his eyes when he looks at me. ‘I’ve now got fifteen definites before Kira and I’m working on the sixteenth now. Every one of them has been made to look like an accident or suicide.’

‘That’s surely enough to convince the FBI.’

‘Darla typed it up and made an official request when I had proof of six.’ He gives a helpless shrug. ‘The sooner they get here the better. We’re way out of our depth with this one.’

‘You gonna give up when they get here?’ It’s a cheap shot from me but I need to know where he stands.

His eyes flash. ‘Of course not. But this guy scares the life outta me and your name is all over the paper. It’s only a matter of time before you or someone close to you gets hurt.’

‘What?’

He hands me a special edition of the Casperton Gazette. ‘Darla brought this in earlier. Read page two.’

I take the paper from him as he turns back to his screen. There’s a hunch to his shoulders which tells me his mindset.

Alfonse doesn’t get angry often, but when he does it’s always with good reason. I open the paper and see the headline.

Local Man Shows Inept Police Way Forward

Below the headline is Ms Rosenberg’s name and a stock photograph.

LOCAL HERO, Jake Boulder, has stepped in to show Casperton’s

inept police force how to conduct a proper investigation. Not even a private detective himself, he has nevertheless proved to be a far more competent investigator than any of Chief Watson’s so-called detectives.

Regular readers of my column will be fully aware of the disdain in which I hold the town’s detectives. Never has the curse of nepotism imperilled the good townspeople so blatantly.

It is a poor enough state of affairs – Mayor Farrage is the current incumbent due to nothing more than a family name and a lack of credible opposition. That his college-dropout son is the town’s lead detective is risible to say the least.

Surely once this heinous killer is apprehended, Chief Watson’s new broom will sweep clean the ranks of his detective squad. Anything less than five competent trained detectives and he will be failing in his basic duty. Leaving Lieutenant Farrage in his current position neither serves nor protects us.

MY SOURCES HAVE BEEN adamant every breakthrough in the pursuit of the killer has come from Jake Boulder. I can reveal to you that I have personally seen him attending the locations where three of the victims have been found.

From my personal observations, it would not be amiss to suggest our new chief of police has more faith in a man with no investigative qualifications or training than he has in his highly paid detective squad.

I say the chief is right and we should all be thankful Jake Boulder, and not Lieutenant Farrage, is the man he turns to.

Should Jake Boulder ask you questions, I implore you to answer them honestly and without agenda. Lives may very well depend upon it.

I SLAP the newspaper onto a desk when I’ve finished reading it. ‘It doesn’t read well for Lieutenant Farrage. Or the chief come to think of it.’

Alfonse scowls at me. ‘Never mind them. What about you?’

‘It’s nice for the ego but other than that it doesn’t mean anything.’ A thought strikes me and it’s not a nice one. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

‘Jealous? No, you fool, I’m not jealous. I’m afraid for you. If you were the killer and you read that article what would you think?’

I wave a dismissive hand at him. ‘I’d ignore it as a piece of journalistic embellishment.’

‘Really? You’ve lived here as long as I have. Tell me, how often are her columns and pieces embellished? She may go over the top with her rhetoric but the logic and facts are spot on. She’s well known for preferring accuracy to sensationalism.’

‘So?’ I try to brazen it out but he’s got a point and it appears he wants to impale me with it.

‘Do you need words of one syllable?’ Getting no answer from me he continues. ‘If the killer is a local and he reads this piece what do you think he’ll make of it?’

I think about shrugging but decide against it. Instead I keep my mouth shut, lest I give him another reason to rail at me.

‘I’ll tell you what he’ll make of it if you won’t answer me. He’ll think you’re a threat. If he’s as deranged or psychotic as Dr Edwards has suggested to you, he may just think he’ll stand a better chance of not getting caught if you’re out of the picture.’

‘I don’t fit his selection pattern.’

‘No you don’t. But you’re an annoying fly buzzing around his head. Sooner or later he’s going to swat you and speaking for myself, I’d rather that didn’t happen.’

‘Thanks for caring but don’t worry. I can take care of myself.’

‘That attitude is why I’m worried.’

I’ve had enough of this. ‘Back off, Alfonse. I’m getting enough grief off Mother without you joining the chorus.’

He’s out of his seat in a flash, hands planted on the desk as he leans towards me. ‘So the great Jake Boulder is pissed because the two people who know him best are afraid he’s going to do something stupid and get himself killed. C’mon man, you’re too smart not to see that article has made you a target.’

He sits back down and makes a point of studying the screen in front of him.

Instead of pursuing an argument I can’t win, I pull out my still silenced cell, dreading what I’ll find if Mother has read the article.

Judging by the number of missed calls and messages, she’s read it and would like a profound discussion on its literary merits.

I read a few of the messages and send a short one back. There are no emoticons or snarky comments in my reply. Instead I try to placate and reassure her. It may or may not work but I don’t have time for anything else.

59

A commotion in the reception area has both Alfonse and I turning our heads. A sharp New York accent can be heard above all others and it sounds like its owner is trying to pick a fight.

Alfonse turns back to his computer as I walk across to the door. The voice I can hear is unmistakable and I pity anyone caught in the sights of Ms Rosenberg.

I peek round the edge of the door to take in the atmosphere. It’s not good. Ms Rosenberg is haranguing both Chief Watson and the mayor.

The chief is standing his ground in the face of her questions, but the mayor is a quivering lump of jello. Every utterance from his mouth is a pile of stammered bull dressed up to resemble a decent soundbite.

Surrounding the trio, reporters from other news outlets are mingling with family members. Everyone is talking at once, and while the collective volume is increasing nobody is getting heard.

However compelling everyone’s thirst for knowledge may be, there are more important things for both those men to be doing.

Reaching for the light switch with one hand and a chair with the other, I plunge the room into darkness for the count of three. When I flick the lights back on, I’m standing on the chair.

I yell for quiet. As they start to obey, I hear my name being whispered by a host of different voices.

Every micro and Dictaphone in the room is pointed my way. I’m not big on making speeches, so I keep it short.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. For those who have questions about family members, I know this is a trying time for you. You’re worried about your loved ones. I would be too in your position. However, to best serve and protect those you love, Chief Watson must be allowed to do his job. If he’s talking to you he’s not catching the killer, is he?’

The room falls silent as they digest my logic.

After a moment a voice from the back rings out. ‘How do we find out about our families then?’

‘Good question.’ I point at Mayor Farrage. ‘I’m sure the mayor will be only too happy to provide a number of his staff to help out with keeping you all informed. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he has a contingency plan for just such a necessity.’

The mayor gives frantic nods. He’s obviously delighted to have been removed from the firing line into a position where he can be seen as a source of help for his constituents.

I point to the journalists who have pushed their way to the edge of my chair. ‘I’m sure that while all of your readers would like a statement from either the chief or the mayor, I think it’s fair to say they have more important things to be doing than writing press releases.’

There’s a few calls of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘well said’ from the back of the crowd.

‘However, I’m sure they also understand it’s vital the public are informed of what’s going on, so I would urge you to ask people to stay calm and use the information centre set up by the mayor, while leaving Chief Watson to catch a killer.’

I stop talking to take a look at my watch.

‘Shall we say Chief Watson will host a press conference later at…’ I throw a quick glance at the chief and count the fingers he’s showing me. ‘Nine o’clock.’

There are a couple of grumbles about deadlines, but the journalists are astute enough to realise the majority of the crowd is on my side. Calling me out will lose them readers.

‘Shall we?’ I usher the chief and the mayor towards the office where Alfonse is working only to be confronted by Ms Rosenberg.

‘Masterfully done, Mr Boulder.’ Grudging respect at being outmanoeuvred fills her voice and eyes.

‘Thank you.’ I lean into her just enough so I can whisper without invading her personal space. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put my head in any more nooses though.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’ Her tone is indignant, but the shock on her face makes a liar of her mouth.

I’m not prepared to let her denial be the last word. ‘Then you’d best read your article from the killer’s point of view.’

She regains control of her face, although I’m sure there’s a comment or two she’s biting back.

I close the door of the office and find Alfonse being introduced to the mayor.

‘Thank you, Jake. Thank you.’ The mayor’s face is full of gratitude.

Now isn’t the time to give in to the temptation of telling him only my friends and family call me Jake. I accept his pumping handshake and give him a curt nod. ‘You have any idea how to set up that kind of information resource?’

His smile goes, knocked away by the thought of having to do something other than be a crowd pleaser.

‘I’m sure one of your staff will be able to arrange a practical solution for you.’ It’s the chief who rescues him.

‘Yes, yes of course they’ll be able to.’

I press home my advantage as his smile is returning. ‘Good, because I want twenty men from you.’

‘What for, Boulder?’ There’s a scowl in the chief’s voice as I step all over his toes once again.

‘I want them to help your men guard Harriet’s family. You and all your men are stretched to breaking point. If the twenty men from the mayor can work in two shifts it’ll free up a lot of your guys. They can either work the case or get on with keeping order in town.’

I may be answering the chief, but I make sure my eyes never move from the mayor.

He licks his lips. Left and then right, just as he did when he was outside getting hassled by the crowd.

‘What type of men are you talking about?’

‘Big men. I don’t care if they are refuse collectors, teachers or your political advisors. As long as they are fit, strong and big enough to scare off most would-be attackers.’

‘I think that can be arranged.’

‘Don’t think, make it happen.’ There’s enough steel in the chief’s voice to repair the hole in the side of the Titanic.

The mayor’s back straightens and he draws himself to his full height. ‘When do you want them?’

‘As soon as you can get them here, please.’ I beat the chief to it, but it is a close thing. Him throwing one of his sarcasm laden replies at the mayor won’t help in the long term, especially if he has to sack the man’s son.

‘How many you got now?’ The chief is turning to Alfonse before the mayor has closed the door behind him.

‘Fifteen confirmed.’

A desk tidy flies past my head and shatters against a wall spraying pens, markers and paperclips across the room.

I look at the chief and see him forcing his knuckles against his temples so hard the skin is turning white.

There’s a feral look to his stare, but it’s aimed a thousand yards away. I imagine he’s thinking about what he’d do if he could get his hands on the killer. It’s something I’ve been thinking about too. At this particular moment, the chief is more likely to take the law into his own hands than I am.

60

The plate is slid onto the counter with a gentle burring scrape. I’m not hungry, but I know I need to eat.

I’ve forgone my usual chilli burger and settled for an old-fashioned plain burger. No cheese, no bacon, relish or anything save a few slices of raw onion. The server raised an eyebrow when I deviated from the norm, but the last thing I need today is more fire in my belly.

As expected it’s delicious. The meat tender and juicy, yet cooked enough to remove all traces of redness. There’s a couple of herbs added, but they’re so faint as to be unidentifiable.

While eating the burger I mull over the various things I’ve learned today; what must be done to prevent more lives being taken and various ways of catching the killer.

Nothing I come up with helps or makes any sense.

A thought about the way Oberton’s body was displayed is nagging at me. The cut across his belly reminds me of someone committing Hari-Kari but the way his head was half-severed contradicts what little I know about the act.

Using my cell, I Google the term. The first result directs me to Wikipedia. While not always the most reliable source, it gives a broad enough outline for me to see just how closely the traditions of Hari-Kari, or ‘Seppuku’ to give the act its proper term, have been observed.

The cutting of the neck is done by a ‘second’ or ‘Kaishakunin’. The aim is to cut the neck in such a way as to leave the head hanging as if bowed in shame. Reading on, I learn the ceremonial robes are often tucked under the knees to hold the body upright after the act has been completed.

As I finish the last of the wedges, I compare Oberton’s death to the others but come up with none which share the ritualistic elements. It’s as if he’s selecting the weapon or method of murder at random.

While it seems as if that’s what he is doing, I’m not so sure. His victims seemed unconnected until I realised how he chooses them.

Tracing back through Alfonse’s notes on the earlier victims, I look for a pattern or escalation in the weapons used, but with his latest kill, he’s downgraded from a gun to a sword.

He’s also changed from trying to mislead the investigators to leaving a blatant kill.

I’m getting nowhere with this train of thought, so I again try and figure out how he is identifying first the people who find his victims, and then their families.

There’re two parts to the solution and the first has to be that he’s watching the dump sites. The more I consider how else he could be getting this information, the more I’m convinced he’s got some kind of surveillance operation in place.

Once identified, he can trace the victim’s families in the same ways Alfonse and I have been following his trail.

He will have seen Harriet find Oberton today. Having got a face, he’ll have slipped into the crowd and followed them – her red One Direction T-shirt an easy thing to keep an eye on.

I remember following Olly’s car back to the station in a convoy led by a police cruiser. If the killer saw them getting into the car, all he’d have to do is run the license plate through the DMV website and pay the fee for a trace.

There may be a way we can use the site as a way to trace the killer. I call Alfonse and make the suggestion. He’s still sore at me, but agrees it may work.

I hope he gets a quick result. Either it will identify the killer or let him return to his task of tracing back the kills. I have a feeling the first one means something to the killer but until we’ve identified the first victim, we can’t make any assumptions or start looking for clues.

With that done, I move onto the next issue. The protection of Harriet and Olly’s family.

They’ve all been rounded up and are under guard at the motel. Fear has kept their grumbles to a minimum, but they’d all wanted to know how long they’d be there.

It is ironic we’ve had to half-imprison potential victims while the killer is running free.

Those staying in the motel are all connected to Harriet by birth or marriage. Looking at Alfonse’s notes, I check the family connections and see a distinct pattern emerging.

Each of the victims has a direct blood link to the finder of a body. Step relations and those affiliated by marriage have never been selected. It’s always genuine relatives who fall within his range of targets.

It’s tempting to share this news with the chief, but now we have a family under the protection of guards, it seems foolish to release some of them or think the killer won’t change his methods when thwarted by our security measures.

I pay the check and head for home. My plan is to get a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Everything has been taken care of so far and there’s nothing more I can do unless something else breaks or the killer is foolish enough to try and storm the motel.

61

Norm curses as he realises the extra work he’s going to have to do to put his new plan into action. If the idea wasn’t so good, there’s no way he’d let it delay adding to his tally.

Yet it’s just too perfect to pass up on. This is the kind of thing that will elevate him from being yet another serial killer to becoming a legend.

His story will become famous – the way he outsmarted the police, how he eluded capture despite being so close to the investigation.

The question that will be asked most of all: how he could be cold-blooded enough to kill his own family just to keep his pattern going?

Before he can set any of that into motion, he has to do some research, a spot of surveillance and a learning of routines.

If executed in the right way, he can remove himself from suspicion. Get it wrong and everything will come to a shuddering halt.

Now the game is afoot, he’d prefer to be captured so he can see how it all plays out, but he is still comfortable with the idea of dying. Perhaps in the greater scheme of things it will be better to die with some mystery to him. He may even be attributed with a few extra kills as the police look to clear one or two of their unsolved files.

Norm knows he’ll spill everything for the sheer hell of it if he’s taken alive. The thrill of telling his interrogators will be too great to resist. He knows he’ll want to see the look on their faces as he details each of his kills. The methods, research, selection process and the takedowns.

He’ll give them what they want and a whole lot more.

Gathering up his gear, he piles what he needs into his rucksack and sets off to check something he’s discovered on the sister’s Twitter feed.

Working in reverse a whole kill ahead is throwing his usual preparations. He’s not sure whether he should target the mother or sister first. Either will do, it’s just a question of which will be the easiest to set up. That’s what the watching is for. To make his decisions more logical and practical.

Chance is not allowed to figure in this one. Lady Luck mustn’t play a part unless he’s directing her.

62

When Alfonse lifts his eyes from the computer, they’re red from straining at the screen for so many hours. His voice and posture tell me the anger he felt earlier has been replaced by tiredness. A pang of guilt for my snatched two hours hits me before I dismiss it. He’ll be able to go home and rest now this task is complete.

‘That’s it. I can’t find anymore.’ Defeat rather than satisfaction for a job well done fills his voice. ‘As far as I can tell his first victim was Roger Ingerson. He was run off the road into Marton Creek just over four years ago. His car was found upside down in the water after a flood had subsided.’

‘What do you know about him?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I’ll have a look, see what’s on the system.’

Alfonse’s fingers rattle a couple of keys and he reaches for the mouse. A clacking whir comes from the corner as a printer starts to spit out sheets of A4.

I take them from the printer and sit back down.

Alfonse rises to his feet with a groan; he’s unsteady through exhaustion, but I’m not prepared to let him go just yet. ‘What did you get from the DMV?’

‘They wouldn’t speak to me so I got the chief to put someone onto it. Let me grab a few hours’ sleep and if we haven’t heard anything I’ll find a way into their system.’

I don’t like the delay, but recognise his brain and body need a rest.

He stops at the door and turns to me. ‘Stay safe, Jake. Before Kira, this guy had killed twenty-five times.’

I do a quick calculation. The total number of victims is thirty-one and we have no idea who he is or why he’s killing.

Reading the details on Roger Ingerson, I find there isn’t much to tell. At the time of his death he was married with a nine-year-old daughter. He worked the oilfields as a roustabout. His listed address is in one of Casperton’s less salubrious areas. Not the worst, but I don’t expect he had a white picket fence or a neighbourhood watch he could rely on.

From the report and its official language, I glean his death was listed as misadventure and hadn’t been investigated in any fashion. His body was trapped in the wreckage of the car and the coroner’s report stated his cause of death as drowning.

His legs were both shattered and there was internal bleeding, which would have killed him if he hadn’t drowned. I can only hope for his sake he was knocked unconscious by the crash.

I go in search of Chief Watson. He’s busy conducting the press conference I’d set up earlier, so I make a couple of calls.

When the chief is finished with the press, I manage to get him and the mayor to see me in his office.

‘What you got, Boulder?’

I tell him what Alfonse has uncovered and my thoughts about how Ingerson may have been specifically chosen as a starting point. The chief accepts the news with a sigh and a closing of his eyes. The mayor on the other hand looks as though he’s just caught his wife in bed with his brother. There’s anger, denial and incomprehension flashing across his face as he tries to come to terms with the number of homicides.

‘Any specific ideas about Ingerson?’

‘No, but Ingerson’s widow has agreed to see me so long as I’m there before ten.’ I hesitate, knowing what I’m about to say is crossing a boundary. ‘I’m going to have to tell her his death wasn’t an accident.’

The chief purses his lips. ‘Yeah, you’ll need to. I’d come with you, but the FBI have called. They’ll be here in an hour.’

‘That’s fine.’ I’m happy to go alone. To slip under the radar and steal a march. ‘That’s great about the feds. Have you heard anything from the DMV?’

‘I called and tried to light a fire under them. They told me the one guy who knows how to do that won’t be in until tomorrow morning.’ He raises his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Perhaps the FBI will be able to put more of a squeeze on them, or go to a national source who can get that information.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

I don’t think there’s anything else to say just now, so I leave them to deal with their end of things and head off to see Faith Ingerson. On my way past the reception desk, Darla waves me across and hands me a bunch of files.

‘Hey, sugar. The chief told me to give you a copy of these.’

Flicking through the files, I see they are reports from the coroner and the CSI team.

With a glance at my watch to check I have time, I find a seat and skim read them.

Five minutes later, I’m handing the files back to Darla. Nothing in them came as a surprise, although I was interested to learn Donny Prosser and Wendy Agnew’s bodies had both displayed the tell-tale marks left by a Taser. According to the report, Prosser had been zapped four times.

That explains how he’d been put into the car where he’d been murdered. As a final nail into the coffin of the killer’s romantic-tryst-gone-wrong set-up, the coroner’s report also noted Wendy Agnew was on her period.

The CSI team’s report is filled with lots of little pieces of evidence which would have to be analysed in a lab before a firm conclusion is made. Due to the public location of where the bodies were found, I don’t hold much hope they have found something which will help identify the killer. Their evidence will be more use in the courts than the investigation.

Both had filed preliminary reports on Angus Oberton, but neither is detailed enough to tell me anything new.

63

Since the spat with Alfonse, I’ve taken to checking my rear-view mirror a lot more than usual. I don’t spot any particular set of headlights tailing me, but I’m not what you’d call an expert at this kind of thing.

I reach the edge of Maesher and turn onto sixth. There’s the odd street light not working, a pair of sneakers hanging from an overhead cable and there are cars on bricks in two driveways, but the area’s not as bad as I remember. One of the mayor’s programs must have actually worked for a change.

As I park outside the Ingerson house, I notice a bunch of youths playing a game of pick-up across the street.

Part of me half expects them to try and hustle me for a few bucks against the safety of my car. Considering my current frame of mind, it will be a whole lot safer for them if they don’t.

Maybe it’s my body language or the look in my eyes, but not one of them so much as steps towards me.

The door opens before I get to it and a teenage girl runs outs. ‘Screw you. I’m going to Sophie’s.’

I step forward and knock on the still open door. Getting no answer, I rap my knuckles against the faded paint a second time and call out.

The woman who comes to the door is a sight and a half. I don’t know whether her appearance is a direct result of the loss of her husband or the constant battle of raising a headstrong teenager, but she doesn’t look good.

Her hair is matted and the clothes she wears are stained and shapeless. The look on her face is one of uncaring indifference to the world.

I can’t decide if she’s let herself go or was never together. Still I have questions to ask her.

‘Are you the guy who called earlier?’

‘That’s me. You must be Faith.’ I offer a hand and a smile. ‘I’m Jake.’

The smile proves to be a mistake. She toys with one of the knots in her hair and shows me her teeth. Or at least what’s left of them.

‘Come on in.’ Not waiting for an answer, she turns and tries to sashay down the hall. With her undernourished frame, it’s not a move she can pull off.

I follow her into the house. There’s mess everywhere and a smell so repugnant I have to breathe through my mouth. I decline the offer of a seat.

The state both she and the house are in speaks of laziness. I’m no neat freak, but I could keep this place clean with minimal effort. That she hasn’t bothered tells me she has no pride in herself or her belongings.

‘What can I help you with? You said it was about Roger. I told his bosses at the time he didn’t steal nuthin’. That it was all a set-up. Why’d you come botherin’ a grieving widow after all these years?’

The grieving widow must have a taste for cigars and mens’ footwear if the things lying about the house are anything to go by. On the other hand, if the rest of the house is anything to go by, they could well have belonged to her late husband.

‘I’m not here about anything to do with Roger’s work. I’m here about his death.’

‘You from the insurance company? I never got a red cent ’cause he was late with one payment. His pension is worth squat ’cause of him dying so young.’ There is the bitterness of the self-entitled in her voice.

Life hasn’t been kind to her, but she is the type who will see fate’s blows as a personal slight. While some people pick themselves up more determined than ever to succeed, she is the kind of person who blames others and expects those she deems responsible to help her.

With the news I’m about to break, my name is sure to be added to the list of people who’ve caused her life to get worse.

While I’m not informing her of a death, I’m exhuming an accident so I can turn it into a murder. It might not be as bad as breaking the initial news, but it’s still a task I’d be happy to avoid.

‘Faith.’ My use of her name grabs her attention just as I’d intended it to. ‘I have reason to believe Roger’s death wasn’t an accident.’

‘Whadda ya mean?’

‘Have you heard about the killer who’s targeting local citizens?’

‘Dolores said somethin’ ’bout it.’ From the way she waves her hand to the left, I guess Dolores is a neighbour. ‘Can’t say I was listenin’ too good though.’

‘It’s like this. There’s a serial killer working to his own twisted pattern.’ I don’t bother giving her the finer details. Whatever she’s been on before I arrived has dulled her comprehension. ‘There is a way he’s connecting all of his victims. Working backwards, we’ve traced his kills. The trail ends with Roger, so we believe he was the first victim.’

I give her a moment to digest what I’ve just told her.

Hope shines in her eyes. ‘Does this mean I’ll be able to claim off the police?’

Not being enamoured with the claim culture, I can’t begin to imagine what type of lawsuit she’s considering. If the world has any justice left, she’ll be sent packing by even the most fervent ambulance-chasing lawyer.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She may be able to detect the contempt in my voice. I don’t care either way. ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about your husband in the hope we can find out who killed him.’

‘Oh yeah. Sure.’ Now there may be a chance for her to make a few bucks she’s all ears. No contrition or emotion, but plenty of ears.

‘The obvious first question is – did Roger have any enemies?’

A shrug. ‘We all got folks who don’t like us.’

‘Was there anyone he’d fallen out with? Argued over money, perhaps?’

‘You didn’t fall out with Roger. Not if you knew what was good for you.’

I try again. ‘Did he owe anyone money?’

‘He owed on the car but it was some kind of lease deal.’ She looks at the carpet. ‘Roger didn’t believe in running up debts.’

I detect a subtext to what she is saying. Looking at her and her home it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise she’ll be lucky if she has two cents to rub together.

Nobody with her lack of personal hygiene and general appearance will be hired by anyone looking to fill a customer facing position. Therefore, the only work she’ll be eligible for will be factory style work. Except Casperton doesn’t have any factories.

With debts looming over her, the future will be bleaker than the past. Every day the debts remain unpaid will see them grow. With her as good as unemployable, state handouts will stop her starving, but there will be little quality to her life. By today’s standards, the twenty-four-inch flat-screen in the corner is a sign of poverty.

The man whose boots lie discarded on the carpet won’t be a prize catch if he’s prepared to tolerate the filth she lives in.

I try another angle. ‘You may not like this, but was he seeing anyone else?’

‘No!’ The word and shake of her head both carry vehemence.

‘Are you sure? You didn’t hear anything after his accident?’ Sometimes people learn a lot about their partners after they die or part from each other. Friends and family members fall over each other to break the news they didn’t dare beforehand. In a twisted way, they believe they’re helping with the healing process. What they’re actually doing is rubbing salt into an open wound. Instead of being thankful for the good times and happy memories, the person remaining has nothing left to cherish.

‘I’m positive, damn you.’ A sneer curls her lip. ‘Don’t think I ain’t seen the way you’ve been looking down on me. I ain’t always looked like this.’

To emphasise her point, she rummages in a drawer and pulls out a framed picture. When she shows it to me, I see her arm in arm with a tall beefy guy.

Perhaps it’s the nurse’s uniform distorting my opinion, but while she’s no knockout in the picture, she’s several leagues above where she is today.

‘Sorry if I’ve offended you, but it’s something I had to ask.’

She doesn’t speak. Again her eyes fall to the carpet. Or whatever is covering the carpet.

I don’t tell her, but her logic is wrong. Working at the Tree for so long, I have seen every possible reason for a fight and the majority have been started over the fairer sex. Either one man is chasing another’s wife, or a woman’s flirting achieves the desired effect and makes her partner jealous. Hands get raised and blood gets spilled.

The next night, or week, the drama will be repeated by different characters. There may be a subplot or a twist, but it’s the same drama every time.

One thing it’s taught me is, regardless of who’s waiting for them at home, some people will always stray. It’s one of the reasons I stay more or less single; I’m one of them.

‘What about his work, you mentioned something of a… dispute?’

‘Asshole foreman thought Roger was on the take. He mighta been a lotta things but he wasn’t never a thief.’

‘You said before, people who knew what was good for them didn’t argue with Roger. What did you mean by that?’

She turns her head to one side. ‘Just that he was a big man who could take care of hisself. He weren’t no troublemaker, but when it found him he could deal with it.’

Alfonse probably says the same about me.

‘Was there any trouble he dealt with that might have come back to bite him?’

‘No. He did what he had to do and stopped there.’ Her fingers pick at a spot on her forehead. ‘He never whaled on a man who couldn’t fight back.’

‘Do you keep in touch with Roger’s family, or any of his friends?’ Perhaps one of them will have the information I need. Faith may have it, but she isn’t prepared to share it lest she inadvertently cuts off a source of possible money. ‘And if you do, have you got a contact for them?’

She reaches inside her shirt and pulls out an old model cell.

I try not to think too hard about where she was keeping it as she gives me a couple of names and numbers.

64

I notice a different air in the police station when I enter the reception. Even Darla appears subdued. Two men with dark suits and cropped hair stand by the desk. Their faces are serious yet blank. Neither looks as if a winning ticket or the death of a family member will change their expressions.

The door to the chief’s office is closed so I give a knock and wait. There’s no answer although I can hear voices inside.

A hand touches my shoulder. It’s one of the statues from reception. He’s being gentle so far, but I know a firmer, more insistent grip is seconds away. ‘Please step away from the door, sir. Chief Watson is busy with Special Agent Doenig. They are not to be disturbed.’

‘I’m working the case and need to update the chief.’ I keep my tone level and fight the impulse to engage him in a staring match.

‘Tell me what you got and I’ll inform them both when they’re finished with the current briefing.’

‘No. This is too important to wait.’ It isn’t, but he doesn’t know that.

Taking advantage of his indecision, I’m two steps into the room before he’s had time to react.

‘What is it, Boulder?’ There’s irritation in the chief’s voice, but I’m confident I’m not the source.

I make a point of acknowledging the squat guy wearing a dark suit and darker expression before turning to the chief. ‘Thought you’d want an update.’

‘What you got?’

‘Ingerson was a big man who knew how to take care of himself. The wife says he hadn’t made any enemies but I’m not so sure.’

‘So you know him better than his wife?’ Doenig’s voice is the raspy drawl of someone who smokes rough tobacco too often. The smell of nicotine hangs over him like a damp hammock.

‘Of course not.’ I’m not trying to antagonise the guy, but it has been a long day and I’m too weary to keep the scorn out of my voice. ‘But I do know guys. Ninety-nine out of a hundred don’t tell their other halves when they’ve been fighting unless there’s no way they can avoid it. Then they make a point of being the one to break the news.’

I get a scowl but no further argument because I’m right. As much as women may like us to assume the role of protectors should trouble come along, deep down they hate to see us fighting because they’re afraid we’ll get hurt. Or worse, too used to solving problems with our fists.

My father never showed Mother the hairy side of his hand, but she’s told me how my paternal grandfather used to beat his wife. Growing up I never knew about it but armed with hindsight and more knowledge, I remember the constant stream of bruises dismissed as ‘silly old granny falling over again.’

‘Thank you, Mr Boulder, your cooperation is appreciated by the United States Government, but I think it would be appropriate for you to stand down now.’

I look at the chief as he’s the man who hired me. It may be a technicality, but there’s no way I’m being sidelined.

The chief is motionless, his face gives nothing away. Perhaps he’s auditioning for a role as a feebie statue. Then again, he’s a wise old bird who knows how to play the political game when he has to.

By staying mute and still, he’s showing allegiance to both sides while leaving us to sort it out between us. As a law enforcer, he operates in a hierarchical system and the special agent outranks him, the counterbalance being this is his patch and the FBI will find things a lot easier with his cooperation.

‘You didn’t hire me, therefore you can’t fire me. I have been assisting the police, and everything I’ve learned has been shared with them at the earliest possible opportunity. I’d like that situation to continue.’ I spread my hands out. ‘You can make the arrests and take the credit. All I want is to stay involved.’

‘The FBI does not work with amateur sleuths, Mr Boulder.’ His face softens a fraction of a fraction. ‘But in respect of what you’ve already achieved, I think Chief Watson should one day hire you as a detective. If today should be that day…’

The chief gets his inference a second before I do. A gnarled hand leaves his temple and opens a drawer. A badge flies my way along with a pointy-fingered admonishment.

‘You’re on probation until this case is over, then we’ll review your situation. You ain’t getting a gun until I know you’re competent. Understand?’

‘Yes, Chief.’ I decide this isn’t the best time to ask about a 401K.

‘Let’s get one thing clear right from the start, Mr Boulder. The FBI leads and you as a rookie detective follow.’

Doenig waves me to a seat and starts to pepper the chief with questions about the case. His instincts are good and the points he’s interested in are the ones which have been puzzling me.

He suggests a profiler, so I tell him what I’ve gleaned from Dr Edwards. I get a firm nod as a sign of approval but he still wants to speak to his own guy. It’s only right he does. However good the advice we’ve gotten so far may be, an experienced FBI profiler will always have better insights than a small-town psychologist.

When Doenig is finished questioning the chief, I tell them what little I’ve learned from Faith Ingerson.

I can see the special agent is sceptical about Ingerson being the first victim, so I explain how Alfonse traced the murders back from Kira.

He listens, but his eyes flit around the room as I’m talking. He’s not taking it in properly, which means he’s either fixated on something else or he’s learned the hard way not to trust evidence handed to him in a nice neat bundle. If I was a gambler my money would be on the latter.

While not accepting our evidence, I’m sure he’ll follow a lot of our footsteps. In the meantime, I can forge ahead and work the leads already developed.

One of the FBI statues bursts in. His face grave but otherwise immobile. ‘Sir, there’s been another body found.’

65

Norm puts the cell back in his pocket and waits for the police to come. This is going to be fun. His family will be gathered together by the police for safeguarding, just like the families of his other victims. Not only will he be inside the police’s circle, they’ll be protecting him from the killer.

It’s something he’s prepared for.

His cousin wasn’t prepared. Her lack of preparation is the reason her corpse is lying naked on the trail behind Sharon Linskey’s house.

It hadn’t taken much effort to get her alone. Always keen to interfere, she’d welcomed him into her home when he’d said he wanted advice regarding a girl he was seeing.

Being prepared he’d brought wine. While she’d finished her dinner, he’d poured her a glass of wine and added a few drops of the poison distilled from the cartons of cigarettes. The random selection of kill methods had thrown back the latest addition.

After just two sips of the full-bodied Merlot, she’d been lying on the floor complaining of stomach cramps. Convulsions followed, along with rapid breathing.

Five minutes later, her breaths began slowing. After ten they stopped altogether.

Then it was a case of stripping her body and dumping it into the trunk of his car. The implants she’d been so proud of looked odd against her flaccid body with its rolls of untoned flab.

She won’t be missed until after she’s been discovered. Her parents had moved to Florida and her husband had run off with his secretary a couple years back.

Lights flash as two cars travel round the corner.

Norm waves with one hand while shielding his eyes with the other.

The cars approach and park off to one side. Four men get out. As they move towards him they are illuminated by a streetlight. Norm recognises Chief Watson and Jake Boulder but not the other two. Judging by the way they are dressed, they could be feds. He hopes so. It’ll make everything so much more interesting. Plus, if the FBI are involved he’s been officially recognised as a serial killer.

A warm feeling envelops his body.

‘It’s over here.’ Norm points towards the alley where he’s dumped the first body.

He takes them behind the dumpster and lets them admire his handiwork.

His victim lies face down. If there wasn’t a pool of blood showing by the faint glow of a distant streetlight, he could be mistaken for a sleeping drunk.

Chief Watson uses his flashlight to sweep the area while one of the feds checks for a pulse.

Norm knows he won’t find one. He’d made sure the man was dead before dialling 911.

The four men say nothing, but he knows they’re thinking plenty. Each one is doing a cursory visual examination of the scene.

The chief finishes the general look with his flashlight and starts a slow pass over the body from the feet upwards.

Norm has to fight to make his face show revulsion instead of pride when the flashlight lingers at the top of the body’s legs. The chief steps forward for a better look at where he’d severed both femoral arteries with a scalpel.

There’s a gasp from someone – he thinks Boulder, but he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter who, what’s important is he’s drawn a reaction.

One of the feds touches Chief Watson’s elbow and he steps away from the body.

Norm approaches the fed who seems to be in charge and puts panic into his voice. ‘Is this a victim of the serial killer who’s in the newspaper? Will my family be safe? Will I?’

The fed takes a moment to answer. Norm can see him working out the correct response. ‘It’s too early to tell at this stage. As a precaution we’d like to know the names and addresses of all your family members who live in Casperton.’

Jake Boulder picks up on the fed’s unspoken request and takes him to one side. As they go, Norm hears the chief being asked if he knows the identity of the victim.

66

As soon as I see the tattoos on the victim’s bare arms, I recognise him. Ian Yarwood drank in the Tree every weekend.

A die-hard rock fan, he’s had the emblems and motifs of all his favourite bands immortalised onto his arms. In just one pass of the chief’s flashlight I’d seen the Guns ‘N’ Roses crucifix, Aerosmith’s angel wings and the Rolling Stones’ lips and tongue.

Try as I might, I can’t recall Yarwood’s name being mentioned by Harriet, Olly or any of their family.

Another point to consider is Yarwood’s body has been found inside the town’s limits, whereas all the obvious murder victims were dumped or displayed in more rural areas.

The clinical way the man has been murdered smacks of our killer, yet he may not fit the selection process.

If it’s the same killer, I wonder if he is getting cockier, more confident. The worst-case scenario is he’s started a new string after being thwarted by the chief’s preventative methods.

The thought he may start choosing victims totally at random isn’t something I care to think about. Should his pattern have changed, he’ll be even harder to predict, let alone stop.

I don’t know the guy who found the body, but I’m sure I’ve seen his face somewhere.

As the chief and the feds talk among themselves, I approach the guy and start asking questions like the detective I’ve suddenly become.

‘Norman Sortwell. Everyone calls me Norm though.’

‘What time did you find the body?’

‘A couple of minutes before I called the police.’ He gives a helpless gesture. ‘I tried for a pulse first. When I couldn’t find one, I made the call.’

‘Did you see anyone else in the alley? Or someone coming out of it?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you go into the alley in the first place?’ This has been troubling me since I got here. The alley is a dead end. Only refuse collectors have a good reason to go down there.

Norm gives a rueful smile. ‘I needed to take a whiz. It was quiet so I ducked into the alley.’

‘Fair enough.’ It is as good a reason as any. ‘Where have you been tonight?’

‘Nowhere special. I came out to get some milk and decided to grab a couple of beers.’

I nod at his answers. They’re commonplace and banal, which is normal for Casperton. Only in the movies do people find bodies while doing something exciting. The exact statistic escapes me, but I know for a fact most bodies are found by dog-walkers.

‘We don’t know for certain if this man has been killed by the person we’re hunting, but to be on the safe side, we’ll need to bring your family into protective custody.’

It’s hard to judge his reaction in the dim light of the alley, but I’m not convinced he’s too worried about his family.

‘All of them or just the ones who live in Casperton?’

‘Just the ones who live locally to begin with.’

After that, who knows? There are far too many possibilities to consider.

Has our killer made a mistake and jumped his pattern or have we missed a connection between Harriet and Yarwood?

Perhaps it’s a copycat killer aping the guy who’s got a whole town gripped with fear. If it is we’re going to need a lot more than three FBI guys.

I get the details from Norm. We’re in luck this time. His only relatives in town are his parents and a cousin. As we’re talking, I recognise him as one of Pete Lester’s workers.

The FBI statue comes over and starts asking Norm the same questions I’ve just gone through.

I leave him to it and go to update the chief. As we talk both of us are watching Doenig. He’s over by Yarwood’s body. While not close enough to contaminate any evidence, he’s near enough to inspect the body. A pen light held by a steady hand throws a narrow beam of light onto the areas he wants to inspect.

In his other hand, his cell is displaying a faint glow as he holds it out and speaks with a soft tone. I guess he’s using it as a Dictaphone rather than having a conversation.

The fact his face still hasn’t changed expression makes me wonder if Botox injections are part of the FBI toolkit.

‘What’s your thoughts on this, Boulder?’

The chief’s face has shed weariness in favour of exhaustion.

‘The clinical manner of the execution points to our man, but I’m not so sure. Dr Edwards was convinced his selection process was highly important to him, but the victim’s got no connections I know of to Harriet or her family.’

‘You know him?’

‘He’s a regular at the Tree. Got a wife and two young boys.’ I remember the pride in Yarwood’s voice whenever he discussed his sons. ‘Don’t let those tattoos fool you. He was a stand up guy. Never got a whiff of trouble and I’ve often seen him play peacemaker.’

The chief’s eyes close as he takes a deep swallow. He’ll be thinking about what he has to do next. ‘I’ll need to inform his wife before I can start asking if he’s related to Harriet or Olly.’

I shudder at the thought of Chief Watson or another cop knocking on Yarwood’s door to tell his wife. It’s bad enough anyone getting killed, but the idea of young children losing a parent to mindless violence is abhorrent.

Kicking the tyres of the chief’s car, I imagine coming face to face with the killer. It’s a nice thought. I won’t be worried about making an arrest. Not until I’ve inflicted some pain onto him.

67

Doenig takes me back to the station, leaving his cohort to protect the crime scene. The chief is on his way to break the news to Yarwood’s wife after calling Darla to get an address.

Neither Doenig nor I discuss the body as we travel back. Both of us are lost in our thoughts. There’s every chance we’re thinking the same things, but you’d never know.

Norm sits in the back of the car for his own protection. I’m certain Doenig will give him another round of questions back at the station.

He is chewing at his nails and moving with a nervous energy. He’s called his parents and told them to expect a visit from the police. He is trying every minute or so to contact his cousin, but whenever he tries he ends up cutting the call after a few seconds.

My suggestion we go round to his cousin’s house is met with a blank stare by Doenig. Norm keeps at him though and he relents to the detour.

Getting directions from Norm, Doenig drives fast with skill. There is no flamboyance, just careful considered movements of the wheel. Every turn is indicated and his braking and accelerating don’t cause the car’s occupants to be thrown forward or back. His instructors at Quantico would be proud of the way he’s travelling at twice the speed limit while still observing the niceties of driving.

When we arrive at Norm’s cousin’s we exit the car and approach the house. It’s in darkness but so is every other house on the street.

It’s a typical house on an average street. Nothing is remarkable or unique about it. The car parked on the drive is a mid-range saloon. Everything about the area screams bland domesticity to me. I want to leave in case it’s contagious.

We knock on the door and ring the bell. There’s no answer.

Doenig beats me to the obvious questions. ‘Is your cousin married? Does she have kids?’

‘No. Her husband left her a couple of years ago and they didn’t have kids.’

‘What about a boyfriend?’

Norm tilts his head as he thinks. ‘She did say something about seeing a guy. His name was David, or Daniel. It began with a D. Do you think she’s with him?’ Hope has filtered into his voice.

‘Perhaps.’ I point at the car in the drive. ‘If she is, he’s picked her up.’

Doenig’s face registers its first expression. Exasperated impatience.

I’m guessing he wants to be away from Norm and I so he can start making calls to other agents without being overheard. If he doesn’t, he should.

I turn to Norm. ‘Do you have a key or know if she keeps one hidden somewhere?’

‘No, I don’t. Sorry.’

I start looking in the obvious areas. Under the doormat, behind the plant pot. Doenig joins in with a scowl while Norm stands around looking helpless.

Finding nothing we go round to the back of the house and repeat the process with the same result.

‘Nothing doing. She must be at the boyfriend’s. Come on. I’ll have someone run a trace on her cell and track her that way.’

As we’re travelling the mile back to the station I have a thought. It’s not one I want to share in front of Norm so I keep it to myself until we’re at the station.

Entering the reception, I’m about to get Doenig to one side when he’s approached by the colleague he’d left behind.

While they’re talking, I introduce Norm to Darla and give a quick explanation as to why he’s here. She grasps the situation at once and leads him away with the offer of coffee.

With Doenig tied up and the chief away, I find a seat and rethink my latest thought a second and third time.

However I poke and prod at the idea, I keep coming back to the same conclusion. There’s a way I can check, so I pull out my cell and make a call.

It’s late but something tells me nobody at the motel is going to be sleeping.

The detective who answers hands his phone to Olly Vernal. I question him about any possible connection his family has with Yarwood. He denies any but checks with other family members.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can hear the low rumble of voices interspersed with the odd indignant shriek.

Olly comes back on the line and tells me there’s not even the most tenuous link.

It’s what I was expecting, but I still needed to check it out before making any rash statements.

With my facts established, I go in search of Doenig.

I find him still in conversation with the other agent; I hesitate to interrupt them. My involvement is limited despite the fact I’ve been deputised. While there’s no open hostility from Doenig, I’d have to be stupid not to recognise his tolerating of me is only one step above humouring.

His eyes land on me, so he turns away from his colleague. ‘What is it, Detective?’ There’s the lightest trace of a sneer in the way he uses my job title.

‘I don’t think Harriet Vernal was the first person to find Angus Oberton’s body.’

I can tell I have his full attention by the way his eyes widen. ‘Why?’

‘We know the killer is targeting the families of those who find the bodies. Thanks to a newspaper article so does the public. We’ve assumed he’s been finding out who the person is from press releases or by watching the dump sites.’ I lick my lips. ‘With the public aware of his selection method, the first person to find Oberton may have thought they were protecting their family by not reporting it.’

He raises a hand. ‘I’ve got it. What you’re saying fits.’ The tolerance in his eyes is replaced by a fleeting gleam of respect.

Neither of us speaks. The same thought assaulting my brain will be laying siege to his; the only way to verify my theory is to ask Ian Yarwood’s relatives if they found a body.

The questions will be taken as accusations, as instruments of blame by even the most sensible. At a time of grief, of self-recrimination, we may have to get heavy with members of his family to identify the person.

If I am wrong, none of this will play well in the media or coffee shops. When the public hear how the police and FBI harangued grieving family members for something they didn’t do, there will be a closing of doors and a withdrawal of information and cooperation.

FBI man or not, Doenig is a human being. Like me he won’t want to be the one to raise the subject with distraught relatives, even if I am right.

We are given a temporary reprieve by the appearance of Darla. She points at Doenig. ‘Chief Watson is on line three. He wants to speak to you.’

Doenig takes the call while I hover, unsure whether or not I should leave the room.

Darla stays, so I do the same.

It’s a one-sided conversation, filled with ‘I sees’ and ‘okays’.

He hangs up and turns to me. ‘You were right. After hearing the news Yarwood’s wife called her parents. The father told Chief Watson he’d found Oberton but didn’t dare call it in.’

‘Now the link has been confirmed we’d better get Norm’s family rounded up as soon as we can.’

68

I toss my keys onto the counter and brew a strong coffee, intent on washing the taste of failure from my mouth.

The last three hours have been spent chasing after Norm’s cousin. Doenig’s trace revealed her cell hadn’t left home after returning from her work.

He’d contacted her work colleagues, while I had banged on the neighbours’ doors until I got a response.

Neither of us had learned anything useful.

Fearing the worst for her, Doenig had picked the lock on her door and led the way through her house with his gun drawn.

The empty bottle of wine on the counter had given me hope – she may just be asleep and dead to the world. Doenig pushed each door open and shone his penlight into every room with the same result. Or lack of it.

Finding no sign of the woman, we switched the lights on and looked for clues as to her whereabouts.

Her cell was on the armrest of a chair, but when we tried to access it we found its battery dead. A tablet lifted from a table had been accessible. Her Facebook status was last updated at five twenty and complained about a busy day being a terrible way to prepare for a date.

I found a charger and plugged in her cell only to find it locked. Doenig had contemplated taking the cell so a tech expert could access its secrets but until we knew for certain she was missing he decided it was a step too far.

Her purse and cell being left at the house was enough for me, but he’d be bound by a set of unbreakable rules. You don’t become a special agent by being a loose cannon or habitually breaking the rules. The position is awarded to the most diligent and robotic of their ranks. Individual brilliance will help, but the main criteria will be team ethics, sound investigative procedure and an ingrained willingness to follow orders.

He justified not taking the cell by saying he could have someone tap into it and retrieve any information on it.

It was a compromise, but I accepted it as he was the one holding all the cards. One act of serious insubordination from me and I’d be out on my ear. Not something I was prepared to allow. Not only was I pursuing the killer for the families of those he’d killed, I was seeking justice for the victims, for the two friends he’d killed.

After finishing my coffee, I stretch out on my bed and wait for my restless mind to slow. Tomorrow will be another long day and I have a feeling when Norm’s cousin is found, things will get a whole lot worse.

69

The insistent ringing of my cell wakes me. My sister’s name on the display is worrying. Whatever she’s calling for won’t be good. Calls before six are never anything but bad news.

‘Jake, I’m scared. I’ve just found a body on the lane behind my house.’

Her words shake the sleep from me. I don’t bother to think of anything beyond the safety of my family.

‘Don’t bother calling the police. Get Ted and go to the station in person. Whatever happens, stay put until I arrive.’

A minute later I am dressed and calling Mother. She doesn’t answer so I keep trying as I leave the apartment and climb into my car.

She picks up when I’m halfway to her house. I tell her to get dressed and wait for me, then ring off before she can start asking questions.

I run three red lights on my way across town, but traffic violations are the least of my concerns. Right now all I care about is making sure my family are safe.

Mother’s door is open when I get there. She’s dressed in dark green velour sweats and has the kind of expression which inspires gargoyle sculptors.

‘I’ve spoken to your sister, young man.’

I’d hoped to be able to break the news myself, but it seems events have conspired against me. The ‘young man’ at the end of her sentence as telling a sign of danger as the hissing clatter of a rattlesnake.

‘Good. Then you’ll know we need to move right away. Where’s Neill?’ Her husband is a good man but lacks any sense of urgency. The only time I’ve known him to show anything approaching hurry was when he’d had diarrhoea a few years back.

‘He’s upstairs getting dressed. He’ll be a minute.’

I know his idea of a minute, so I go to the foot of the stairs and look upwards. There’s no sound of movement. ‘Neill. Get down here at once. This is serious.’

Perhaps my shout will do more good than any of Mother’s nagging. Over the years he’s shown an impressive immunity to her exhortations for rapidity.

Mother has followed me. There’s a fire in her eyes which threatens to become an uncontrollable forest blaze.

‘Do you really think so little of us that you’re happy to risk all of our lives by continuing with this ridiculous charade?’ The heat of her anger is counterbalanced by the arctic intensity of her tone. ‘It’s bad enough you running around playing detective but what about the rest of us?’

I don’t give her an answer. There isn’t one that can explain how important this is to me without further angering her. As this isn’t a good time to inform her of my deputation, I give Neill another hurrying shout.

‘Tell me, Jacob. Do you think it’s any kind of coincidence that the day after you’re lauded in the local paper as the man to identify a serial killer’s pattern, your sister finds a body and puts you and your family into the killer’s sights?’

It was my first thought after realising I had to make sure Mother and Sharon were safe. It’s been my only thought ever since.

The macho part of me welcomes the thought of coming face to face with the killer, but the more realistic side of my nature tells me it’s a fight I will probably lose.

Whoever this person is, he’s organised, resourceful and knows lots of different ways to kill.

Mother interprets my silence as contrition and hammers her point home with a series of demeaning attacks on my sanity, my failings as a son and somehow ends up back on the tired old subject of grandchildren.

Neill’s footsteps as he comes downstairs act as a welcome interruption. His lined face shows puzzlement at the disturbance and raised voices.

‘C’mon. I need to get you to the police station as soon as possible. That way the police can keep you safe.’

Hearing the words come out of my mouth I realise what I’ve just said and the subtext behind it. Mother and Sharon will be kept safe along with their husbands. I won’t be joining them. My place is continuing the investigation.

I get them bundled out of the door and into my car and drive them to the station. Mother complains all the way about the lack of legroom in the back of a Mustang while Neill concentrates on not commenting about the speed of my driving.

A tightwad by nature, he always drives at the optimum speed to get the best mileage possible. To be crossing town in the high sixties will seem nothing short of reckless to him.

Mother has travelled far enough with me to become unconcerned by my driving. Although she will on occasion, cite an inevitable crash as yet another way I’m preventing her from becoming a grandmother.

70

Entering the station, we find Sharon and her husband Ted talking with Doenig’s sidekick.

When she sees Mother she runs across and wraps her up in a big hug. I get a similar one from her. Ted’s politeness makes him shake my hand despite the accusation on his face.

Mother will be glad of an ally in her campaign against me, although Sharon and Ted’s presence will keep her away from the ever-present subject of grandchildren.

Doenig and the chief emerge from his office. The FBI man looks fresh whereas the chief’s face and body show his exhaustion. His movements are clumsy and he’s dragging his feet.

I take the initiative. ‘What’s the next move, Chief?’

‘You and your family go to the motel and stay there.’ Doenig’s tone brooks no argument. ‘This has to end here. No more deaths.’

‘We thought that yesterday with the Vernal family.’ I’m not prepared to be sequestered away. By dragging Sharon and Mother into this mess, the killer has made it way too personal for me to allow myself to be shunted aside.

Besides, the thought of being cloistered away with Mother when she’s got full justification to rail on me isn’t an attractive one. She’ll rattle on for hour after hour, attacking me from every possible angle. As a rule I would be able to mount a defence against her, but on this occasion I’m guilty as charged.

It won’t be long before the others side with her. Even in silence, their faces will show what they think of me. There’s no way I want to be in that position. Not when I can be stopping a killer.

‘I’m not going to the motel. I’m staying on the case.’

‘No you’re not.’ The chief’s voice is as tired as the rest of him. ‘That’s how we lost Angus Oberton.’

‘If you stay on the case you’ll be a target. I’m not having one of my officers at risk.’

I hand the chief my badge. ‘Problem solved. I’m a civilian now.’

‘Which means I can arrest you if I want to.’

‘Enough.’ Doenig keeps his voice low, but there’s a quality to it which cuts through our bickering. He looks at me. ‘If you don’t go to the motel, you’ll become a target. But I’m not sure the killer will take you on. I think he’ll be expecting you to be protected or guarded. And he’ll be right.’

Which means that if the killer doesn’t come after me, his pattern will have to be broken as I only have four direct relatives in the US and they’re all under police guard.

Only, the killer isn’t going to move onto someone else. I don’t for one minute believe he dumped the latest body outside Sharon’s home by chance.

It is a deliberate act, designed to hamper the investigation. With me either distracted or stationed in the motel, I’ll be less effective.

Yet looking at it from his point of view, there is the danger he won’t be able to get to me. I don’t think he is ready to stop, so his involving of my family is the laying down of a challenge.

He’s asking if I’m man enough to face him. He wants to take me on. The realisation of what he wants firms my resolve.

I take a deep breath and make a suggestion which might get me killed. ‘He’s coming after me, so use me to catch him.’

The chief is the first to speak. ‘No way. Forget it, Boulder, there’s no way I’m risking him getting to you.’

‘You’re not the one taking the risk. I’m in charge.’ Doenig looks at me with respect in his eyes. ‘Are you sure about this?’

I swallow. ‘Can you think of any other way we’ll catch him?’

Neither of them reply, which is all the answer any of us needs.

The chief tosses the badge back to me and pulls a gun out of his drawer. ‘Do you know how to use this?’

‘No, but I’ve got one I do know how to use.’ I’m stretching the truth a bit, but I’m trying to reassure him.

‘Where is it?’

‘In the trunk of my car.’

‘Go get it. Keep it with you at all times.’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘Round up a couple of patrolmen and take your folks to the motel. When you’ve done that come back here and make sure you have a patrolman with you at all times.’

I sense he is getting rid of me on purpose, so I leave him and Doenig to it.

After getting the gun from the trunk of my car and stuffing it into my waistband, I go to join my family.

There are two patrolmen watching over them, so I approach the nearest. ‘Chief says they’re to go to the motel. I’ll take the guys in my car, you take my mother and sister.’

I plan to inform Neill and Ted what I’m doing on the drive over and leave them to break the news. It’s a cop-out but I’ve enough self-critical thoughts of my own, without Mother dripping scornful vitriol in my ear.

71

When I arrive at the motel I see two burly workers and a cop stationed at the entrance. Another civilian and a cop are standing by the fire exit. They look bored but their heads are in constant motion as they sweep the area for possible aggressors.

The patrolmen gain us entry and a couple of rooms are secured for my folks. They look stunned but there’s little I can do to change things. It’s about to get worse for Mother and Sharon when their husbands repeat the news I’ve given them.

As they are escorted down the hall, I pull my cell out and read the message I’ve just got.

It’s a picture of a woman. Her face has a deathly pallor and the dewdrops coating her cheeks look like tears.

A second message comes in, followed by a third.

The second is from the chief asking me to show the picture to Norm Sortwell to see if it’s his cousin.

I check the last message and sigh when I see who it’s from.

YOU ARE AN IDIOT JACOB BOULDER. WORRYING ABOUT YOU WILL PUT ME IN AN EARLY GRAVE. I EXPECT TO HEAR FROM YOU EVERY TWO HOURS.

Stuffing the cell back into my pocket, I go to the receptionist and ask which room Norm is in.

As I make my way along the corridor, I’m rehearsing what to say, the tone to use and guessing what his reaction may be. This is new ground for me and I curse the chief for making me walk it.

How Norm will react depends on the closeness of their relationship. It was tough to gain any insights last night. He’d been questioned to the point of distraction by the feds, then brought out here with his parents.

I knock on the right door and hear a TV being turned down. Norm’s face appears as the door opens. He looks as if he’s had less sleep than me.

Seeing him in proper light for the first time I notice how gaunt and drawn his face is, that his belt shows wear on each of the holes. He must have lost weight recently, although his bare arms show tight knots of muscle.

‘Morning.’ I drop the good from the greeting on purpose. If we’re right about the body, there isn’t going to be anything good about today. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but there was a body found a couple of hours ago. It matches the description you gave us for Josie.’

His hand flies to his mouth and he takes a few steps backwards until his legs collide with the bed. As he sits, springs creak. He raises his eyes to my face. ‘Are you sure it’s her?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’ll need someone to make a formal identification.’ I’m winging it, but to my ears the words sound like something a cop would say.

I pull my cell out. ‘I have a picture of the victim on here. Do you think you could take a look and see if it’s Josie?’

Norm doesn’t speak, but his arm extends in my direction. Handing over the cell, I watch to see his reaction.

It’s a muted one. He looks at the image for a few seconds then passes the cell back. ‘It’s Josie. She looks so peaceful.’ His voice is a whisper.

‘Thank you.’

‘How did she die? Will there need to be an autopsy?’

‘We’re not sure yet, but there will be an autopsy and it should tell us how she died.’ I’d like to tell him she didn’t suffer, but without knowing the details, I’m reluctant to say anything in case I’m wrong.

‘Will we be able to go home now?’

I’m not sure if I have the authority to make this decision, but I make it anyway.

‘I don’t see why not.’

I leave him with his thoughts and a promise someone will bring them more news as soon as we have it.

Before climbing into my car, I call Alfonse and point him at Roger Ingerson. I want to know anything and everything he can dig up about the first victim, as I’m sure that’s where the key to the killer’s identity will lie.

72

Norm lies on his bed and savours the irony. His next victim asking him to identify the previous one is delicious. It’s more than enough to make up for having to spend the night in this crummy motel.

He’d made sure to give Boulder a careful look over when acting shocked about Josie. The man was in good shape, his movements fluid despite an obvious discomfort at the news he was delivering.

There had been a temptation to attack him there and then. A solid blow to the solar plexus followed by a sleeper hold would have done the trick nicely, but in doing so he would have unmasked himself as the killer.

Plus, he wants the random selection of the method to throw up one of the delights he still has in store.

When Boulder left, he’d noticed the bulge at the back of his waistband.

There is no telling how proficient with a gun he is, but the information is collected and stored as he begins to plot ways to capture him.

He gathers his jacket and leaves the room. Five paces along the hallway he knocks on the door of his parents’ room. Mom answers and lets him in. He feigns shock as he informs them of Josie’s death.

They sit in silence for a time, then Norm leaves them to come to terms with the news.

As he hands the room key back to the receptionist, he sees which other keys are missing from the row of pegs. He knows from a conversation with a cop the whole corridor was reserved by the police. The empty pegs tell him which rooms Boulder’s family have been allocated.

Norm smiles as he realises the significance of just two keys being missing. Boulder’s sister and mother are here but the man himself isn’t staying to be guarded.

Instead, Boulder is still active. If he’s active he’s vulnerable.

The feds and local cops will be watching his back, but Boulder is unpredictable and will at some point do something that puts him at risk.

He’ll be there, ready to kill him.

Norm leaves the motel and decides to walk home. The fresh air and exercise will invigorate his body. He wants to be as energised as possible when he tackles Boulder.

He passes a 7-Eleven but turns back and walks in. He buys a copy of the Casperton Gazette, scans the front-page headlines and skim reads the article by Ms Rosenberg outside the store. She’s covering the murder of Angus Oberton. What pleases him most is the nickname she’s given the killer.

He loves being called ‘The Watcher’; it’s perfect as it’s exactly what he does. He watches. If he’s lucky it will stick. A good nickname will help secure his place in history.

73

I find the press camped out in the station’s reception area. Ms Rosenberg is at the head of their ranks as they clamour for more information about the two latest victims.

Her eyes pick me out as I try to sneak into Chief Watson’s office. She approaches with a raptor-like expression. As usual she’s wearing enough foundation to support a skyscraper.

‘Are you any nearer to catching the Watcher? Have you any leads? How many more people must die before he’s stopped?’

I keep my mouth shut. I’m not even prepared to say ‘no comment’. It’s the chief and Doenig’s place to speak to the press. Maybe the mayor’s too.

Their moniker for him is apt though. ‘The Watcher’ is the perfect fit.

When I enter the chief’s office, I find him and Doenig briefing one of the FBI agents.

Doenig sees me enter and points at his colleague. ‘This is Agent Cuthbert. He’s going to be your bodyguard.’

I flick my eyes at Cuthbert. He’s dressed in a sombre dark suit, has the necessary cropped hair and the stance of someone expecting trouble. The way his arms are held makes him look like a cross between a gunslinger and someone carrying two rolls of carpet.

‘No offence, but isn’t he a little obvious as a feebie?’

Doenig scowls at me. ‘He’ll lose the suit and get some normal clothes. We do actually train for this type of situation in the FBI.’

I mumble an apology and avoid his eye. I can feel colour filling my cheeks at my naivety.

Cuthbert leaves the room so I use the distraction to ask the chief what he wants me to do next.

‘I want you to go over all the reports. The ones from the CSI teams, the coroner, the investigating officers. You’re looking for anything that can possibly be used to identify the killer. You need anything, ask Darla.’

I understand he is both dismissing me and keeping me close.

He doesn’t dare have me running around town where the Watcher can attack me. Therefore, he is using me to double check and reassess all the details in the safe environment of the police station. Cuthbert is sure to be the pedantic type who’ll never be more than six feet away.

There is no way the Watcher will try anything when I am so well protected. He’ll either wait until the levels of security are lessened, or abandon his selection process and find another victim.

I’ll need to find a way to persuade Cuthbert to give the Watcher enough space to feel confident he can attack me but not so much my life is at risk.

After leaving the chief’s office, I ignore Ms Rosenberg again and speak to Darla. She promises to bring me the reports I’ve asked for.

I choose to use the office Alfonse used yesterday. It’s hot and stuffy with the aroma of stale sweat and junk food, so I open the windows and take a seat where the breeze cools me while also taking the worst of the nasty smells away.

‘Here you are, sweetie.’ Darla dumps a stack of files onto the desk nearest me. ‘Good luck with that lot.’

I know what she means. I’ve read most of these files already and I haven’t seen anything of note. Perhaps getting all their information into my brain in one pass will make the details more pertinent in relation to each other.

When Cuthbert arrives back, I’m so engrossed with a report I don’t notice him until he’s at my side.

‘Are you serious? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ His blank face is showing its first impression and it’s one of complete disgust and amazement. ‘You’re the target of a serial killer and you’re sitting by an open window. Not only that but you’re so wrapped up in what you’re doing, you’re not paying any attention to what’s going on around you.’

As he’s berating me, he goes round the room closing windows and dropping blinds. I can understand his frustration and anger. In his position I’d be the same.

Not only is he tasked with a dangerous duty, the person he’s protecting seems to have no idea about basic common sense precautions. For him, this is the type of assignment on which careers are made or broken. Anything bad happening to me will, for him, be the equivalent of writing a letter of resignation.

Seeing the scale of his reaction, I realise there’s no way I’ll be able to persuade him to let me draw the killer out.

I try to placate him by apologising then asking his opinion about the facts I’ve gleaned so far.

The distraction works. There’s every chance it’s the first time he’s been asked to contribute on anything other than guard duty since arriving in Casperton.

We settle into an uneasy truce and each pick up a file. The room becomes stuffy again, but Cuthbert ignores it and I think better of asking for an opened window.

We’re reading the files in chronological order. From time to time, he’ll ask me a question. It’s usually something to do with local knowledge, but one or two of his points are good ones.

After six hours with nothing more than coffee I call a halt and stand up. ‘C’mon. We need to eat and I want to speak to someone who’s doing research for me.’

Cuthbert reaches for a phone. ‘We’ll order in.’

‘No we won’t. It’s the middle of the day and we’ll be eating in a crowded public place.’ He doesn’t put down the phone so I push harder. ‘Trust me, it’ll be fine. My treat.’

He wavers so I walk towards the door forcing him to make a decision one way or the other. He puts down the phone and picks up his jacket.

74

Instead of my usual seat at the counter, he directs me to a booth at the back. I can see why he’s chosen the booth. From our seats we have a full view of the diner and can see both entrances and the doors to the bathrooms. Nobody can approach us unseen by his watchful eyes.

He surprises me by foregoing the chilli burger I recommend and selects a vegetable and pasta bake. I’d pretty much assumed all FBI agents would be macho dudes who’d eat plenty of red meat and drink bourbon by the bucket.

He doesn’t offer an explanation and I don’t ask for one. His diet is his own business.

I ask about his family and where he’s from, but other than the barest details he doesn’t tell me anything.

Giving up on the small talk, I concentrate on my burger, savouring the burn from the jalapenos and the spicy wedges accompanying it.

As I’m eating, my mind is still leafing through the files. Checking and cross-checking details. After everything I’ve read this morning, I’m still no closer to making a decent connection.

My only hope is Alfonse has something for me. The lack of contact from him suggests otherwise though.

I pay the check as promised and leave Sherri’s with Cuthbert’s understated praise for the diner making me smile.

The gun nestling in the small of my back is uncomfortable, but there’s no way I’m going to remove it.

WHEN WE ARRIVE at Alfonse’s, I reassure Cuthbert he can talk freely in front of my friend. The last thing we need is FBI reticence impounding on our conversation.

His mouth and eyes give me two different replies.

Alfonse is at his desk with his laptop open. He looks pissed and not just with his results.

Cuthbert positions himself by the door and leaves us to talk.

‘What you got?’

He pulls a face. ‘Little more than nothing. Ingerson was no saint, but his record is clean enough and the friends of his I spoke to said he was never one to start a fight.’

‘His wife intimated he finished a few.’

‘Sound like anyone we know?’ If his tone drips any more scorn he’ll have to wipe his chin. His eyes bore into mine. ‘By all accounts he’d do enough to stop them and leave it at that.’

I give a half shrug. Big deal, Ingerson’s philosophy matches my own.

Once you’ve knocked the fight out of someone, there’s little point in continuing to hit them. All you do is create room for grudges to develop. Hospitalising people comes with its own risks, namely incarceration and a heightened desire for violent revenge.

‘Did you speak to any of the guys he fought?’

‘Most of them. They all said they’d picked the fight for one reason or another and had their ass handed to them.’

‘What were the reasons they gave?’

He spears me with another glower. ‘Flirting with their girlfriends mostly. The friends I spoke to said he was like that. He’d chat to women and flirt with them but would never follow it up.’

Again it sounds familiar, but at least I try not to flirt with anyone who’s already dating.

‘Any other reasons?’

‘There was an accusation of him being a card sharp during a game of poker which turned into a fight.’

I feel my pulse quicken; money is one of the main reasons for crime. ‘What happened?’

‘After a couple of punches were traded Ingerson showed the guy his cards.’ Alfonse grimaces. ‘A two, six, seven, jack and king spread across all four suits.’

I wince. Even with what little I know about poker, I recognise it’s a poor hand.

‘Did any of the people you spoke to know of anyone with a grudge against him?’

‘None they’d admit to. Even the guys who’d lost to him said he could have pounded on them more but stopped as soon as they went down.’

I get the picture. It’s an unwritten dude rule. When someone hands you your ass, but stops as soon as the fight is out of you, you accept the better fighter won and leave it there.

It’s something I’ve seen many times at the Tree. Two guys will knock seven bells out of each other one night, then get drunk together and reminisce over the fight the next.

‘Is there anybody worth taking a closer look at?’ I’m thinking a couple of hours being grilled by the FBI will shake loose any details someone’s holding back on.

‘Nobody I’ve found yet.’ For the first time since I arrived, he looks at me without anger or fear. ‘I’m gonna keep digging in case I’ve missed something.’

Cuthbert’s pronounced tones enter the conversation for the first time. ‘You sure Ingerson was the first of the Watcher’s victims?’

‘He’s the first as far as the chain is concerned. There may be others who don’t match the Watcher’s methods, but he’s definitely where the chain begins.’

I have a thought. ‘Try looking at his family as well. Perhaps one of them has wronged the killer and he’s exacted a twisted kind of revenge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s targeting family members of those who find the bodies he’s left. Perhaps one of Ingerson’s family found out something about him.’

Alfonse’s face lights up at my suggestion and Cuthbert nods his head. ‘Good idea. I like your train of thought.’

From the taciturn agent, the two sentences are equivalent to a ticker tape parade.

75

Norm watches as the Mustang turns off Main Street and pulls into the police car park. The man with Boulder is a new face in town, but he pegs him as an FBI agent who’s been given bodyguard duty.

The man has the institutionalised air of conformity about him. From the buzz cut to the square stance and expressionless face, he may as well be wearing a windbreaker with ‘FBI’ stencilled on the back in yellow letters. The clothes he wears still carry the creases from where they’ve been folded into their sales packaging.

The man has a bulge in his jacket where a left-handed person would carry a gun. There’s no sign of a shoulder holster but he knows it’ll be there. The lump in the jacket is as obvious to his trained eye as a signal flare.

What he’s waiting for is that fraction of a second when their guard is down and he can make his move.

One positive thing he’s learned from tailing them is Boulder’s unfamiliarity with the gun stuffed into the back of his waistband. Every minute or two he slips a hand round his back, either to check it’s there or to move it into a more comfortable position.

The way his shirt hangs over it is no problem to a trained professional, but a panicking amateur is more likely to get his gun or hand tangled. He might free it in a second or two, but two seconds in a takedown situation is a long time.

Add the element of fear and he’ll only have to worry about the feebie in the first five seconds. Fingering the Tasers in his pocket, he’s content with the time frame; all he needs to do is wait for the right opportunity.

The draw he made earlier has thrown up the one method he’d been hoping not to get. He’d wanted something gorier and more painful for the man whose investigative prowess has caused so many problems. While enjoying the challenge, he’d hoped there would be more time wasted by the town’s detectives before the pattern was recognised.

Boulder’s interference wasn’t something he’d expected, but the fact the FBI would become involved was anticipated.

Whatever happens now, his place in history is cemented. All he has to do is keep going as long as possible. The higher the tally, the greater his legend.

76

I toss the last report onto the pile for Cuthbert and stand up. Arching my back, I go through a few stretches to try and remove the stiffness.

The smell in the office is now of stale bodies and despair. The chief and Doenig have joined us at regular intervals but we’ve had nothing worthwhile to tell them.

Everything we’ve looked at has checked out the same way, and the crime scenes are too public to yield specific samples.

Cross matching the samples for DNA is something Doenig has pushed through the FBI lab, but as with every government department, they’ve suffered cutbacks in both personnel and budget. The soonest they can get us the answers we need is two days away.

My cell beeps, but when I pull it out expecting yet another snarky message from Mother, I see it switching itself off. The battery has given up – I’ve never thought to charge it.

The chief walks into the room, his face all grey stubble and greyer skin. If we don’t catch the Watcher soon, he may well die of exhaustion. He needs twelve hours’ sleep, a hearty meal and then another half day in bed.

Cuthbert takes the opportunity to head for the bathroom. Since being detailed as my bodyguard he’s never been more than six feet away from me.

‘Got anything yet?’

‘Not a thing. What about your end?’

‘Zilch. We’ve traced as many of the people at the nature reserve as we can, but none of them saw anything.’

‘What about the last victim? She was supposed to be meeting her date at seven, wasn’t she?’

‘We’ve spoken to him. He was at work all day and then his roommate vouches for him from the time he left work until he went to meet her.’ He kneads his temples. ‘After being stood up he sank a couple of beers and went home. Her cell had four missed calls and a succinct message from him, but his whereabouts are vouched for from leaving work until he went to bed.’

I know it isn’t the date, but he still has to be checked out. There’s something nagging me about the last kill, but I can’t figure out what.

The timeline between Norm Sortwell finding Ian Yarwood’s body and his cousin dying is so short it means the Watcher is escalating his kills with increasing rapidity.

There were less than eight hours between the two events and it doesn’t seem credible someone could have learned who Norm was, traced his family, executed a kill then dumped a body in such a short time frame.

If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d start to think Norm was supposed to find Yarwood’s body.

Alfonse bursts into the office as Cuthbert is closing the door behind him. Cuthbert’s hand flies into his jacket and emerges with a gun. He’s halfway towards aiming it when he recognises Alfonse.

‘I think I may have found him.’

‘Who?’ Three voices speak as one.

‘When I started looking into the first…’

The chief beats me to the interruption. ‘Tell us the who first. Then you can explain how you’ve found him.’

‘It’s Norm Sortwell.’

There’s a stunned silence until I wave a hand at Alfonse. ‘Why do you think it’s him?’ It’s tough to believe when his cousin is the latest victim.

‘As I was saying. When I started to look into Ingerson’s family, I found out his wife used to be a nurse. A few weeks after he was killed she was fired.’

‘Why?’

‘The clinic she worked at was sued for infecting a patient with HIV from a dirty needle. She was the nurse who had used the needle. The case was settled out of court by the insurers.’ Alfonse gives a grim smile of self-congratulation. ‘The patient who was infected had already died by the time this all happened. Her name was Melanie and she was married to Norm Sortwell. The same Norm Sortwell who found Ian Yarwood’s body.’

The chief shakes his head. ‘Coincidence. His cousin was killed.’

‘Here, I’ve printed out everything I found so you can check it for yourselves.’ Alfonse pulls a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

He sits down at a desk and starts to boot up his laptop while we absorb what he’s told us.

I let the chief and Cuthbert read the printouts Alfonse has supplied. I trust his judgement, but I need to work it through my own mind before fully accepting his accusation.

Starting at the beginning I put together a mental chain of events. Faith Ingerson’s stupidity or laziness caused Norm’s wife to catch a deadly virus. He’d sued the clinic after Melanie’s death. The settlement he’d received wasn’t enough for him though, he had wanted to see her punished.

After losing his own spouse, he must have decided it was fitting for her to lose hers. Where his selection process had come from or why he’d carried on killing is still unknown but there is always the possibility he’d got a taste for it or had suffered a mental breakdown of some kind after his wife’s death.

‘Did you have chance to look into him?’

‘Yeah. It’s not pretty. He was in the Marines for years. Done all the usual tours, Helmand, Baghdad and so on. I also looked at his medical records. He’s now got full blown AIDS.’

I think of Norm’s appearance. The gaunt face, depleted body tissue and the belt showing used holes where he’d lost weight.

He is dying and knows it. Perhaps he wants to go out with a bang or just get even with the world for the hand he’s been dealt. Maybe the twin blows of losing his wife and contracting a death sentence saw his mind disintegrate.

The chief’s voice is laced with doubt as he turns on Alfonse. ‘Hang on a minute. Sortwell was under police guard from the moment he found the body until his cousin was discovered. There’s no way he could have killed her.’

Alfonse’s face is filled with dismay at having his logic unpicked.

‘I think you’re wrong, Chief.’ I ignore his sneer and press on. ‘I reckon the cousin was killed and dumped before he called in the body he supposedly found. He’s using us to provide the alibi you’ve just stated. Have you had a time of death for her yet?’

He doesn’t speak. Instead he reaches for the nearest telephone.

Cuthbert has a cell to his ear and I can hear him requesting someone joins us. I guess it’s Doenig.

Since Alfonse arrived, a new energy has filled the room. It’s banished the odours of defeat and helplessness and is energising tired limbs with a sense of purpose.

The more I think about it, the more I believe Norm Sortwell is the Watcher. As a former Marine he’ll have the necessary skills to have made the kills. Plus, he’d be able to get close to his cousin to kill her. While we still don’t have a cause of death, there are too many inconsistencies about her death fitting into the narrative of someone else killing her so soon after Yarwood’s body was discovered.

First there was the missed date. She’d posted about it on Facebook and there were clothes laid out ready on her bed. Judging by the length of the skirt and the fancy underwear, it wasn’t a date she planned to miss.

Second, if she’d changed her mind about the date why hadn’t she called or messaged the guy. She was a professional woman in her forties, not some immature teen. With the ease of cell messages as a way of communication, being stood up is becoming a thing of the past.

Third, if she had decided to miss the date, why weren’t the clothes put away? Where was she for the five and a half hours between leaving work and Norm finding Yarwood?

Fourth, no woman I’ve met in the last five years would go anywhere without her cell and purse. Both of which Josie had left behind if she’d left the house of her own volition.

Everything I can think of suggests Josie had been killed before she was due to go on the date. Therefore, the Watcher had got to her between her arriving home at five-thirty and getting dressed for the date at say six-thirty. This left a one-hour window.

Remembering how long Sharon used to spend in the bathroom, I know an hour isn’t a lot of time for a woman getting ready for a date. Especially the kind of date the lacy underwear on the bed suggested.

Josie wouldn’t have wanted anyone to disrupt her. All but close family members would have been shunned or rescheduled. Norm was family and would be allowed in, even if only for a few minutes. A trained Marine wouldn’t need more than seconds to kill a defenceless woman.

The chief hangs up his call as Doenig enters the room. His expression is unchanged apart from a slight lifting of the eyebrows.

‘You’re right, Boulder. Dr Green says the time of death was around seven o’clock last night give or take an hour or two.’

As the chief brings Doenig up to speed, I ask Alfonse what he’s working on.

‘What you got, buddy?’

‘I’ve been taking a closer look at Norm Sortwell. His Marine psyche evaluation has him as a natural killer. He felt no emotion or compassion for his targets, he just did what he had to do.’ He looks at me with fear in his eyes. ‘A lot of what he did was classified and passworded to death. I’ve only scratched the surface, but from what I’ve seen, I would guess he was one of the go-to-guys for the really crazy missions.’

‘So we’ve got a trained killer who is dying from an incurable disease.’ I shoot a look towards Doenig and the chief. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like a good combination.’

Doenig fires a lump of questions at the three locals in the room and then lays out what we’re going to do.

I like the sound of his plan. As much as I’d like to pound on Norm, taking down someone as dangerous as him when he’s nothing to lose is a job for the SWAT team Doenig’s going to call in.

The one part of his plan I’m against, is that I’m to join my family at the motel.

Any protestations I make are shouted down by three different voices. I do everything apart from get down on my knees and beg, but they are resolute. My place is with my family under armed guard.

With the decision made, Doenig spits orders at everyone in the room including Alfonse.

He wants to know everything about Norm. His address, the car he drives, its licence plate, hangouts, friends, credit card history and a dozen other details including the National Guard strength in Casperton, the number of police officers and the weapons the chief has.

Alfonse gives him most of the answers he’s looking for regarding Norm and the chief supplies the rest.

77

Cuthbert is with me as I leave the police station. His instructions are seared into my mind. Move fast, but don’t run. Keep your eyes open, but don’t gawp like a tourist.

The idea is simple. He’s taking me to the motel without causing a big fuss about it. A full phalanx of armed guards would be a serious giveaway if Norm is watching. It would show that all of a sudden we’ve got more nervous. If he’s as bright as we think he is, he’ll know why.

The last thing Doenig wants is for him to go to ground or disappear. He’d much sooner leave him be until the SWAT team arrive and then pinpoint him by triangulating his cell.

It makes sense. Other than knocking Steve out while killing Angus Oberton, the Watcher hasn’t harmed any innocents. I’m not sure if Cuthbert falls into that category as an FBI agent, but I’m glad he’ll be with me.

The bulletproof vest I’m wearing under my shirt is cumbersome and inhibits my movements but I didn’t grumble when it was suggested and I’m not complaining now.

All of the Watcher’s kills have taken place up close, but I’m not prepared to gamble on being his first distance kill.

As I climb into the Mustang, I wonder if turning the key will trigger an explosion. I hesitate for a moment before rationalising it has spent the day sitting outside a police station beside a busy thoroughfare.

I turn the key as Cuthbert reaches for the door lock. Three times he presses the button down without success.

‘It’s bust.’ I’ve been meaning to drop it off with Lunk for weeks now, but have never gotten around to it.

His sigh carries more criticism than a dozen of Mother’s shouty messages.

We’re halfway to the motel when Cuthbert startles me with some of his typically abrupt sentences.

‘There’s a red suburban three cars back. It has followed us from the station. Norm Sortwell drives one of those.’

I curse myself for missing it and resist the urge to bury my foot into the gas pedal. It’s tempting to floor it and get to the safety of the motel quicker but the sudden burst of speed would be a red flag to Norm. So would me taking detours along side streets in an effort to lose the tail.

What is needed are calm nerves and a steady behaviour. There’s two of us, we’re both carrying guns and we’re in early evening traffic. He’s never broken cover by doing anything in a public place. As long as he thinks he’s undetected, he’ll wait for a chance when he feels the odds are in his favour.

Taking a left onto Fourth, I’m watching the mirror as much as the road ahead when I hear the parp of a horn. Seeing I’ve crossed halfway onto the other side of the road, I jerk the wheel to return the car to where it should be and fix my eyes on what’s in front of me.

Clearing Fourth I swing onto I40 a half mile from the motel. It’s a straight drive now along a nice piece of highway. If it comes to it, I’m confident my Mustang will outrun his suburban.

As we’re approaching the railroad crossing the barrier starts to lower and the lights flash their amber warning. I consider stamping on the gas but the gap is too small and there’s no point risking our lives to escape someone who isn’t yet trying to kill us.

I glance in the rear-view mirror as I draw to a halt. I see nothing but darkness behind us. No headlights, no dark shapes that could be cars without lights on. Nothing.

The train arrives at the crossing in a rumble of clanging metal and repetitive clatters as it thunders across the rails. It’s one from the oilfields, which means it’ll be a long one. A mile or more in total, still accelerating, it’ll take a couple of minutes at least to pass.

Reassured by the lack of headlights behind us, I relax a little and rotate my shoulders to try and alleviate the tension which is knotting them. It doesn’t work.

Cuthbert is looking round the car like a human lighthouse. The faint light from the train is casting shadows and shapes back at us, along with our own reflections in the windows.

Something hard lands on the car’s roof just above my head causing both Cuthbert and I to look to my side of the car.

There’s the tiniest fraction of a second between a second clunk and the passenger door being opened. Norm Sortwell is there and he’s holding a Taser in his free hand.

There’s a buzzing sound and a blue flash as the Taser hits Cuthbert’s neck. So quick is Norm’s movement, the FBI agent never gets a chance to even see his aggressor.

I know my hand is reaching for the gun I’ve placed in the centre console, but all my senses are focused on Norm and the gadget in his hand.

A whiff of scorched flesh assaults me as I fumble for the weapon.

I’m too slow.

The last thought I have as Norm reaches over Cuthbert’s twitching body and presses the hot tines of the Taser against my neck is that I’m about to be at his mercy. Instead of trying to get the gun I should have been trying to knock the weapon out of his hand. Or maybe opening the door so I could stand up and fight him.

As he presses the button on the Taser, I feel my body convulse as the current does its job and incapacitates me. There’s pain at first, but that gives way to a confused anger as my limbs refuse to obey any command I try to give them.

I’m aware of things but they don’t make sense. All five of my senses are gathering information as usual but my brain isn’t able to process it. Instead there’s just a jumble of mixed-up data.

The rattle of wheels on rails is fighting the smell of cooked flesh. My limbs bang of various parts of the car as they spasm. My eyes see the kaleidoscope of shadows thrown by the passing train and my mouth is filled with the acrid taste of defeat.

I don’t know where Norm has got to, but I can’t control myself enough to look in one direction with any clarity. Even if I do know where he is, I can’t mount any kind of defence in this state.

Nothing happens for a minute except Cuthbert and I thrashing about as we try to garner control of our bodies. He’s making some kind of gargling noise. At first I think he’s struggling to breathe, then I realise he’s trying to speak. Maybe it’s his tongue or my confusion, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say.

My door opens and a shadow appears. I recognise Norm as strong hands bunch into my shirt, haul me out of the car and dump me onto the tarmac.

I try to fight him as he drags me by the collar, but the Taser’s effect hasn’t dissipated enough to give me any control of my arms or legs.

Norm stops dragging and stoops over me. I feel my shirt being torn off my back and the bulletproof vest being removed. A hand grasps my belt and another rests underneath my armpit.

The tarmac below me gets further away as Norm lifts me into the trunk of his car. My feeble attempts to struggle resemble a baby splashing in a bath. The lid comes down and I’m left in darkness. Cramped in a small space with twitching limbs.

78

I focus on my watch’s second hand to drive away the confusion in my mind. As the pointer begins its fourth trip around, a measure of control comes back to my arms and legs.

From the front of the car I can hear loud music. It’s the kind of stuff played at the Tree. I recognise the song as ‘Drowning Man’ by U2 just as it fades out and the bluesy opening of ‘Black Water’ by the Doobie Brothers filters in.

With brain and body functioning again. I run through my options. They’re more than limited.

First I concentrate on trying to escape. The lock mechanism of the trunk is encased in the bodywork of the car. If I had a set of wrenches and sockets I may be able to gain access and pop the lock.

Wriggling around, I use my fingertips to search for a release lever. If I can get into the back seat, there’s a chance I can overpower Norm before he brings the car to a halt. I fumble along the rear of the seats but find no release catch or lever.

With escape ruled out, I shift my focus onto defence. Believing attack is always the best kind, I start feeling around for a weapon. Anything will do – a screwdriver to jam into his gut, a wrench I can use as a club or ideally one of his murder tools. All I find is a plastic bottle filled with some kind of liquid.

I unscrew the cap and sniff the contents. I’m not certain, but I think it’s brake fluid. It might work as a temporary distraction if I can splash some onto his face and eyes. While he’s recovering, I can jump out and land a few heavy punches before he gets his sight back. If he drops the Taser so he can rub his eyes I’ll be able to use it against him.

As much as the confined space allows me, I stretch and move my limbs to prepare them for a sudden assault.

I hear the familiar and distinctive riff of Smoke on the Water followed by Ian Gillan’s voice as I reach down and unpick my laces. I kick off my boots, gather them to my chest and re-thread the laces through the top eyelets only.

Wrapping my left hand into the loose end, I leave a clear foot between my hand and the boots. It’s a rudimentary weapon, but it’s the best I can come up with.

A pat of my pockets shows I have my cell with me. The battery might be dead but it may still be traceable. As soon as Cuthbert raises the alarm, Alfonse’s first idea will be to triangulate my cell. I just hope he’s quick.

Another concern is Cuthbert has been killed. While taciturn and monosyllabic, he isn’t a bad guy. I’d hate to be the reason he lost his life. I know I’d feel guilty for the rest of mine.

The music changes again, but I don’t know this song. In the quiet of the changeover, I also detect the sound of tyres on gravel. The car is moving slower and the road rougher.

I tense, expecting the car to stop as soon as it reaches its destination.

79

The car draws to a halt. Every fibre of my body is tensed ready to spring into action. I’ll only get one chance to attack Norm. I have to make it count.

I’ve rehearsed this moment in my mind at least a dozen times. Splash the brake fluid in his eyes, leap out and swing the boots into the side of his head. Then it will be a case of throwing endless punches until I’ve subdued him.

Like all plans it can fall apart due to the slightest miscalculation.

I hear the car door slam and footsteps crunching gravel. The trunk pops open but the lid doesn’t rise at once. I wait for a Taser wielding arm to snake in.

It doesn’t come.

There’s two more footsteps, then the trunk lid is raised.

I don’t see any sign of Norm.

What’s his game? Is he playing with me? Hunting me?

Whatever he’s up to, I can’t do anything about it lying here. I swing my legs out and look around. It’s too dark to make out where we are, but my nose is picking up country smells.

I see him standing at the side of the trunk, out of immediate reach.

I try throwing the brake fluid anyway, but he sees it coming and ducks his head away.

Using his movement to my advantage, I stand up and swing my improvised weapon at his head.

A boot catches the edge of the trunk and collides with its mate, knocking my swing off target. The boots hit Norm’s shoulder, but they’ve lost most of their momentum and don’t have the desired effect.

He straightens as I throw a vicious right cross. It’s a glory punch, but I’m desperate. My intention is to lay him out with a single blow and end this fight.

Norm sees it coming and jerks back, roaring in pain as my fist crashes into the side of his nose.

The momentum of my punch carries me past him and I feel a solid fist hitting my ribcage a second before I feel the sting of his Taser on my chest.

Once again it incapacitates me. I lie on the gravel trying to force some control into my thrashing limbs without success.

I’m aware of him wrapping something around my arms, but confusion has returned to my mind and I know little other than the fact he’s binding me.

I also know I’ll be unable to offer any resistance if I’m tied up, so I struggle harder but with the same lack of cohesion. If I can’t get free he’ll be able to kill me at his leisure.

It’s useless; the jolt from the Taser has done exactly what it’s supposed to.

His hands grab my ankles and I again hear the rasp of tape being pulled from a roll. He turns me over and puts a knee in my back as he binds my feet together.

The rough gravel scrapes my face but it’s the least of my concerns. Now I’ve been tied up, I’m at his mercy. My only hope of rescue comes from Alfonse tracing my cell via a signal that may no longer be transmitting.

Norm flips me onto my back and raises me to a sitting position.

Strong hands grab my arms and I’m hauled upright. He bends a knee and places his shoulder into my gut.

A second later he straightens and sets off walking with me slumped over his shoulder.

He’s only been carrying me for a minute before I hear a sound that chills me to the bone. It’s a pleasureable sound to most, but it scares me more than anything Norm can do.

The smell of lake water rises to my nose. Combined with the lapping of small waves, I figure we must be at Panchtraik Reservoir.

Norm carries me along a small jetty and dumps me into a small motor launch. It’s about twenty feet long at most and there must be a dozen or so of them on the reservoir. They’re used for fishing and family days out.

As I’m dumped into the stern seating area, I spot the name Melanie stencilled onto a life preserver.

It was his wife’s name. Therefore, this must be his boat.

Terror freezes me as I remember the songs he was listening to as he drove here. There’s no question about it. He plans to drown me. The watery thread running through his choice of music was him wringing every drop of pleasure from the experience.

I search the bottom of the boat for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes find nothing but shadows. As my night vision increases, I see there is nothing there but the sterile base of the boat.

He starts the engine and casts off. The engine putters until he clears the jetty and then as he opens the throttle it deepens. I get the impression he could go faster but he’s wanting to draw this out for me. He wants me to know what’s coming and fear it.

I won’t admit it to him, no matter what he does to me. But if he’s trying to terrify me, he’s more than succeeded.

As I try and struggle free of the tape binding my wrists and ankles, I feel something scratch my arm. It’s a rough screw head or something like that, but it may just be sharp enough to cut the tape.

I wriggle until I can feel the screw head snagging on the tape. Moving with care, I rub the tape back and forth hoping it doesn’t resist the short spike. Another concern is the noise of the tape snapping could alert Norm. I have to do this in silence.

I feel it digging into the tape without any of the effect I’m desiring. Pressing harder, I keep going in the hope it will wear its way through.

My shoulder aches from the yank it received yesterday. Although the pain is a lot easier to ignore than the prospect of drowning.

Five minutes of rubbing later, I hear the engine note change. It softens to a gentle throb as it slows until it’s ticking over on idle. Putting my muscles to work, I pull against the tape and feel less resistance.

80

Norm turns away from the controls and faces me for the first time since casting off.

‘You’ve gotten off lightly, Boulder.’ His voice is filled with contemptuous malevolence. ‘I wanted a far worse fate for you than drowning. One that would have you screaming in agony. Leave you begging for death. Instead the fates have been kind.’

I want to ask him how, but the tape over my mouth prevents it.

‘When I picked the method out of the bowl, you got lucky. They say drowning is one of the most peaceful ways to die.’ His grin is wicked in the pale moonlight. ‘You’ve dodged being doused in gasoline and set alight, being buried alive or having your flesh peeled off as I towed you along the highway. But instead of getting any of those excruciating ways to die, you got lucky, you got an easy way.’

Listening to him speak, I’m struck by the lack of reality he’s experiencing. He’s not just killing people; he’s selecting the most horrific ways imaginable. Not content with taking their lives, he has to exercise his superiority by having them plead and beg.

It’s what he wants from me.

As much as the thought of drowning terrifies me, I’m not prepared to give him the satisfaction of hearing me ask for clemency. Given the choice, I’d take buried alive over drowning every time. Even the short-lived but excruciating agony of incineration seems preferable to having water force its way into my lungs.

‘I see the terror in your eyes. You know I’ve won. As clever as you may think yourself, you’ve just lost the most important game of all. You’re going to be my thirty-fourth victim. I’ll be remembered as one of the greatest serial killers ever. You’ll be just another line on the list of my victims.’ He raises a hand as if scanning a headline. ‘Jake Boulder. Drowned.’

Not if I can help it I won’t. His megalomania isn’t going to cost me my life. All the time he’s been talking, I’ve thrashed as if trying to free myself, while continuing the sawing movements against the sharpness behind me.

I can feel my bonds starting to give. Not enough to break free, but enough to suggest that moment isn’t far away.

He bends down and looks at me from a distance of two feet. Too far to strike with a head butt, yet far closer than I want him to be. The meek Norm has been replaced by a feral killer enjoying his work.

He pulls a knife from his pocket. Despite being stiletto thin it catches the moonlight and my attention.

What I wouldn’t give to be the one holding the knife. I’ve never before felt such fear. Or the level of hatred I’m experiencing. The MacDonald blood may be rushing in my ears, but my every focus is on the knife as it moves towards my face.

Norm is in no hurry. The knife takes an age to come forward. So long, I have time to consider throwing myself forward onto it. If I get the angle right, the knife should slide through my eye and pierce my brain.

A far preferable death to drowning, it will also rob him of his chosen method. It would be a hollow victory, but a hollow victory is always better than a resounding defeat.

I dismiss the idea. I’m not ready to die yet. There’s still fight in me.

‘Keep very still and you won’t get hurt.’ He gives a maniacal laugh, uncaring about anyone else who may be on the lake. ‘Yet.’

The tip of the knife pushes at the tape covering my mouth. Once, twice then a third time he makes a tiny hole.

I understand what he’s doing. Air and water will get in but shouts for help won’t get out.

The knife is returned to his pocket.

The clenched fist that hits my temple moves so fast I don’t see it coming.

I almost black out, but manage to retain some kind of awareness.

He stoops over me and removes the rope holding me in position. Stepping back, he grabs the lapels of my shirt and yanks me out of my seat. I fly past the point of balance and plunge head first over the side of the boat.

81

I slip into the dark water and the first thing I feel is cold. Not just the cold of the water, but utter, bone-chilling panic. I feel momentum pushing me down. Gravity and my struggles are helping me to sink ever deeper, so I try and force myself to be calm.

I fail. Badly.

As I thrash around under the water, I feel every sinew stretching itself to breaking point. The tape binding my arms snaps under the stress of my frenzied contortions. Having them free takes the edge off my terror. I have never learned to swim, but at least I have a half chance of not drowning if I have the use of my arms.

Slamming the panic down, I use brain instead of brawn for a moment.

My lungs are full of air but I know it won’t last me long. Not with the way I’ve been fighting my bonds. Not with my head so far from the surface.

I blow a tiny amount of precious breath through my nose and feel the bubbles pass over my chin.

Now I know which way is up, I claw towards the surface. My movements are ungainly but I feel the weight of the water pushing down on me lessen. I’m making progress.

My head breaks the surface for a second and then I start to sink all over again.

Is this what is to become of me? Bobbing up and down from the depths to the surface until my strength wanes and I inhale lake water?

The other danger is Norm sitting on his boat watching. A crack from the boathook he’d used to push off from the jetty will knock me unconscious. Hell, he won’t even have to hit me with it, he can just use it to hold me under the water.

As I flap my way to the surface for a second time, I dig a nail under the tape over my mouth and yank the tape free. It stings, but a kiss from a supermodel couldn’t open my mouth right now, so there’s no way a yelp of pain is going to happen.

This time when I break the surface, I get a decent lungful of air. I also open my eyes for the first time since entering the water.

Norm is standing on the boat with his back to me. I see him turning as I slip beneath the water.

While I know I can’t keep up this rhythm for long, every time I break the surface feels like a victory as well as a chance to replace the spent air in my lungs. With two of Norm’s three pieces of tape removed from my body, I start figuring how to remove the third.

Stuffing a hand into my pocket, I draw out the key to my apartment. It’s a Yale key with a rough serrated edge. With it clamped between my fingers, I saw at the tape around my ankles.

It snags and tears at the coarse tape. Feeling the key slipping, I realign my fingers and ignore the fact I’m sinking as I resume my attack.

With my ankles free, I start to kick and claw upwards. There’s a strong temptation to flail and panic, but I know I must retain the small measure of control I have. If I lose my head now, I may never taste air again.

This time when I break the surface, my eyes can’t find the boat or Norm. Either he’s started the engine and struck out for home or the moon is behind a cloud and the boat is shrouded in darkness.

Despite him trying to kill me, I now feel his disappearance as a form of abandonment. At least when he and his boat were here, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I may be able to somehow board the boat without Norm knowing and overpower him.

Now the boat is gone, even that slim chance has been stolen from me.

My head ducks below the surface again. A couple of strong kicks from my legs solves the problem. I’ll never achieve proficiency as a swimmer, but I’m managing to keep my head above the water with increasing regularity.

I can feel my breathing settle into a more normal rhythm than the frenzied gasps I’ve been giving.

While I may be literally keeping my head above water, this submerging and fighting to get to the surface isn’t going to work as a long-term solution.

I cast my mind back to the many pool parties I’ve attended – I remember Alfonse and others splashing around in the water. A memory strikes me as a bolt of inspiration.

Kira lying on her back in Claude’s pool. She’d lain motionless in the water with her face turned to the sky. She’d looked so relaxed, letting the water support her.

When she wanted to move she just kicked her legs, the action enough to propel her steadily towards her destination. Her movements had been so languid and graceful they were on the point of being balletic. I can’t begin to emulate her grace, but I love the idea of keeping my mouth and nose above the water.

I tilt my head back and give firm kicks with my legs. It’s enough to set me off backwards. I won’t win any awards for style, but I’m moving. On top of the water instead of underneath it. I realise the good fortune in taking off my heavy boots to use as a weapon. My feet would have been forever pulled downward by their weight. Norm removing the cumbersome bulletproof vest from me is also working in my favour.

If the need for stealth wasn’t so great, I’d cheer. Despite my fear of water, I haven’t drowned yet.

The next concern is which way to go. I know Panchtraik Reservoir is shaped like a kidney bean and I don’t have to be a genius to work out Norm has dumped me overboard as near to the middle as possible.

Floating as I am, I have no idea which way is the shortest to shore. The reservoir is at its longest on a southeast–northwest axis, so the shortest way to shore is northeast or southwest.

Without the light of the moon or stars to guide me, I have no way of knowing whether the direction I’m taking is the best or worst.

A flash of light attracts my eye. I lift my head towards it, but stop the movement as soon as my feet start to sink.

A voice carries across the water. Strong and confident. ‘I know you’re still alive, Boulder. I can hear you splashing. I’m coming for you.’

82

I slow the kicking of my feet until they drift under the surface. My back is arched and my arms are frog-kicking to help propel me away from Norm’s flashlight.

Direction no longer seems so important. As long as I’m moving away from the light, I’m heading towards safety.

The beam of the flashlight plays across the water. It doesn’t find me, but it’s searching the right area.

Norm is steady and calculated with his sweeps. He’s moving outwards a couple of feet at a time.

His actions speak of calm, of training, of experience in managing life or death situations.

I recall what Alfonse unearthed about him. He’s a trained Marine with gaps in his service history, which speak of secondment to a black ops or Special Forces unit.

He’s in a boat hunting a man who’s only just learned to swim. Never mind the smart money, even dumb folks would back him against me at this point in time.

I increase my efforts to put a greater distance between me and the flashlight. I’m desperate to thrash my legs but I daren’t make a sound.

It’s a form of mental torture. Every part of my body is screaming at me to hurry, while my brain is trying to send calming messages explaining why haste will be my undoing.

I settle for lowering my arms and increasing their speed. It’s not much but it’s as much as I dare offer.

It seems to work until a sudden wider sweep of Norm’s flashlight dances over my half-submerged body.

I strain my ears listening for a taunting shout but it doesn’t come. The flashlight scans back and forth twice more before being switched off.

Just as I start to hope Norm has given up, I hear the rumble of an engine starting.

A sliver of moonlight dances across the water allowing me to see Norm’s boat moving towards me. It’s not moving fast, but neither am I.

The flashlight comes back on. He’s mapping a grid which is creeping towards me.

I have seconds to decide what to do. If I was a better swimmer I’d dive under the boat and try to escape behind him. As it is, I’m burning way too much energy trying to stay afloat.

The idea of making a stand while hundreds of yards from terra firma is ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better option. I’ll never outswim his boat.

I pull my hands behind me into pretty much the position he’d taped them and kick my legs to keep my head above water. Surprise my only weapon.

As his flashlight picks me out, I whip my head away from him to hide the lack of tape over my mouth. I kick harder to make him think I’m trying to escape.

The boat alters course and he cuts the engine. It’s a good sign.

If he’d been intending to run me down and let the propeller savage me I would be done for. For the first time, I’m glad of his earlier boasts. He’s planned for me to drown and I know how important his plans are to him.

This is what my whole plan of defence and attack is based on – his adherence to his methods. The earlier admission he’d wanted a more painful death for me was a signal of his self-imposed protocols.

His choice of death for me has been preordained and he won’t deviate, regardless of how much he wants to.

Either he will use the boathook to hold me under the surface, or he’d join me in the water and use his bare hands to finish the job.

Both options give me a glimmer of a chance.

I keep my mouth in the water and breathe through my nose. My legs kick a steady enough beat for me to retain my position. Taking care not to look directly at the flashlight, I watch his approach.

A gust of wind several thousand feet above us moves a cloud enough for the moon to backlight the boat with an ethereal glow. Norm’s body is silhouetted against the sky. So is the boathook in his other hand, the curved lug distinctive against the sky.

The bulk of the boat drifts closer until Norm is above me.

His torch is dropped into the basin of the boat as the boathook upends and comes down. He’s aiming the tip towards the crook of my neck.

There’s no hurry to his movements. He’s being slow and deliberate, intending to draw out my suffering.

I let the rubberised tip find its mark.

When it does, I kick harder so he has to use more force.

The pressure increases on my shoulder until I feel myself being driven under the surface. Once my head is submerged, I stop kicking and grasp the boathook with my hands. Jerking it to one side, I haul with everything I have. My body soars upwards with the change in thrust and my head breaks the surface.

Norm lets go before he’s dragged into the water, but I’ve got him off balance. His arms windmill as he tries to retain his equilibrium.

The water doesn’t let me swing as hard as I’d like, but my aim is good.

The wooden pole hits him on the side of the kneecap, the blow enough to finish what the yank started. He topples into the water with a violent roar.

I take the chance to fill my lungs as I spin the boathook round so I can hit him with the business end. My fear of water has been dispersed by the fiery MacDonald blood surging through my veins.

Trained Marine or not, right now I’m fancying my chances.

My legs’ rhythmic kicking keeps my head above the water as I wait for him to surface.

He doesn’t.

Instead I feel strong hands grab my waistband.

There’s no time to grab another breath before he drags me under. The wooden boathook in my hands pulls upwards towards the surface.

I have to choose between having a weapon or two hands to fight him with.

Fingers grasp at my throat.

Instinct makes me release the boathook.

I scrabble at his hands as the pressure on my throat increases.

My fingers find and isolate his pinkie. A sharp tug back breaks it. The hand around my throat doesn’t loosen, so I move on to his ring finger.

It takes a firmer jerk to break it, but I don’t stop there. I keep pulling as his hand slips from my throat.

Extending my hands, I reach for his face.

After showing him how to defend against strangulation, I’m not stupid enough to go for his throat.

My thumbs find his eyes, but he shoves me away before I can put any force behind them.

I thrash upwards and bang my head against the boathook as I surface. My fingers grasp it as I peer into the blackness searching for Norm.

He’s a few feet away. I think about taking a swing at his head but he’s out of reach.

He ducks under the surface after drawing in a rasping breath.

Expecting another attack, I pull the boathook into a vertical position with the curved lug pointing down.

Nothing happens. There’s no pulling on my legs, no stiletto piercing my skin.

I listen for him splashing, in the hope he’s given up and is swimming away. I’m just starting to believe he has, when I feel the water behind me swirl and an arm snaking round my throat.

He isn’t trying to choke me. Rather than pulling me back against him, he’s leaning forward using his weight to push my face into the water.

A knot of muscle pressing against my left cheek tells me which arm he’s using. This knowledge lets me know where his face is.

I tilt the boathook as I straighten my arms.

Thrusting backwards with every last morsel of strength, I drive the boathook into his face. There’s a sudden halt to its momentum so I repeat the blow a second and third time.

The arm leaves my neck and I kick my way towards some precious air.

As I fill my lungs, I turn to see him thrashing in the water. He has both hands pressed against his face. There are unintelligible screams of pain and frustration coming from him.

Whatever damage I’ve done to his face gives me enough of a distraction to do one of two things.

I can make my way to the boat and escape to summon help to round him up. Or I can raise the boathook above my head and save the taxpayer an expensive trial.

There’s no real decision to be made. If I leave him here, there’s a chance he will make it to shore and evade capture.

He may take a while to heal, but one day soon, he’ll be ready to kill again. I can’t allow that.

Taking a careful aim, I slam the lug of the boathook into his temple. It doesn’t just collide – it penetrates. His contortions slow to a judder then stop.

The only movements he’s making are caused by my efforts to free the boathook.

Pulling him towards me, I place my hands on his shoulders and push down.

I start to count. It’s a slow count, which may be out by thirty seconds either way.

It doesn’t matter how accurate I am. Six minutes under the surface with a crushed temple will make sure this ends tonight.

When I reach three sixty, I let go and allow him to drift face down. I’m certain he’s dead by the way his limbs hang low in the water.

I turn my head, locate his boat and set off in the worst backstroke known to man.

THE END

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Table of Contents

Epigraph

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

A Note from Bloodhound Books: