NEIL WHITE

Last Rites

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Neil White 2009

Neil White asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847560193

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007322725

Version: 2018-05-31

Dedication

To Thomas, Sam and Joe, as always

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Chapter Seventy-three

Chapter Seventy-four

Chapter Seventy-five

Chapter Seventy-six

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-eight

Chapter Seventy-nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-one

Chapter Eighty-two

Chapter Eighty-three

Chapter Eighty-four

Chapter Eighty-five

Chapter Eighty-six

Chapter Eighty-seven

Chapter Eighty-eight

Chapter Eighty-nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-one

Chapter Ninety-two

Chapter Ninety-three

Chapter Ninety-four

Chapter Ninety-five

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Abigail Hobbs looked up and shivered as she opened the door to her stone cottage. The wind was blowing hard from the west, October ending with a snarl, the first bad mood of winter. It roared along the sides of Pendle Hill, a huge mound of millstone grit covered in grass and heather. The hill dominated the surroundings, dark and gloomy, and kept the sunlight from her windows. She pulled her coat to her chest and flipped the collar to her ears. She was too old for mornings like this.

‘Tibbs? Tibbs?’

She couldn't find her cat, a grey British Shorthair, all smile and floppy paws. He was always there when she woke, waiting on her windowsill, blinking at her. But not that morning.

‘Tibbs?’

She looked around. Still nothing. Her voice wasn't as strong as it had once been, and it died on the breeze, but she knew something wasn't right.

Abigail stepped onto the path, the stones sunken and uneven, and listened out. She could hear something, but at first she thought it was the wind. A knocking sound; a fast rattle. She edged along the path, her slippers making slapping noises on the stones. There was the noise again, like metal banging against wood. And there was something else. A crying sound, distressed.

‘Tibbs?’

Abigail got nearer to the end of the house, long grass trailing against her ankles. The noise seemed louder. She called out again. The sound was still there.

She reached an old outhouse, a brick add-on to the cottage that was used to store garden tools. The door was banging, the metal latch clattering, and as her footsteps got closer, the crying got louder.

‘Tibbs, wait there. What have you done?’

She pulled on the outhouse door but it didn't give at first. It felt stiff, like someone was holding the other side. She could feel the vibrations in the door, the cries from inside louder now. She yanked at the door, and then as it opened she saw Tibbs, her cat, suspended in mid-air, struggling, thrashing, something wrapped around him.

Abigail was confused. She reached out, went towards him, but then there was a flash, a loud bang. Something wet hit her in the face, sharp and small, making her stumble backwards, losing her balance. As she fell, she saw that Tibbs was no longer there.

Chapter Two

I didn't hear my phone at first.

I was walking up the steep hill to my house, legs working hard, chin tucked into my scarf to keep out the cold. The morning walk was my break from the mundane, where I could forget about the bickering at home or the long stretch of the day ahead. The air in the Lancashire hills woke me up, crisp and fresh, so different from when cotton ruled the valleys, when the giant chimneys filled the towns with smoke and every life centred on the huge redbrick mills clustered around the canal.

My walk wasn't just about the cold in my face though. The last year had seen too many chocolate runs or long nights in with takeaway and wine, and we'd both put on weight. We'd settled into each other. Maybe too much.

I turned as I walked and looked back on what had made me: Turners Fold – a tired old collection of steep terraced streets, cobbled scars in the lush green view, like a museum of lost industry. But for me it was more than just that. As I looked, I saw all the haunts of my childhood. The park where I'd braved my first kiss, the sweeping crescents of the estate where I'd grown up, the school that had educated me so I could leave the town, which I did for a while, but the lure of home brought me back.

I smiled at the view. The mills were all empty now, the chimneys cleaned up, the buildings redeveloped as offices and apartments, or just left to crumble as grass grew through the floor and the windows fell in. But the town glowed from October dew and stood in silhouette against the sun spreading from the east, making me forget the bitterness of the wind.

I turned back and saw my house ahead, halfway up the hill, dry-stone walls lining the road, the old slate tiles and stubby chimney set against the fields behind. I thought I saw Laura through the window, just a shadow as she moved about inside. I waved but she didn't wave back.

Then I heard my phone, the ringtone set to the horns of ‘Ring of Fire’, an old Johnny Cash tune. I flipped it open and recognised the number. Sam Nixon, a local defence lawyer. He didn't call me that often and so he must have something good for me.

‘Hi Sam,’ I said, as I went into the house.

Laura looked up as I answered, but I turned away. She was making Bobby his breakfast but I could tell that she was listening.

I listened to Sam, and then said, ‘Okay, I'll see you then,’ and closed my phone. I turned to Laura and tried to look innocent.

‘What did Sam Nixon want?’ she asked.

I sneaked my arm around her to pinch one of Bobby's soldiers. ‘He said he would tell me when I got there.’

‘Don't get mixed up in anything stupid,’ said Laura, and when I glanced back I saw her eyes flash me a warning.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean,’ she said wearily. ‘Defence lawyers can mean trouble. Most don't see the line that separates their client from themselves.’

‘Sam's not like that,’ I replied. ‘And you know how it works.’

And Laura did know. As a detective in the local police force, she saw too much of her hard work undone by crafty defence work, silence or lies peddled in the name of human rights. My side of crime was different. I sat at the side of the courtroom, writing up cases for the local paper, usually just sidebar stuff. I'd done some feature work, even used to do freelance in London, but it was too uncertain, sometimes dangerous, and it wasn't a good time for me to take risks.

Laura sighed heavily and gave Bobby a kiss on the top of his head. ‘Not now, Jack,’ she said. ‘We can't afford to mess this up, not so near the end.’

I turned away and walked into the kitchen, a small windowless room partitioned off from the living room. I didn't want an argument, not so early.

Laura came into the kitchen behind me. ‘Jack, talk to me.’

I turned around, the kettle in my hand. ‘It's all we talk about these days,’ I replied sullenly.

‘I just don't want you getting wrapped up in anything stupid, that's all,’ said Laura.

‘I know, I heard you,’ I replied. ‘Our lives are on hold, just so we don't upset your ex-fucking-husband.’ The words came out harsher than I intended.

‘Do you think I'm enjoying it?’ she snapped back at me. ‘Waiting for someone else to decide who my son can live with? Is that what I had in mind when I moved up here?’

I paused and took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, putting the kettle down and holding my arms out to her, trying to pull her towards me. ‘I wasn't having a go. I know it's harder for you.’

Laura shrugged me off. ‘No, you don't know how it is for me,’ she said angrily. ‘I'm the one who has made the sacrifices. I moved north with you, with my son, made a new life for us. No, hang on, that's wrong. I moved north for you, and sometimes I just wonder whether I did the right thing or whether we should have stayed in London, where I wouldn't get the fucking martyr treatment every time the situation gets a bit inconvenient.’

I looked to the ceiling. We'd had the same row too many times now, but I knew it wasn't us. We were good together, in those quiet moments we shared, when the custody battle for Bobby was forgotten for a few hours and we got the chance to relax – but those moments were getting further apart.

‘Look, it's okay,’ I said. ‘Sam just said he had a story for me.’ When Laura didn't look convinced, I added, ‘It will be nothing. Some tip, an overnight case or something.’

‘So why didn't you just say that?’ she said, before she turned and walked away.

I sighed heavily, all the pleasure from the walk now evaporated. How had we got to this? And so quickly.

I went back into the living room and saw that Laura was getting Bobby's school bag ready. Bobby was silent, eating his breakfast slowly. He had been here before with his father – Laura's ex-husband – and he deserved more than that. He was the sweetest boy, just six years old, with Laura's brightness and Geoff's height, but how did you stop a child getting hurt?

It wasn't us, though, I knew that. It was the situation, Laura's ex-husband fighting to take him back south, to her native London. He claimed that it was for Bobby's benefit, that Laura's police work made his home life chaotic, but it had never been about Bobby. It was all about me, Laura's new man, stranger in the nest, the one who made her happy, who had made her give up her London career and settle instead in a small northern town, a detective job in nearby Blackley replacing the London Met. So now we had the fortnightly trip to some motorway services near Birmingham for Bobby's handover, Laura quiet all the way home, only really happy again when he was collected two days later.

Laura looked up at me, Bobby's bag in her hand. I tried a smile.

‘C'mon Bobby,’ she said, turning away from me. ‘Finish your breakfast. We need to go.’

Chapter Three

Inspector Rod Lucas dusted down his tatty brown corduroys, slammed the door on his battered old Land Rover, and looked at the scene.

The cottage was just as he expected it. Like most houses in the shadow of Pendle Hill, it was set back from the road, dark grey stone against the sweep of green fields stretching away behind it, the slate roof low and overhanging.

He looked up at the hill, the exposed, barren summit making him feel cold. He pulled on an old waxed jacket and turned away, thought about Abigail Hobbs instead, still in hospital, burns on her face and stitches in her head from when she'd hit the stone floor. He knew that it wasn't the physical injuries that would hurt her the most. It would be the emotional scars that would last.

The two constables by the door straightened as he approached, both young women, their hands thrust into the pockets of their luminous green coats, their hips made to look big by the large belts around their waists. He glanced down at his own clothes. He lived in a barn conversion, access gained by a mud track overhung by branches, and he had been pruning a tree when he'd got the call. His hands were still covered in dirt and he hadn't changed into his uniform. He would oversee the scene, and then go back to his garden.

‘How bad is it?’ he asked, his voice quiet, a slow Pennine drawl.

The two officers exchanged glances. ‘It's not nice, sir,’ said the older of the two.

‘Are Scenes of Crime on their way?’ he asked.

‘As soon as they can,’ came the reply.

Lucas knew what that meant: that this was a rural area, a few miles from the nearest town. Scenes of Crime would be busy with more urban crimes: burglaries, glassings. They'd come out here when the day warmed up and they fancied a drive in the country.

He looked around. Brambles overhung the path and the paint on the windows looked flaky and old. The windows didn't give away many secrets though.

‘Third time in two weeks,’ he said to himself.

‘Is that why you're here, sir?’ asked the other constable. ‘An inspector, I mean. Is it more serious now?’

‘Someone has been hurt,’ Rod replied. ‘It's gone beyond routine vandalism.’

‘So what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Kids?’

He looked around, noticed the small track that meandered down to the cottage from the main road, grass grown over the stones so that it was sinking back into the land as the years passed. ‘No,’ said Rod. ‘It's too far from everywhere else, so getting away would take too long. It would increase the chance of getting caught. This is something else, some kind of a message.’

‘But why her?’

Lucas's lips twitched. ‘I don't know. Why any of them?’ He straightened himself, and when he asked where it had happened he was pointed towards an old outhouse along the path. As he set off walking, he felt his trousers become damp from the trailing grasses. He swept back his thinning hair, his head golden with freckles, grey sideburns reaching down to his jaw-line.

He slowed down as he got near to the outhouse. The remains of the cat were still scattered over the path, the tiny severed head by the door, its mouth open, the sharp little teeth set in a final grimace.

He pushed at the door with a pen, careful not to leave any forensic traces, and saw the wire hanging from the latch. Just like the others, the wire led to a small metal pipe, filled with gunpowder. Once the door opened, it pulled at the wire, which set off a small blasting cap and exploded the pipe. In the other attacks, the pipe had been left on the floor. This time it had been strapped to Abigail's cat and suspended from the top of the door by a clothes line. This was more than just kids, he knew that.

He let the door close slowly as he turned away, the rusted hinges creaking, and walked back to the house, deep in thought. The constables by the door stepped aside as he went to go into the house, curious to find out more about Abigail, but he caught their exchange of glances, the raised eyebrows.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

They both looked at each other again, unsure what to say, and so Rod Lucas brushed past them and pushed at the door. It opened slowly, the interior dark, and as he peered in, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, he whistled.

‘What the hell?’ he muttered to himself, and then stepped inside.

Chapter Four

I was heading for Sam Nixon's office, walking quickly through Blackley along the paved precinct, chain stores on one side and the entrance to an indoor mall on the other. Victorian shop-fronts used to line the street, back when the town was the glamorous big brother to Turners Fold, but the area had tried to shake off its past a few decades earlier. The modern town plan that had come along in its place looked tired already. Not many people walked the streets, just earnest young college students and shop assistants clicking their way to work in high heels.

I could see Sam watching my approach. His office was above a print shop, accessed through a glass door at the bottom of some stairs, his name spelled out in gold leaf. His clients congregated there sometimes, somewhere quiet and warm to swap dealer names, but Sam's wife, Helena, acted as the bouncer. She used to be a lawyer herself, straw-blonde with stick-thin arms and a pinched nose, but years out bringing up children and being on the wrong end of a breath test turned her against it. Instead, she managed the paperwork, the money, and allowed Sam to do the law.

I exchanged quick greetings with Helena, just a peck on the cheek. Her face was cold, her complexion pale.

‘How's business?’ I asked.

Helena grimaced. ‘Crime's no game for a sole practitioner.’

‘Not busy?’

She laughed, but it sounded bitter. ‘People through the door are not the problem. Getting a decent rate of pay for it, that's the problem.’

I didn't respond. I reckoned our views on decent pay might be different. Instead, I let Helena show me through the reception area and into Sam's office, a large room with just a chipboard desk and worn-out chairs bought in a clearance sale. The desk was busy with files, the dark blue of Blackstone's, Sam's preferred legal reference, acting as a paperweight, but the room felt bare and cold. Sam Nixon & Co. hadn't brought in enough money to think about comfort.

Sam stood up as I entered, smiling, his hand out to shake. ‘Hello Jack, good to see you.’

I shook his hand and noticed the tiredness behind his smile. Sam looked like business was tough. He wasn't much older than me, both of us moving through our mid-thirties, but his face looked filled with worry, his hair was working its way backwards quickly, and whatever was left was sprinkled with grey. He had lost weight and lines had started to appear around his eyes.

Sam Nixon fed me stories, often just a nod as he came into court, a tip that a case was worth hanging around for. My write-ups shamed his clients, but it kept his name in the paper and a steady footfall through his door. For me, it was my job. For Sam, it was free publicity.

‘How's Laura?’ he asked.

‘She's on CRT.’

‘Good hours for the family,’ said Sam, nodding his approval.

I smiled, played the happy boyfriend for a moment, aware that there were other people in the room.

Laura was a detective on the Custody Reception Team at Blackley Police, who dealt with the overnighters, the burglars and the domestic bullies. The nightshift officers would be long gone to their beds, leaving behind a disgruntled prisoner and a bundle of paperwork, and Laura's team had to sort it out. It gave her regular hours, but it meant she spent most days interviewing hostile prisoners in the belly of the old police station, where the smell of the cells, sweat and vomit, seeped into her clothes.

I was suspicious of Sam. If a criminal lawyer asked me first about the welfare of my detective girlfriend, I assumed that he didn't want her around.

‘You know what Blackley is like,’ I said. ‘It's full of criminals. They keep her busy.’

‘Blame it on the lawyers for setting them free,’ Sam replied.

As he was talking, I turned towards the other people in the room, a middle-aged couple perched uncomfortably on chairs. I recognised them immediately. Their faces had filled the local news for the last week. I looked back at Sam, who seemed nervous now.

‘Jack, this is Ray and Lucy Goode,’ he said.

I smiled a polite greeting, but I knew who they were. Their daughter had made the headlines, a pretty young teacher, the photograph from the school prospectus showing her with straight auburn hair and freckles like splashes. Sarah had a boyfriend, Luke, a fitness instructor at her gym. It was normal girl-boy stuff, until Luke had been stabbed to death in her bed a week earlier and Sarah had disappeared.

It had played out in the local paper for a few days, had even brushed the nationals, but the television got the best angle – the news conferences, Mr and Mrs Goode tearful and scared, begging for Sarah to come home – but then it went quiet when there was nothing new to report. I'd guessed the subtext: it was officially a missing persons investigation, but, for the police, Sarah Goode was a murderer on the run.

‘This is Jack Garrett,’ Sam said. ‘Our local hotshot reporter.’ When I didn't respond, he added, ‘They want to speak to you. Is that okay?’

I nodded at them politely, but then I asked Sam, ‘Why me?’

Sam looked embarrassed. ‘It's probably for the best if they tell you about it.’ He went towards the door. ‘I'll be in the next room if you need me.’

I watched him go, surprised, and wondered why he didn't want to be a part of it. When the door clicked shut, Sam left behind an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the ticking clock on the wall and the creaks of the chairs as Mr and Mrs Goode shuffled nervously.

I tried to weigh them up. They were in their fifties. She was in a blue suit, knee-length skirt and blazer, navy blue with gold buttons, her hair in tight grey curls. He looked uncomfortable in a dated brown suit, as if he hadn't worn one for a long time, and I could see the shirt collar digging into his neck. His sandy hair had receded to just wisps of a comb-over.

‘This is about Sarah, I presume?’ I said.

They glanced at each other, and I saw a nod, a look of comfort. It was Mrs Goode who took the lead.

‘Yes, it's about our daughter,’ she said. Her voice was firm, but the way their knees touched told me that they needed each other for support. She licked her lips and repositioned her bag on her lap. Then she said, ‘We want you to help us find her.’

It was said simply, as if she assumed I would be interested.

I wasn't. I didn't write features any more. I'd sacrificed that for family harmony, for our bright future.

I tried to sound sympathetic. ‘I'm sorry, but that's not the sort of journalism I do, the campaign stuff. I write up court hearings, that's all.’

‘But you used to do more than that,’ said Mrs Goode. ‘Mr Nixon told me about some of the stories you wrote.’

‘That was then. And I'm a reporter, not a private detective.’

‘But we thought it would be a good story if you found her,’ she pressed.

I shook my head slowly. ‘I don't see a story, not the type I write.’

They looked down, disappointed. Mrs Goode clenched her jaw and a tear dripped onto her eyelashes.

It was Mr Goode who spoke next. ‘Not even if you found her first?’ His voice was quiet, hesitant.

I gave him a smile filled with fake regret. ‘The police will have to speak to her before me, and if Sarah is charged I won't be able to write anything that might affect the case. It's called sub judice. It would just sit on an editor's desk for six months, maybe longer.’

‘There might not be a court case,’ Mrs Goode said, her eyes imploring. ‘If you could find her and bring her in, once we know what she is going to say, she might have a defence.’

My eyes narrowed at that. ‘What about Sam Nixon?’ I asked. ‘Will he speak to Sarah before she goes to the police?’

Mrs Goode looked down and didn't answer. That told me all I needed to know. It wasn't about a story, it was about Sarah's parents getting her story straight first, before she handed herself in.

‘I'm sorry, I really am,’ I said as I headed for the door, ‘but I don't see a story, not yet anyway.’

They both turned to each other and exchanged desperate looks. Mrs Goode put her hand over Mr Goode's hand and squeezed it. He looked like he was about to break down. It stalled me.

Mrs Goode turned back to me. ‘Thank you for coming down, Mr Garrett,’ she said softly. ‘At least you listened.’

‘How much have you told the police?’ I asked.

‘Whatever they wanted to know.’

I sighed. ‘If they can't find Sarah, I don't see how I can,’ I said, and this time the regret was genuine.

As I left the room I saw that Sam was waiting in one of the reception chairs. ‘How was it?’ he asked.

‘You know damn well how it was,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ Sam replied, as he picked at his fingers and tried to look innocent.

‘They came to you because they know the police want to arrest her for murder,’ I said. ‘Is that right?’

Sam started to say something, but then he stopped himself. He nodded and tried to shrug an apology instead, but then he realised that it was pointless.

‘They're decent people,’ he said. ‘They're worried about their daughter.’

‘And someone is dead,’ I replied harshly. ‘His family will be decent people too.’ Sam looked down, so I continued, ‘They need someone to help them find her, but they can't afford a private investigator and they thought I would come cheap. About right?’

‘But it would be a good story if you could find her.’

‘I wish it was like that, Sam, because I need the money – Laura's lawyers are taking most of what we have – but you don't understand journalism. I deal in court titbits, pub talk.’ Sam looked confused, so I said, ‘My point made. Papers want the pub tales: Man Bites Dog, that type ofthing. This is feature stuff, an in-depth analysis, and I can't afford to take the gamble of someone being interested. And anyway, if I find her, I'm the story, and that's not how I want it right now.’

Sam nodded in apology. ‘I'm sorry, Jack. They came to me for help. They're desperate people, and they're good people. You were the only avenue I could think of.’

I sighed. ‘So what's your interest?’

Sam looked sheepish at that. ‘We're struggling, Jack,’ he said. ‘We've got the work coming in, but it's all small stuff. Shoplifts, car breaks, Saturday night bust-ups. It's turnover work, but the bills come in faster than the clients.’

‘You need a murder to put you in the big league,’ I said, acknowledging his admission, and then nodded back towards the room I had just been in. ‘And so you need their daughter in a cell.’

Sam looked ashamed, but he added, ‘This is my living. I didn't kill that man, and someone has to represent her. Why not me?’

I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode and the look they both had – confused, helpless, wanting help. ‘I think they want a bit more,’ I said, and headed for the exit. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sam, but I can't see a story in it.’

Sam didn't answer, and so I was back on the street, heading towards the Magistrates Court, ready for another day of routine crime stories.

Chapter Five

As Rod Lucas pushed open the door to Abigail's cottage, the smell hit him first. It was strong, sort of smoky. Incense-burners, he guessed. His eldest daughter had gone through a phase of burning them in her room. It helped her sleep, or so she claimed at the time. It was to cover up the smell of cigarettes, he learned later. She was away at university now, and her twenty-a-day habit was one of a list of concerns.

But he remembered the cloying smell, the way it made him cough and wrinkle his nose. He could understand an experimental teenager burning them, but why a pensioner living in a remote cottage?

He looked around. Rod had expected chintz: patterned sofas, high-backed chairs, china ornaments everywhere and pictures of grandchildren, but the cottage wasn't like that. The walls were painted black, with thick red cloth covering the windows and tall mirrors on the walls, ornate and Gothic. There were candles everywhere – on the mantelpiece, the sideboards, the windowsills – everything from deeply scented ones in small jars to large black altar candles.

He saw a rug pushed up against the wall, revealing the stone floor, large slabs worn smooth over the years. His eyes widened when he saw why it had been moved, and what was in its place, the thing that dominated the space.

White lines criss-crossed the room, jagged and uneven, made up of something sprinkled onto the floor, like small white grains. There was a table and chair set in the middle of it all, as if the old lady sat in it when she was alone. Lucas stooped down to dab his finger into the lines. He tasted it. Salt.

The lines made a shape. It wasn't perfect, as if it had been done in a rush, but he could make it out: a five-pointed star, with things placed at each point. A small posy of flowers; a large red candle; a sea-shell.

Rod thought back to the explosive device. Why would anyone target this woman? Was her lifestyle the reason? This was the third explosion like this, but no one had reported anything strange in the other houses. Or maybe they just hadn't looked hard enough.

He would go to the hospital next. Maybe Abigail could provide the answers.

I shuffled on the bench at the side of the Magistrates Court in Blackley as I tried to get comfortable. It was still before ten and the court hadn't started yet, although I could hear the corridor getting busier. I looked up to the ceiling, at the flaking paint, and wondered how I had got to this point. I used to write crime features for the nationals when I was a freelancer in London, had always had the dream of writing a book, maybe ghostwriting a gangster memoir. Now, I churned out the small stories: incidents of local shame, drunken fights, domestic violence, sexual misbehaviour. The local paper paid me for each story rather than a salary, so if the crime scene went quiet, or if the police started another new initiative to keep people away from courts, then I didn't get paid. I worked my own hours, though, and it still left me to peddle the better stories to the nationals, but I used to do so much more.

But I knew that Laura was right. The stories were steady work and provided a stable home. Laura was doing the same, working regular hours, no shifts, so that we were home each evening, and there was nothing for the judge to criticise when the trial for Bobby's custody started.

I looked around the courtroom, empty apart from the prosecutor at the front, sorting out his pile of files, ready for the morning slog. The defence would arrive soon, wanting their papers for the overnight clients.

‘Anything decent for me?’ I asked.

The prosecutor looked up. ‘Uh-huh?’

He was one of the old guard; when the mood was right he was effective, but most days his job was just a plough through Blackley's grime.

‘Anything to report?’ I asked. ‘I'm not here because I like your suit.’

He smiled at that, just a glimmer. ‘Just the usual,’ he said. ‘We've got a drink-driving teacher, crashed his car leaving school, if that's any good.’

I raised my eyebrows. Another reputation ruined, but his shame was his problem. My mortgage was mine.

‘Don't get too excited, though,’ said the prosecutor. ‘Mick Boreman's defending. There'll be no guilty plea today.’

‘Too middle class to be guilty?’ I queried.

‘Something like that.’

I exhaled and sat back. I couldn't write the story properly until he was convicted. It was good for a paragraph reporting his name and profession, but not much else.

I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode as I waited for court to start. Was I right to turn down their request? Looking for Sarah would be a break from the mundane, and it might be a good feature to have written up and ready just in case she was caught and convicted. But then I thought about the bills that dropped onto the mat most mornings, how we needed the steady production line of small tales from the courtroom just to keep ahead of those, and if Geoff went all the way with his custody case then Laura's lawyers would soak up the rest, and quite a bit more.

The tapping of my pen got faster.

The family future was nearly resolved though. Anything I wrote now would be published later, long after the custody case had finished, and if the court was going to be quiet then it might be worth looking into Sarah's case, just to see if there was something to grab the headline. I could write the feature at night, after Laura had gone to bed.

I felt some guilt creep up on me as I thought of Laura, but I dismissed it, perhaps too quickly. I was a reporter; selling stories was what I did.

I put my notepad back in my pocket and rushed out of the courtroom.

Chapter Six

Sarah Goode panted as she looked around the room. Stone walls all the way round, with a door at one end, cell-like, just twenty-foot square with no windows, no view out, a dirt floor scratching her feet.

She looked up to the ceiling and then winced, shielding her eyes. The lights there were like car headlights, bright halogen on full beam, searing into her retinas.

She tried to stretch her legs, but they hurt, all cramped up. She knew she had to keep moving, had to get her muscles working again. She limped to the walls and thumped them, but the sound came back as a dead thud. They were solid, sound-proof, old Pennine stone.

Sarah felt her way round the length of the room, using the wall as support, looking for a weak spot, maybe a loose stone, until she got to the door, wooden and old, the edges uneven and dry. It was bolted on the other side; she had heard it slide back whenever he came into the room. She knew it was a man from his hacking coughs and his deep throaty laugh when he taunted her, when he had kept her in the box.

She looked over to the corner of the room. The box was still there, one end open, from where she had crawled not long before. She turned away from it swiftly and looked up at the lights again, shielding her eyes. Would they stay on all the time? She leapt at them, tried to break one just to reduce the glare, but they were too high. She hurt herself instead when she landed, the dirt cutting into the soles of her feet.

Sarah sat down and put her face in her hands, gripped her hair with her fingers. Why was she there? What had she done? Why her?

She started to pull at her hair, wanting to scream, but then she looked up, startled. She could hear the buzz of speakers. Sarah shielded her eyes to see past the lights, and then she saw them, dark shapes behind the brightness. She sat still, waiting for whatever was going to come out of them. Then the sound came out at high volume, so loud that she had to cover her ears. It was the sound of a heartbeat, fast and anxious, a relentless thump-thump, the noise pulsing around the walls.

Sarah clamped her hands tighter over her ears and screamed, tried to drown it out, but the sound still made it through, making her own heart race to keep up.

She looked back to the box. Maybe it would be quieter in there.

She turned away. She couldn't go back in there, she knew that. Her life had once been normal, but those days in the box meant that it would never be the same again.

Chapter Seven

Laura McGanity swung her bag onto her desk and sat down with a slump. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

‘I'm not sure I can cope with another day of this,’ she said, almost to herself.

Pete Dawson grinned at her. ‘Turning on tape machines and filling out forms not exciting enough for you?’ he said.

Laura looked at him, took in his crew cut, and the scar over his eye that was a remnant of his last jaunt with the Support Unit in the Saturday night van.

‘Don't be offended, Pete, but you don't look the agony aunt type,’ she said.

Pete laughed. He had been Laura's sidekick for most of her time in Blackley. He was an old-style detective, a head-cracker who had not yet accepted the committee style of police politics, and Laura liked him for that. Pete had learned one thing in his police career: criminals are ruthless and devious, and don't feel much remorse for those they hurt on the way. So Pete liked to let them know what he thought. Sometimes it was just a quiet word on a dark street, although it came with a snarl. Mostly it was just about being relentless, so that the criminals knew that if he became an enemy it was time to change their turf.

‘This was your choice,’ he said. ‘Regular hours.’

She rubbed her eyes. ‘It's not just that, though.’

‘If you want to have a moan,’ he said, ‘you've got around ten minutes, because the cells are full, and if we're ever going to see daylight today we need to get the first one out of the way.’

Laura shook her head. ‘I'm not talking about it,’ she said, and then she turned her head quickly when she heard laughter further along the corridor. It was the murder squad, assembled for the Luke Howarth murder, all chasing down Sarah Goode.

‘It's not just Bobby's custody case, though, is it?’ he asked. ‘Or Jack?’

‘What do you mean?’

Pete pointed towards the door. ‘I thought maybe you'd grown tired of me, but it seems like you just want in on the big case.’

Laura didn't answer straight away. It was more than being out of the loop, she was about to say. It was about Jack, and Bobby, and home, and Geoff and the custody case, and missing London. But she didn't say that. Instead, she exhaled and forced out a smile. ‘You've got me, Pete. Maybe we should get into interview quickly if you're in this kind of detecting form.’

‘You don't want to be with them,’ he replied. ‘The creases are too sharp in their trousers.’

‘Is that how you judge people?’

‘It's just one way.’

Laura sighed. ‘C'mon then, what have we got first?’

Pete tossed over the papers. ‘A fight in The Trafalgar. Someone almost lost an eye.’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘It's barely a case,’ Pete replied. ‘We've got the right man, but no one is making statements, not even the victim.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Laura, smiling now. ‘An argument over a woman, and the victim is married?’

‘And you said I was the great detective,’ Pete replied, standing. ‘C'mon, let's turn the tapes and see what we get.’

I sat in my car and pondered the view.

I had made a few calls around some contacts to get the address, and so I was outside Sarah Goode's house in Blackley, the scene of the crime, in the middle of a long terrace halfway up a steep hill. Or down it, depending on your outlook on life. It seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. The street was long and straight, its lines broken only by the roads that crisscrossed it, so that driving down became a game of dare, a dicey rat-run for those trying to avoid the town-centre jams. The houses were in traditional glazed red brick, with the doorframes picked out in painted white stone, no gardens, the front doors straight onto the street, and the slope so pronounced that it took only a tilt of my head to make the street look like fallen dominoes.

I looked along the street, trying to gauge the neighbourhood. I felt my car windows vibrate from R&B played too loudly on bad speakers, and a car filled with young Pakistani men drove past slowly, all of them staring at me. Their community had grown in the sixties, when the cotton mills needed night-shift workers and the newly prosperous white working class didn't want to do them. The Asians worked at night, the whites during the day. When the mills closed down, both communities had found themselves jobless.

A group of women watched me from further up the street, as the wind pushed their silk pants against their legs and made their headscarves flap around their faces. I took some pictures. Maybe there was something here. How Sarah came to be a killer, an analysis of small-town murder. Truman Capote for the industrial north. I could follow the investigation, something in the bank for after Bobby's custody case, a story better than the ones I churned out most days.

Sarah's house looked still. There were wicker blinds in each window, all down, so nothing about the house gave away its secret. I decided to leave the neighbours for a while. There'd been a flurry of interest just after the body was discovered, and not all journalists were courteous. There's no story in a slammed door.

I checked my watch as I pondered where I should go next, and then I saw something, some movement in my peripheral vision. I stepped out of my car and moved closer. Sarah's house looked the same as before, deserted and cold, the blinds still closed.

Then I saw it again, in the front-room window, just a finger on the blinds. Somebody was watching me.

Chapter Eight

Inspector Lucas looked at the floor as he was led through the ward. There were the usual smells, antiseptic and illness, but it was the hopelessness that made him look away. The ward was a series of rooms, each containing four beds, the occupants old and disinterested, just staring into space. He was on the dark side of fifty. How long was there until this?

He noticed that the nurse had stopped walking and was gesturing towards one of the rooms. The occupants were all women, with no empty beds, but he guessed which one was Abigail from the freshness of the bandages. He followed the nurse into the room. No one looked at him as he went in. He saw that Abigail was sleeping.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘The cuts on her legs have been stitched, and the burns are not too bad,’ the nurse replied, her voice low. ‘Superficial mainly. But she's in shock, and we're worried about her sight.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some of whatever it was that exploded hit her in the eyes. Her right eye is just sore, but she might lose her sight in her left.’

Rod didn't want to tell the nurse that it had been pieces of Abigail's cat that struck her in the eye.

‘I'll just wait,’ he said.

‘It might be a while,’ she said. ‘I don't want you asking her questions before she's ready.’

‘I won't,’ he said, and nodded that he understood. The nurse looked unsure at first, but when he gave her a reassuring smile, she relented and left him in the room.

Rod pulled up a chair next to her and sat down. Abigail wasn't like he expected. He knew her age, sixty-eight, and so he had expected grey hair and pale skin, but Abigail was different to that. Her frizzy hair was long and dyed black, her silver roots showing through, and it was back-combed, spread in a tangled mess over the pillow. Her fingers were covered in rings, and her nails were long and painted purple. Despite the plaster over her eye, Rod could tell that both eyes were ringed by bruises. Abigail's legs were out of the bedcovers, bandages over her wounds.

He looked closer at her hands. There were grazes on them, but something else drew his attention. It was one of her rings, the one on her right hand, third finger. A screaming face, silver on black, set into a silver band. He had seen it before, he was sure of it, but he couldn't remember where.

‘Abigail,’ he whispered, just to check whether she was awake. There was no response. ‘Abigail,’ he said once more. Still nothing.

He settled back in the chair. Sometimes the art of being a good copper was patience.

I knocked on the door of Sarah's house. The women at the top of the road looked at me again and then chattered to each other. I waited, but there was no response from inside.

I knocked again, more insistent this time. Then I heard a noise, and when the door opened I flashed a smile. It had no effect.

I was facing a dark-haired woman in her early twenties, in jeans and a loose T-shirt. Her hair was short, elfin-style, tucked just behind her ears so that it showed off her face, pretty and porcelain pale, with high cheekbones and bright hazel eyes.

‘Yes?’ she said curtly.

My mind raced through what I knew about Sarah's story. Luke's body had been discovered by her lodger, a young student. There was a pause as I grasped for her name, but it came to me just as she was about to slam the door.

‘Katie Gray?’ I asked.

She didn't answer at first, but then asked, ‘Who wants to know?’ Her voice was cautious.

I smiled again, tried to disarm her. ‘My name is Jack Garrett and I'm a reporter.’

‘I guessed that.’

‘I'm interested in Sarah Goode,’ I continued.

‘I guessed that too,’ she snapped, but I put my hand in the way as she went to close the door.

‘Sarah's parents contacted me. They want me to write about her.’

She paused at that.

‘I understand she used to live here,’ I continued, trying to engage her.

‘She still does,’ she replied, but her tone was less hostile than before.

‘Her parents just want to find her,’ I said. ‘They want to help her, make sure she's all right.’ My voice was soft and low, my hand still on the door.

‘Have you got any ID?’ she asked.

I reached into my pocket and found a business card. I passed it over and waited, but how could she refuse once I had produced identification?

She looked at the card, then at me, and then at the card again.

‘Okay, Mr Garrett, you'd better come in,’ she said, and then turned and went into the house.

I followed her into the hallway, narrow and dark, the light coming from a small window above the front door. Katie led me into the room at the back of the house, a chill-out room, with saggy old sofas and family photographs on the wall, but I glanced into the room at the front as I went past the doorway. It was more formal, with better furniture and an old black fireplace, the light dim behind the wicker blinds.

Katie turned around. ‘Do you want a drink? Coffee? Tea?’

I chose coffee, it would keep me in the house for at least fifteen minutes, and Katie disappeared into the kitchen, a long and thin extension with views into a concrete yard.

‘How long have you been living here?’ I asked her, as one of the pictures on the wall caught my eye. It looked like a family tree, framed, the branches spreading out, but it was the symbol at the top that drew my attention. It was unusual, like a screaming face, with hollow eyes and open mouth.

‘I thought you were here to talk about Sarah,’ Katie shouted from the kitchen.

‘I am, but you're part of the story.’

Katie returned with two coffees. ‘No, I'm not,’ she said, and handed me one of the cups.

I sat down, and I felt my knees rise up as I sank into a broken old couch.

‘You found Luke. That makes you part of it,’ I countered.

She sat down on a chair opposite and thought for a moment. She pulled her legs onto the cushion and took a drink, watching me over the top of the cup. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘The story,’ I replied.

Katie drank her coffee for a while, and then said, ‘If you've read the papers you'll know most of it. Sarah's a teacher. She couldn't pay for the house without a lodger. She put a notice on the college notice-board. I saw it and got in touch.’

I nodded and smiled, played at being the interested journalist: sympathetic glances; faked empathy. I noticed that her body language was less defensive, and that her voice was quieter now. ‘I presume I'm talking to Katie Gray,’ I said, more as a comment than a question.

Katie paused, and then smiled properly for the first time, her eyes twinkling.

‘You have read the papers,’ she said.

‘It's my job,’ I replied, and then asked, ‘What do you study?’

‘History,’ she said, and blew into her coffee as she watched me, the cup cradled in both hands. She looked younger now, more vulnerable. ‘So if you've seen the papers, you already know the story,’ she said. ‘You must want something more.’

‘Sarah's parents just want me to find her,’ I said, shrugging. ‘They are convinced she had nothing to do with her boyfriend's death, but the only way to prove it is to get Sarah to come home.’

Katie nodded as she listened.

‘I know how Luke died,’ I continued, ‘and I can guess what the police think, but I need to know more.’

She put her cup down on the floor and leaned forward. I thought I saw something in her eyes. Sadness? Loneliness?

‘Where have you been so far?’ she asked.

‘I've started here.’

‘Where else are you going to look?’

I looked at her carefully when she said that. Katie seemed interested in my movements and I wondered why.

‘Wherever the facts take me,’ I replied cautiously.

‘How are Sarah's parents?’ Katie asked.

‘How well do you know them?’

‘Not much at all really. I'm just the lodger.’

I thought back to the meeting in Sam's office. ‘Somewhere between frantic and sad,’ I said.

Katie looked back and ran her fingers through her hair. She smiled at me and then asked, ‘What do you need to know?’

‘Just tell me about Sarah,’ I said simply.

Katie watched me for a few seconds and I felt myself shuffle in my seat. I looked away, tried to take in the room. The walls looked sparkling clean. No cobwebs around the light-fittings, and the tabletop gleamed so that the scuffs and scratches seemed to catch the light and shine it back. Katie still lived in the house. Maybe the house had been cleaned to wipe out the memories of what had happened there.

‘She was fun,’ Katie started, making me look back, her voice low, so I had to lean in to catch what she was saying. ‘She wasn't like a teacher. She was more fun than that. Her parents live close by, but she wanted her own place. She moved in, but she bought the house at the top of the boom and so needed me to help with the mortgage, and that's it.’ Katie smiled wistfully. ‘We got on. We went out together, met some men together, just normal stuff. She started seeing Luke, and the rest, well, you know how it ended.’

‘Who was Luke?’

‘He was a personal trainer at the Pendle Gym. I reckon Sarah was different to most of the women he met. He could have had anyone at the gym. You know, he had the body, the smile, but Sarah was cooler than that. She was a bit prim and proper on the outside, and I think he liked that.’

‘And on the inside?’

Katie laughed, blushing slightly. ‘I used to hear them in the night. She wasn't always so reserved.’

‘So Sarah liked him,’ I said.

‘Oh, it was more than that,’ she replied, grinning now. ‘He was handsome, six foot and muscular.’ She traced the top of her cup with her finger. ‘She was falling in love.’

‘Was he?’

Katie sat back and thought for a few moments, more solemn now. ‘I really don't know,’ she said. ‘You know what men like him are like.’

‘You mean he was seeing other women?’

‘Don't men like Luke always see other women?’

Would it make her grab a knife and stab him, I thought to myself, as Katie twirled her fringe with her finger, watching me as I jotted down her quote?

‘So what do you think happened?’ I asked.

Katie watched me, almost studied me. ‘Why do you think my opinion matters?’

‘Because you knew both of them. The police didn't, and they've got an opinion.’

‘Have they?’

She was teasing me, trying to make me uncomfortable.

‘My guess is that the police think she killed him,’ I said.

She shrugged, her eyes never leaving mine. ‘They're the experts,’ she said.

That surprised me. It seemed like Katie agreed with the police hints, that Sarah was Luke's killer.

Katie glanced at her watch and put her cup down. ‘Have you got many more questions?’ she queried. ‘I've got to go somewhere.’

‘Lectures?’

She nodded.

‘Can we talk again?’ I asked.

Katie waved my business card at me. ‘I've got your number. I'll call you.’

I went to stand, but she leaned forward and grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm and soft, her grip gentle, almost a caress.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘For what?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Just for being nice. It seems like people avoid me now.’

I nodded and smiled, felt my cheeks flush. ‘That's okay,’ I said, and dropped her hand. I turned to go. I thought she was going to show me out, but she stayed in her seat, tapping my business card against her cheek.

‘Another time then,’ I said. I felt awkward but I didn't know why.

When Katie didn't answer, I let myself out. I looked back at the house and wondered at how much I had learned in there. And then I felt my cheeks. They were hot, and my fingers trembled slightly.

Chapter Nine

Sarah Goode scrambled backwards as the sound of the heartbeats stopped and the door at the end of the room slid open. It was heavy, and it scraped noisily against the soil in its runner as it was pushed open.

She saw the hood first, and she screamed out loud. It was black cloth, pulled over his head, ragged around the neck and tied by thin rope, scarecrow-like. It was a man, she knew that from his height and broad shoulders, but he seemed different. She had seen the hood before, when she had been taken out of the box to stretch her muscles, to ease out the cramp, to have the chance to breathe properly, and it had terrified her. It was faceless, emotionless, but that person had seemed different. Younger, slimmer.

He stepped into the room slowly, deliberately, his heavy boots shuffling on the floor. His arms didn't move as he walked towards her, his back ramrod straight so that he almost seemed to glide. The hood billowed out slowly as he breathed.

‘Hello Sarah,’ he said, his voice muffled.

Sarah felt the stone wall against her back as she reached the end of the room. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her breaths coming fast.

He stopped and stood still for a moment, watching her. ‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Because you kept me in a box for a week,’ said Sarah, her voice cracking. She could feel him watching her and so she looked at the floor, tried to suck in some deep breaths to regain her composure. ‘I just feel like I've got a right to know,’ she said, her voice stronger this time, but she flinched when he moved closer to her.

Sarah gasped as she heard him laugh, just a deep chuckle under the hood.

‘You don't have any rights,’ he said quietly.

Sarah moaned and put her head in her hands. ‘What are you going to do to me?’ she pleaded.

‘I haven't decided.’

Sarah could feel the panic rising through her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them, didn't want to look weak in front of him. But it was hard. She knew what he was capable of, ever since her nightmare had begun a week earlier.

It had started with a knock on the door, close to midnight. She had almost ignored it – it was cold and dark outside and Luke felt good next to her, sleeping naked – but the second knock had been more insistent, louder, and so she had slipped on Luke's shirt and some old jeans and gone to answer the door.

All she had seen was the mask, like a shadow, and then his hands shot forward and grabbed her, an arm around her neck and a hand over her mouth, rough and callused, smelling of cigarettes and oil. She had tried to bite him and lashed out with her feet, but his arm went tighter around her neck as he dragged her out of the house.

She had heard Luke shout out, asking who was there, but a rag had been pushed into her mouth, petrol and grease, and the pavement tore the skin of her heels as she was dragged to a car, the street quiet, no one around.

The boot had been open, ready for her, but it had been cramped and filled with dirty tools and a spare wheel. She was pushed in there anyway, head first, her arms pulled behind her back, her wrists tied together quickly, before he slammed the lid down.

The memories flooded back as Sarah looked at him, in the same impenetrable black hood.

‘Why me?’ she wailed.

He tilted his head as he looked at her. ‘I'm here to look after you, Sarah. Is there anything you need?’

Sarah looked at him, incredulous. She glanced behind him, at the way out of the room, to the stairs that seemed to lead upwards.

‘I want to go home,’ she replied, meekly now.

‘Anything else?’

Sarah swallowed as she felt the tears come again. She shook her head, knowing that if she spoke she would show her weakness.

He didn't answer. He watched her for a few moments, until he suddenly turned to go.

Sarah almost ran at him, to beg him not to lock her in, that she would do anything to get out, whatever he wanted, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the fear of what he really wanted from her. Instead, she watched him walk out and then listened as the bolt slid back into place.

She was alone once more, and she let the tears flow as the heartbeat noise started again, her hands clamped tightly over her ears.

Chapter Ten

I went to Luke's gym next.

It was part of a new development, all glass and steel girders, built on the site of a demolished mill on the outskirts of Blackley. Shops were on one side, entertainment on the other, as long as you liked bowling and pizza. Luke's gym was in-between, a guilt trip as you walked back to your car.

I could see the metal frames of the equipment and exercise bikes as I got near to the entrance, the poseurs gallery lined up in rows near the huge windows. I could hear music thumping out of speakers as I walked inside, accompanied by the occasional clang of weights. There was a bored young woman in a polo shirt at the reception desk. She glanced at my midriff and reached for an application form. I put my business card on the counter.

‘I'm writing a story on Luke Howarth,’ I said. ‘Is there anyone I could speak to?’

I detected a change in her mood. ‘The press came here last week,’ she said, her voice timid. ‘I thought you'd all got bored.’

I shook my head. ‘Luke deserved more than that,’ I replied, guessing that she might be a friend. ‘I want to find out what happened to him. Were you one of his friends?’

‘Not really,’ she said, but then looked apologetic. ‘I don't mean that I didn't like him. I haven't been here long, but he seemed pretty nice. Callum was Luke's best friend.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He'll be on a break soon. I'll page him to come down.’ Then she pointed me towards the coffee bar in one corner of the gym.

I was halfway through my latte when I saw a tall man walking towards me, his skin dark, his hair shaved afro. He wore the same uniform polo shirt as the girl on reception, but he filled it, the sleeves tight against his arms, his broad chest visible through the cloth. I stood up to greet him, my hand outstretched. ‘Callum, I presume.’

He didn't take it.

‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice,’ I added.

He sat down and folded his arms.

‘Had your fill of journalists in the last week?’ I ventured.

He paused for a moment, and then relaxed, and his eyes lost some of their hostility. ‘I just can't see what good they have done. Luke was just a passing story to them, but he was my friend.’

‘Well, I'm not writing for the dailies. I'm writing a feature.’

‘On what?’

‘On Luke. A tribute.’ I tried to hold his gaze as I said it, so that he wouldn't spot the lie.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

I tapped my pen on my lap and asked, ‘How about Luke and Sarah? What kind of couple were they?’

‘You'll need to write two stories to get that,’ he said.

I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘They weren't a couple,’ Callum replied.

I was still confused.

‘C'mon, get real,’ said Callum, shaking his head at me. ‘They were fucking each other, that's all. Have you been out of the game that long?’ Before I could ask him what he meant, he added, ‘No offence, but you don't look like a man on the hunt.’

‘But I get the impression that they were “Luke and Sarah” – you know, a couple,’ I said, looking down at myself, seeing the old boot-fit jeans and tatty jumper, bought the year before and worn too often.

Callum snorted. ‘That's because she killed him. Go back a couple of months, maybe even less than that, and Luke was my friend, and Sarah was just one of the girls he was seeing.’

‘So it was casual?’ I asked, still surprised. Katie had talked like it was a whirlwind, that special one.

‘Casual? Oh yes, very casual,’ Callum answered, laughing slightly, his eyebrows raised. ‘Yeah, sure, Luke liked her. She was good-looking, and had a great body. He met her in one of the clubs in town, and it seemed like most of the eyes were on her.’

‘A good notch on his belt?’

Callum shrugged, unapologetic. ‘Think of the women you wish you'd been with, and I bet one is a teacher. Something about it, isn't there? The discipline, the respect.’

‘Maybe for schoolboys,’ I replied.

Callum blinked, spotted the jibe. ‘Maybe in ten years' time I'll think like you,’ he responded.

A smile flickered on my lips. He'd won that point. Then I remembered about the rage, the knife in the chest. And I thought about what Katie had told me, and so I said, ‘What if I told you that Sarah was getting in deeper, perhaps much deeper than Luke?’

‘She knew the score, they all did,’ he replied, and then it was his turn to smile. He had spotted me for what I was: settled. But he presumed that I wanted his life. Sometimes I liked the idea of being single, but it was like waiting for summer: you expected the sunshine but only ever got showers.

‘What do you mean “all”?’ I asked.

Callum laughed at me. ‘He was a fitness instructor. Do you have any idea what it's like?’

I shook my head.

‘Middle-aged women try to hang on to their youth by booking one of us,’ he continued. ‘They try and get back to a shape that they haven't had since they were teenagers, and in between breaths they try and seduce us.’

‘And do they?’

‘That depends. Some of the women look good, and sometimes there are some young clients, maybe young women trying to burn off the pregnancy weight. Our only rule is that they have to be single; we don't want angry husbands coming down here.’

‘Cramp your style?’

‘Don't look at me like that,’ he snapped at me. ‘We all know the rules. Do you think the women care about us? Course not. We're just muscles to them, something different from their ex-husband. Sarah was the same. All coy and reserved on the outside, but once you take them home, well, you can guess the rest. Luke said it was like peeling off a mask, you know, like the angel was really the devil in wings and a white dress.’

‘So there were other women?’

‘Luke was a good-looking bloke – there were always other women.’

‘Anyone special? Or any who didn't like being unsuccessful with him?’

‘He didn't tell me that much,’ Callum said, softening slightly. ‘Just man-talk, you know, all about the conquests, not the losses.’

I made some notes, scribbles that I knew I would have to make sense of later. He had some good quotes, but I was starting to feel uneasy. Katie had described the relationship as close, but now Luke's friend had described it as relaxed, and whatever it had been, Luke had ended up with a knife buried into his chest. The two things didn't add up.

‘Did Luke have a temper?’ I asked.

Callum looked surprised by the question. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I'm just wondering why Sarah would stab him, if it was so casual. Self-defence?’

‘No,’ Callum replied warily. ‘Luke was a pretty chilled-out kind of person.’

‘But maybe there was something affecting his mood.’

‘What like?’

I sensed some defensiveness in his question. I pointed at Callum's arms, the veins being throttled by the knitted sleeve of his polo shirt. ‘You work in a gym,’ I said. ‘You'll know what goes on in the pursuit of physique.’

‘Are you saying Luke was on drugs?’

I cocked my head. ‘I don't know, but you don't end up looking like you do on chicken and pasta.’

Anger flashed across Callum's face, his jaw clenching as he glared at me.

‘Roid rage,’ I pressed, trying to guess the answer from his response. ‘Perhaps Sarah was just defending herself?’

Callum stood up quickly, his chair rocking back on its legs. ‘Is that what you're going to write?’ he demanded.

‘I'll write the truth,’ I replied.

‘It doesn't sound like much of a tribute,’ he said.

‘You haven't given me much to admire about him.’

‘Please leave,’ he said, his voice low and angry, his brow furrowed as he stared at me.

‘Nothing else to add?’ I asked, pushing for one more quote.

Callum didn't answer, and we both knew the interview was over.

I thanked him for his time and walked towards the door. I stopped for a moment and thought about apologising. His closest friend had died and I was making allegations without proof. I had lost both my parents and so I knew how raw grief could be. Had I sold out my humanity for the value of a good quote? I glanced back at Callum, but from the hostile stare he was giving me, I could tell that any apology would be pointless.

When I got back to my car, I threw my pad onto the passenger seat and wondered whether I was wasting my time. Sarah Goode was missing, and her occasional lover was dead. It sounded straightforward. If I wanted to use it there had to be an angle, something different from the average murder report.

But there was something different. I sensed it. If Katie was right, Sarah had killed Luke in a lover's rage, passion gone wrong. But if Callum was telling the truth, it was a murder without reason.

I checked my watch and wondered what Laura would say if she knew what I was doing. No, I knew what she would think; the memory of the argument that morning was still sour. So if I was going to write the story, I wanted Laura to find out from me.

Laura McGanity tried not to look at the prisoner in front of her, as she sat on a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor to stop prisoners throwing them, in one of the interview rooms at the end of the cell complex. No windows, no natural light. The floor was dotted with old chewing gum and scarred by cigarette burns, souvenirs of life before the smoking ban. Pete was next to her, leaning forward to make the cramped space seem even smaller.

The prisoner in front of her had been arrested from the middle of the brawl, dishing out black eyes to anyone who came close, until a blast of parva spray sent him to the gutter, crying at the pain in his eyes. His bravado had melted now, and he had slept off most of the drink, but he was trying hard to keep his breakfast down. He'd been sick down his jumper, and he held it in his hands, putting it to his mouth whenever another wave of nausea hit him. Laura kicked the bin towards him and shook her head, trying to breathe through her mouth. This wasn't on the recruitment poster.

Pete Dawson was frustrated. ‘Doesn't look like he wants to explain himself,’ he said to Laura. ‘Looks like the court will form its own conclusion.’

‘Do you really think it will get that far?’ asked the prisoner's legal representative, a young police-station runner in shiny pinstripes and gelled hair who looked like he wanted to be much further away from his client than the bolted-down chair would allow.

‘I wasn't talking to you,’ barked Pete.

‘Okay,’ the legal rep replied, his smirk forcing Pete to take a deep breath to keep his anger at bay. He turned to his client and said theatrically, ‘For the benefit of the tape, let's hear it one more time.’

The prisoner held his jumper to his mouth. ‘No comment,’ came the muffled reply.

Laura turned away as the smell of the jumper wafted towards her. She was frustrated by the no comment mantra, but she knew the advice was right. The other fighters didn't want to help, so if he didn't confess, he would win the day.

‘Let's suspend the interview,’ she said. ‘I think we all need some fresh air.’

As Pete clicked off the tape machine, a twin-deck black cube, Laura said, ‘We're going to check out the CCTV. Your client can think about that as he sits in his cell.’

As she headed for the door, Pete just behind her, she heard a groan, and then the splash of the prisoner's vomit as he lost his battle with his stomach. From the curse that came from his rep, it seemed that he hadn't quite made it to the waste bin.

Laura stepped into the corridor and smiled at Pete. ‘That's one interview room out of action for a while.’

‘Do you think we should have waited?’ he asked. ‘Let him recover? He can't think straight.’

Laura shook her head. ‘The advice would have been the same, except the rep would have kept his shoes clean. I think I prefer it this way.’

‘So what now?’

Laura checked her watch. The cells were full, the others on the CRT working their way through the list, and so when they had finished with this prisoner, it would be time to move on to another.

‘Like I said, I'm heading out to the town hall, see if the cameras picked anything up. Maybe we'll get something more than midnight lovers.’

Pete scowled. The camera operators used to liven up their evenings by looking out for drunken couples snatching romance in alleys, just behind the bottle crates and dustbins, but two people had lost their jobs when the cameras missed an assault that put someone in a coma. Pete had been the one who had explained that to the victim's parents, and the memory wasn't a pleasant one.

‘And if we've nothing?’ he asked.

She joined him in a scowl. ‘Then he walks, like always.’

Laura felt her phone buzz. As she looked down, she saw that it was a text from Jack. ‘Coffee somewhere? Got some info for you.’

‘Got to go,’ she said to Pete. ‘Get him in a cell and write up the interview summary. I won't be long.’

As she turned to walk away, the legal rep opened the door, his face white, his mouth set in a grimace. He glanced down towards his trousers. ‘Have you got a towel?’

Laura was smiling as she left.

Chapter Eleven

Rod Lucas had been to the hospital shop, and he looked up from his newspaper when he heard Abigail stir.

He checked his watch. He had been there for a couple of hours.

Abigail groaned and tried to roll over.

‘Miss Hobbs?’

She turned towards him and reached out. There was a bandage over one eye, and the other one looked swollen and red. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, sounding quiet and weak.

‘It's all right,’ he said, and took her hand. Her skin was cold and her hand felt brittle. ‘There's no need to move, Miss Hobbs. I'm a police officer.’

Abigail raised her head, and then she winced and lay back down again. ‘Am I still in the hospital?’ she asked, her Lancashire accent slowed down by the drawl of the countryside.

‘Yes, you are,’ he replied, his voice gentle and soothing. ‘You'll be home soon.’

She took a few short breaths, and then asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Someone set you a trap,’ he said.

She swallowed, and Rod could tell that she was thinking back to the events of the morning.

‘Tibbs? I could hear Tibbs. Is he all right?’ she asked.

He took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze, as if the action would make her stronger. ‘Tibbs is dead, Miss Hobbs.’

Abigail gave out a small cry as the events of the morning came back to her. She gripped his hand tightly as she realised what had exploded in front of her eyes.

He let her cry it out for a while, but when her quiet sobs died away, he asked gently, ‘Who would do that to you?’

He passed her a tissue, and as she wiped her nose, she replied, ‘I don't know. I've done nothing to harm anyone.’

‘No enemies?’

Abigail waved her hand dismissively. Rod took that as a no, but he wasn't too sure.

‘It's happened to other people, not just you,’ said Rod, watching her face for some recognition, but Abigail didn't respond. ‘Have you heard that?’ he pressed. ‘Do you know these other people?’

She turned away.

‘Miss Hobbs?’

‘Go to your family,’ she said.

‘How do you know I've got a family?’

‘You have a kind voice,’ she said softly. ‘That comes from contentment. And your family are waiting for you.’

That stalled him for a moment, but he asked again, ‘What's going on, Miss Hobbs?’

Abigail didn't answer. She rolled over in the bed so that he couldn't see her face any more.

He stood. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘If you want to tell me anything, get in touch.’ And he wrote his name and number on a scrap of paper and placed it on the small cupboard next to Abigail's bed.

His footsteps were just light taps as he left the room. No one else stirred. He took one last look at Abigail, but she hadn't moved.

I waited for Laura in a coffee bar a few minutes' walk from the police station, in a cobbled backstreet with views over the cathedral gardens. It had a mocha coloured shop-front and rickety metal tables, none of the bright lights of the chain coffee-houses, but it sold good coffee and that was enough.

I had been thinking about Katie Gray, how she had been with me, that touch of her hand before I left. But then I saw Laura at the end of the street, and I felt a jump. Was it guilt? Or was it something better than that? Perhaps it was the excitement I used to have when I saw Laura, that feeling that I had got luckier than I deserved.

She flashed a quick look down the backstreet but then she waved when she saw me looking out of the window. I asked the café owner for another cappuccino and reached out my hand as she sat down. My fingers brushed over her knuckles, like we were stealing moments together.

‘I'm sorry about this morning,’ I said softly.

Laura moved her hand away. ‘Are you softening me up for something I don't want to hear?’

‘What do you mean?’

Laura sighed and then it turned into a smile. ‘I love you to death, Jack Garrett,’ she said, ‘but if you need to see me, and it's to do with work, I need to worry.’

I reached out for her hand again. She didn't move it this time, and I felt her fingers grip mine. They felt different to Katie's. Older somehow, her skin dry, the veins showing on the back of her hand.

‘I went to see Sam Nixon this morning,’ I said.

‘I know. Keep going.’

‘He wanted me to meet someone. Two people in fact.’ I paused for effect, to make sure I could properly gauge Laura's response. ‘They were Sarah Goode's parents.’

Laura didn't react at first. Then I saw her eyes widen.

‘The teacher wanted for murder?’

I nodded slowly.

‘Jack, what are you playing at?’

‘Nothing. That's why I'm telling you.’

‘What did they want?’

‘In an ideal world, to turn the clock back,’ I answered. ‘But as they can't, they want me to find their daughter.’

‘Why? Do they think she is innocent?’

‘I don't know. Perhaps they just want to stop her from doing something stupid.’

‘But why you?’

I gave a small smile. ‘I'm cheaper than a private detective. If there is a story in it, I'll do the research. They just want to find their daughter.’

‘But why go through Sam Nixon?’

I didn't answer that. I knew that Laura would work it out as quickly as I had.

‘They want you to find her so that they can bring her in on their terms,’ she said. ‘They want to get her story straight.’

‘Maybe. I just don't know,’ I said. ‘But they know that Sarah is in trouble and so went to a defence lawyer first.’

‘So why are you telling me?’ said Laura, and she pulled her fingers away again.

‘What's wrong?’ I asked.

Laura looked into her coffee for a few seconds, and then she said, ‘I've put my career on hold for Bobby, to make sure he stays with us. I'd even give it up completely for him, if I had to, but you won't even give up a story.’

‘It's not like that,’ I protested. ‘It won't affect the custody case, because it won't go to print for a long time, at least until after she is convicted.’

‘So why are you telling me, if it won't affect anything with Bobby?’ she asked.

‘Because if I'm being used, someone else is in control of what happens, and I don't like that. So I want you to tell the murder team what I'm doing. They won't like it, but if I find out where she is before they do, I'll tell them.’

Laura folded her arms. ‘Have you met the murder team?’ When I shook my head, she continued, ‘They've been strutting around the station ever since Luke's body was found. We're just the small-town hicks who can't cope, waiting to be saved by headquarters, and you're worse than that, because you're not in the job. All you'll do is antagonise them if you get in the way.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You don't sound pleased with them.’

Laura sighed. ‘I'm just bored, Jack. I didn't join the police to process prisoners. I joined it to solve crimes, as corny as it sounds.’

‘So maybe you know how I feel?’

I saw her soften, felt her fingers grip mine again.

‘The judge isn't going to give Geoff custody of Bobby just because you're good at your job,’ I said.

Tears flashed into Laura's eyes. She took a deep breath. ‘We've been through this too many times now,’ she said, ‘and I know that nothing is dead certain in a courtroom. I'm not taking that chance.’

When I didn't respond, she added, ‘You're going to get involved, though, aren't you?’

‘I think it's worth a look.’

Laura thought about that for a few seconds, and then she stood up to go. ‘I've got to get back to work,’ she said.

‘Laura?’

‘You'll do what you want to do, Jack,’ she said wearily. ‘You always do.’

And then she went.

I saw the waiter looking at me when I turned around. He shrugged. I didn't have a response to that. Instead, I watched Laura disappear out of view, her head down, and I thought that she looked a long way from home.

Chapter Twelve

Sarah was kneeling on the floor, her hands over her ears, the deep bass of the heartbeats booming out of the speakers making her dizzy, her own heartbeat keeping time. Then the speakers went quiet.

She paused for a moment, relished the silence, but when she heard the bolt slide on the door, she scuttled back against the wall.

He walked slowly into the room, the black hood silhouetted against the lights from the ceiling. For a moment, Sarah saw the gap behind him, the way out, but as he got closer all she could see was his dark shadow, the room filled with the rasping breaths emanating from under the hood.

He didn't move as he stood and looked down at her.

Sarah thought of her parents, and she felt tears choke her up. She took a deep breath, tried to swallow them away, and asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’ When he didn't respond immediately, she added, ‘I'll do what you want, if you'll just let me go.’ Her voice broke as she pleaded with him and a tear ran down her cheek.

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said, his voice deep and muffled, almost gravelly.

Sarah closed her eyes and grabbed the open neck of her shirt, pulling it tight. This was it now, the reason, what it was all about. Just close your eyes, she told herself. Don't think about it. Give him what he wants, and then get out. She started to shake, felt her chin tremble, more tears on her cheek. She took a deep breath and shook her head, tried to find some reserves of courage.

He took one step forward. Sarah took one step back.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she shouted at him.

He kept on walking towards her. Sarah stepped back again, but the wall stopped her. She could smell cigarettes on him, rolling tobacco, strong, pungent.

Sarah looked down and reached for the top button of her shirt.

‘Don't hurt me,’ she screamed, and then she began to sob, unable to stop herself. She flicked at the button, her hands trembling, and the top of her shirt fell open. It was one of Luke's shirts and it was too big for her. She flicked at the next button and felt the coldness of the room against her breasts. She was exposed to him, goose-pimples across her chest, and she could smell oil on him, and sweat.

Sarah yelped as he grabbed her chin and made her look at him. She could see only the black cloth of the hood, moving in and out faster now, his breaths deeper.

He grabbed at the next button down, his fingers rough and dry. Her cleavage was flecked with sweat despite the cold. He ran his finger between her breasts and rubbed the moisture between his fingers. It seemed almost tender, caring, and then he said softly, ‘If you don't do as I say, I'll hurt you.’

Sarah choked on a sob, and as she closed her eyes, she steeled herself, tried not to think about what she was doing.

She undid the rest of her buttons and let the shirt fall to the floor. She looked down, saw the dirt on her jeans. She undid them and let them fall to her ankles, stepping out of them so that she was naked in front of him. She felt exposed, vulnerable, so she put her arms across her chest and pressed her thighs together. Make it quick, she thought, and looked at the ceiling. Don't make it hurt. Just do it and let me go. Please.

Sarah opened her eyes when she heard movement. He was no longer there. She stepped away from the wall just as he came back into the room, except that this time he was carrying something. A hosepipe.

She was confused at first, but then she looked down and saw how dirty she was. Her skin looked mottled and cold, and her legs were soiled from when she had been trapped in the box.

She cried out as the blast of water hit her. It was icy, the stream coming at her like a punch. Sarah twisted, tried to get out of its way, but it followed her. The dirt around her feet turned into mud. She thought she heard someone else in the room, but maybe it was the water bouncing off the walls. It smacked into her chest, against her legs, her stomach. She cried out but the sound was lost in the noisy rush of water.

Then the water stopped. Sarah gasped with cold as the water dried on her body, her hair still dripping wet.

He moved towards her, his boots squelching in the mud. She didn't look up, just cried and flinched when she felt his hands on her shoulders. They felt warm and clammy against her frozen skin.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her teeth chattering with cold.

‘I do it because I like it,’ he replied. ‘Isn't that a good enough reason?’

Sarah looked at the hood, tried to guess at the face behind it. All she saw was black cloth. No features. No eye-holes.

‘That's evil,’ she said quietly, shivering.

He stepped back in fake shock. ‘Evil?’ he asked, and Sarah heard the pleasure in his voice. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You know what it means,’ she shouted, angry now, tears running down her face.

He shook his head, enjoying himself. ‘I give power to my imagination, that's all,’ he said. ‘You live your life in fear, scared of consequences. I don't. That's what makes us so different.’

‘You don't know me,’ she said.

‘Oh, I do, Sarah Goode. Better than you think. Everything has consequences, even the things that you do. Your little games, Sarah, they all mean something.’

Sarah swallowed, started to shiver again, but this time it was through fear.

‘And what if I don't want to play your games?’ she asked.

‘Then you will die,’ he said simply. He gripped her hair in his hands and whispered into her ear, ‘but I could show you a different way. No more fear, no more being held back.’

Sarah closed her eyes.

‘Will you live your life my way?’ he asked, letting go of her.

Sarah looked at the floor and nodded her head slowly. ‘I'll do whatever you want me to do.’

She screamed as the water hit her again, smacking hard against her chest and then her face. She tried to curl up, her arms wrapped around her head, but the water carried on until she could feel herself slipping in the mud.

When the water stopped, she looked up at her captor. He was standing over her, the hosepipe dripping in his hands. He stepped forward and pressed his hands onto her shoulders, turning her around. Sarah could feel his eyes on her even through the hood, examining her, as if he was searching for something. She stared at the floor, tried not to think what he might do. Once he had turned her full circle, he grabbed her face in his hands and pulled her towards him. Sarah tried to look away, but he held on to her cheeks, made her look at him.

‘What do you see?’ he asked slowly, his breath smelling stale and unclean, even through the hood.

‘I see you,’ Sarah replied.

‘Not me. What do you see ahead, for you? Your future?’

Sarah swallowed, and then closed her eyes.

‘I don't see one,’ she said quietly.

‘Have you ever wondered about the end?’ he whispered. ‘What it will be like to draw that last breath, to look into the abyss, to know that you'll know the answer soon enough, life after death, or is it just nothing?’

Sarah swallowed back tears and small moans of fear escaped.

‘I want to see the end flicker across your eyes so clearly that I can feel it too,’ he continued. Sarah could hear him licking his lips, and then he let go of her and turned to leave the room.

When he'd gone, Sarah saw that he'd left no food. And her clothes were gone. She was naked. No blankets, no bed, the incessant beam of the headlights illuminating the room and her feet cold in the wet dirt.

Then she heard the speakers pulse back into life, and the heartbeat sound filled the room once more as she sank back against the wall, sliding downwards, the stone cutting into her back, her cries mixing with the repetitive thumps.

Chapter Thirteen

Rod Lucas looked down at the addresses on his lap, the two other victims of recent explosions, and they were all on his patch, a rural area around Pendle Hill. Although he had worked in the towns nearby earlier in his career – Blackley, Turners Fold – he had spent most of his career patrolling the tight lanes around the hill. He understood the crime in his area, mostly diesel thefts or large brawls in remote pubs, country boys settling their disputes in the old-fashioned way. The explosions were different. They seemed planned, targeted.

He was outside one of the addresses. He checked his list against the number on the house, peering through the mud smeared on the windscreen of his Land Rover, and stepped out onto the pristine new tarmac of a modern housing estate. He looked along and saw a succession of green lawns, square and flat. As he walked towards the door, faux Georgian, with wooden panels and a frosted glass arch, he heard only the hard smack of his boots on the paved driveway, the curved streets quiet. It took just one knock to get the door to open.

‘Hello?’ said a female face from behind a security chain, young and cautious.

‘I'm Inspector Rod Lucas,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about the explosion in your garden last week.’

‘You don't look like the police.’

Rod looked at his outfit. He couldn't argue with that. He was still wearing his pruning clothes, a checked shirt and grubby corduroys. He pulled out his wallet and showed the Lancashire Police crest.

The door closed for a moment, and Rod heard the rattle of the security chain. When the door opened fully, the face at the door turned into a teenage girl running down the hall. College girl was Rod's guess.

‘Mum?’ she shouted. ‘There's a policeman to see you.’

The girl turned round and pointed to a room at the front of the house. ‘Go in,’ she said. ‘Mum won't be long.’ When Rod smiled, she blushed and then skipped into a room at the back of the house.

Rod opened the door to the living room, and he was surprised. He had expected a modern look; laminated flooring, coal-effect fire, maybe a large television. Instead, it was similar in style to Abigail's cottage, like a Gothic lair, with a heavy black chandelier and dark red walls. The fireplace was high and open and made of dull grey stone, more suited to a castle than a modern box in a faceless estate.

He turned around when he heard the door open, and in walked a woman in her early forties, her hair dark and long, crimped into waves, wearing a long linen dress, her feet bare.

‘Isla Marsden?’ Rod queried. When she smiled whimsically, he said, ‘I'm here to ask some questions about the recent explosion in your garden.’

‘It was in the shed,’ said Isla, her voice soft, an almost dreamy quality.

‘It's happened to someone else,’ said Rod. ‘Except that someone was hurt today.’ When Isla didn't respond, he said, ‘It was an old lady called Abigail Hobbs.’

Rod saw the flinch, just a widening of her eyes, before Isla quickly brushed her hair from her face, a reflex action, and resumed her faraway smile.

‘Do you know her?’ he asked.

Isla made a bad show of thinking about her answer, and then she shook her head. ‘I don't think so.’

‘Her cat died, and Abigail is in hospital, hurt quite badly. Are you sure you don't know her?’

Isla shook her head again.

‘Do you have any more ideas about who might have caused the explosion?’ he asked.

Again, Isla responded with just a shake of the head, and then she said, ‘I thought I had to ask you that question,’ her voice defensive.

‘We're trying our best,’ he said solemnly. When she didn't answer, he nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Marsden. I'll keep in touch.’

As he walked out of the room, heading for the front door, he paused. ‘It's funny, though, Mrs Marsden, about the coincidence,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

He turned round and saw that her composure had slipped. He looked down at her hand. ‘You share the same taste in jewellery.’ As her cheeks flushed, he pointed at her right hand. ‘You even wear it on the same finger. Third finger, right hand. The screaming face, silver on black. Abigail has one too.’

As she looked at him, her eyes worried now, Rod nodded at her.

‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘Call me if you want to talk,’ and then he clicked the door closed as he went back to his vehicle.

I was heading for the college, trying to shake off my unease about my private life. I wanted to speak to Katie again, to find a reason why Luke's friend had described Sarah's relationship with Luke so differently. I remembered that Katie said she had lectures, so college seemed like a good place to start.

I didn't normally feel old. I was thirty-four but had kept my hairline, just speckles of grey spoiling the dark waves, but suddenly I felt a generation gap as I hung around the college building. It was an offshoot of one of the Manchester universities, a seven-storey concrete slab in the middle of Blackley, next to a one-way system, so that lectures were disturbed by posing young men driving the loop, watching the girls and playing music at distorted levels, making the shop windows rattle as they went past. Young students with rucksacks and attitudes stared at me as I looked around, their faces obscured by hoods, their legs stick-thin in baggy denims. The security guard was chatting up the young female students, his chest puffed out, feet apart.

Katie had said she was studying history, so I made my way inside and searched for the history department. It didn't have much of one, not what you could call a faculty, just lectures taking place on different floors, marked out by timetables printed on notice-boards. I walked the corridors but I couldn't see her.

I headed out and decided to take a drive past the house. I struck lucky. Katie was just locking up the house as I drove up the street, and she looked startled as I scraped my wheels against the kerb, squeezing behind a scruffy green Fiesta. When I jumped out of the Stag, she relaxed and smiled. ‘Back so soon?’

‘I've got a few more questions,’ I replied.

‘Well, I was just going out.’

‘Let me take you,’ and I went to open the passenger door.

Katie looked up and down the street before throwing her bag into the passenger footwell and climbing in.

‘Where do you need to be?’ I asked.

Katie thought for a moment, and then said, ‘College will do.’

‘Again? How many lectures do you have a day?’

‘I need to go to the library, that's all,’ she replied. When I didn't respond, she turned towards me and asked, ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Just more about Luke and Sarah,’ I replied. ‘There are a few things I can't get straight.’

‘What like?’

I set off driving, the Stag struggling up the steep hill. ‘You told me before that Luke and Sarah were close, that Sarah loved him,’ I said. ‘It would explain a jealous rage, I suppose, the knife in the chest, but Luke's friend tells it differently. He talked like it was a casual thing on both sides. That makes a rage less likely. So which one is real?’

Katie looked out of the window as old houses were replaced by traffic lights and a quick route out of town, the grey strip of the inner ring road, trees and flowers along the edge to break up the concrete. ‘The real Sarah is different to what people think,’ she said.

We were near the college again, and so I found somewhere to park and turned off the engine. Katie turned towards me, one knee onto the seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘What do you think about Luke's murder?’

I could smell Katie's perfume, sweet and cloying. ‘I don't think anything,’ I replied. ‘Not yet. So tell me, why do you think Luke saw it differently to Sarah?’

‘Does it matter?’ she asked.

‘Maybe. It can't be a lover's rage if it was just a fling.’

‘Are you in love, Jack?’

I found myself about to say no, I didn't know why, like I'd been caught off-guard, but then I stopped myself and asked her why she wanted to know.

‘You're a man, Jack,’ Katie continued. ‘When have you ever told your friends that you loved a woman? I don't mean find attractive, or wanted to fuck, or whatever. I mean told a friend that you truly loved a woman?’

I didn't answer when I realised that she was right. And Callum too. That living up to being a man is all about the conquests, not the losses.

‘Sarah was in love,’ she said, her voice low and soft. ‘She talked about Luke all the time, like she was making plans. If Luke thought differently, well, that was his choice. He wouldn't be the first man to say I love you and not mean it.’

‘So that's it then?’ I said incredulously. ‘This all happened because Sarah loved Luke, but he didn't respond? Was she that unpredictable?’

Katie pulled at some strands of hair, twisting it between her fingers before letting it fall to her head. ‘Some people are like that,’ she said. ‘Great fun when things are going well, but she could be nasty and hurtful, very hot-tempered.’

‘A lot of people snap,’ I said, ‘but they don't all plunge knives into their boyfriend's chest. They'd just been in bed together. It seems quite a leap.’

‘I wasn't there when it happened, so I wouldn't know,’ Katie said, and she sounded hurt, like I was pushing it too much. Then she sighed. ‘I've never seen a dead body before,’ she said quietly, and she dabbed her nose with her sleeve, like a nervous reaction, her cuff over her hand. ‘He was just sort of splayed out,’ she continued, although I was surprised at the evenness of her voice. ‘There was this knife, just there, sticking out, with blood all over the bed. I've never seen so much blood before.’

‘What did you do?’

Katie gave a small laugh, embarrassed. ‘It sounds stupid now, but I called an ambulance. I don't know why, I could tell he was dead, but it was like an automatic reaction. When they came, they called the police.’ She rested her elbow on the car door and looked at me, her eyes filled with worry. ‘I'm scared, Jack.’

‘You've no need to be,’ I replied.

‘Because you're here?’ She shuffled closer towards me and put her hand on my leg. ‘You seem like a kind man.’ Her eyes stared into mine. Before I could answer, she said quietly, ‘Hold me.’

I was surprised, her touch unexpected. I closed my eyes, knowing that I had to end it as her hand stroked my leg. An image of Laura flashed into my head, and I took hold of Katie's hand.

‘It's okay,’ she said softly, ‘it doesn't mean anything.’

‘It would mean something to me,’ I said firmly, and lifted her hand from my leg.

‘I just needed someone to be there for me,’ she said, sounding hurt. ‘I'm sorry. Just forget it.’

‘No, no, it's not like that,’ I protested, feeling guilty now. ‘It's just, well…’

‘You might get caught?’ She shook her head. ‘Like I said, it doesn't matter,’ and then she reached for the door handle.

‘Don't,’ I said, too quickly.

Katie turned around, a half-smile on her lips. ‘What is it?’

‘I just want to finish the story,’ I said. ‘There are more things I want to know.’

‘Call me then, so we can spend more time together,’ Katie replied, flirting, and then she opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.

I leaned across the passenger seat and asked, ‘Do you think Sarah killed him?’

Katie leaned into the car. ‘Who else could it be?’

‘If Sarah had killed Luke and run away,’ I replied, ‘she would go somewhere she felt safe, maybe a favourite holiday place, or with friends who didn't know about Luke. Did Sarah ever talk about anywhere away from Blackley?’

‘Everyone in Blackley dreams of being somewhere else,’ she said.

‘Except that not everyone leaves,’ I responded. ‘So did she talk of anywhere else?’

Katie shook her head. ‘She's nearby.’

‘How do you know?’

Katie looked round, seemed worried that someone might be listening, and then whispered, ‘She has written to me.’

I was shocked. ‘What do you mean?’

She gave me a knowing smile. ‘Just that,’ she said. ‘I've been getting letters from Sarah.’

‘There's been nothing in the papers about that,’ I said.

‘The police are keeping them quiet, and they told me not to say anything about them,’ she replied.

I knew that sounded right. It was the sort of thing that the police would keep back, they had done ever since the Yorkshire Ripper tapes misled everyone and allowed Peter Sutcliffe to kill more women.

‘What do they say?’ I asked.

Katie shook her head at me. ‘Give me a call, Jack Garrett, and you might just find out,’ she said, and then she walked away, her bag swinging in her hand.

I jumped out of the car and shouted, ‘Wait!’, but Katie just kept on walking.

I watched her go, intrigued. I wanted to know more, I knew that, but I wondered what risks came with that, from the story and from Katie.

Chapter Fourteen

Blackley police station was on the edge of the town centre, in an old Victorian building next to the court, with steps to the front door and Roman arches over the windows. The interior showed its age, as paint flaked from the walls and cold draughts blew along the corridors. That would all be changing soon. The police were moving to a new-build station on the edge of Blackley, so the station was filled with boxes and crates as officers packed up exhibits and personal effects.

Laura was at the custody desk in its basement, a high wooden counter with dingy lighting and posters advertising prisoners' rights. The sergeant was hovering over a clipboard, watching Laura's prisoner count his change, making sure that he couldn't accuse anyone of stealing from him, before he got him to sign the custody record. An end to another fruitless day, thought Laura.

‘There'll always be another time,’ growled Pete.

‘You said that last time,’ came the reply, the prisoner smirking as he threaded his belt around his waist.

Laura placed her hand on Pete's arm as she saw him tense, but then she saw someone through the glass in the custody door. DCI Karl Carson.

He was hard to miss, a large man in a lilac shirt and navy trousers, his tie bright purple, knotted large, like he had lost count when doing the final loop. His bald dome glowed bright pink, more scrubbed than shaved, his face just the same, with not even the trace of eyebrows to break up the shine. Laura knew his name, and his reputation had been whispered around the station when the murder squad moved in. Ruthless and rule-bending, sometimes arrogant, but he had a squad of eager young men devoted to him, knowing that Carson got results, either through sheer persistence, or often by persuading witnesses to talk to him when they had resisted the polite way, his squad happy to swap their social lives for long hours of overtime and the occasional glimpse of the spotlight.

Laura thought about her meeting with Jack, and she felt her anger bubble to the surface again, that he was interfering in a live case, and that it could affect her; she hadn't been in Blackley long enough to fall back on too much goodwill. But she realised that he was right about one thing: that it would look worse for both of them if it appeared that he was secretly helping Sarah Goode.

She mumbled to Pete that she would be back in a moment and buzzed herself out of the custody office with the swipe card that hung around her neck whenever she was in the station. Carson was moving quickly along the corridor, heading for the Incident Room. Laura caught up with him just as he was about to step inside.

‘Can I have a word, sir?’

He stopped and looked at her, and then gave a quick smile.

‘How can I help?’

Laura paused for a moment as she saw those in the Incident Room stop what they were doing and look at her. The scene was as it had been since their move from headquarters, a temporary stop-over from their normal base on the outskirts of Preston, just in Blackley for the Sarah Goode case: paperwork and coffee, fingers tapping on keyboards, eyes concentrated on computer monitors, pastel shirts and bright ties. But now the activity had stopped, and all eyes were on Laura.

‘Can I have a word about the Sarah Goode case?’ Laura asked.

She noticed Carson tuck in his stomach and puff out his chest. The trips to the gym didn't keep off the weight, but it turned his bulk into something solid. He looked to his colleagues before he answered, a smirk on his face. ‘Fire away, sweetheart.’

Laura looked into the Incident Room again and wished she had waited. Most of the faces were smiling, but they weren't friendly. They were waiting for the show – and Laura knew that it was too late to back out.

‘My boyfriend is a reporter,’ she said, ‘and he's been approached by Sarah Goode's parents.’

Carson blinked, the information registered, but then he started to grin. ‘Boyfriend?’ he said, turning to his team. ‘How old is he? Sixteen?’

Laura went red, but from anger, not embarrassment. She didn't respond, knowing that she would say something she would later regret.

‘Tell me more,’ he said, smiling. ‘What's your name?’

‘DC McGanity,’ replied Laura. ‘On the CRT.’

‘First name?’ he said.

‘Laura.’

‘Okay, Laura, what did Sarah's parents want with your boyfriend?’

‘They want him to find Sarah,’ she replied. ‘They went to their solicitor first, and he set up the meeting.’

‘So it's coming through a lawyer?’ Carson queried, sounding sceptical. ‘And if he finds her?’

‘He's got to tell her to hand herself in.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Because he asked me to,’ she replied.

‘And what if he tells you more but doesn't ask you to repeat the favour? Will you still come and speak to me?’ Before Laura had the time to respond, he said aggressively, ‘Because pillow talk is not confidential. You hear anything, little lady, come down here and tell me. Understand?’

‘I just thought you ought to know,’ Laura replied, feeling humiliated, her heart pounding with anger. When she turned to leave the room, someone spluttered a laugh behind Carson, and he started to grin.

As she walked quickly back down the corridor, she was aware of a pause, and then she heard the noise of Carson's team laughing. She guessed that Carson was leading the chorus.

When Laura burst back into the custody office, she saw her prisoner's arrogant grin.

‘If you hit him because he was messing around with your girlfriend,’ she said to him, her stare hard and direct, ‘you might have chosen the wrong tactic.’

The grin wavered. ‘Why?’

‘Us girls don't like to get lonely,’ she said, stepping closer. ‘I can bet who she spent last night with.’ Laura looked at her watch theatrically. ‘Do you want me to call her, to give him time to leave?’

The prisoner's face turned into an angry flush before the custody sergeant buzzed open the exit door. Laura stomped away quickly, slowing down only when Pete caught up with her.

‘I could learn from you,’ he said, as he got alongside her. ‘Menace with a smile.’

Laura sighed. ‘I let myself down,’ she replied.

Pete laughed and waved it away. ‘No, it was fun.’

As they walked along the corridor from the custody area, Laura heard laughter ahead. She guessed what was coming even before Carson appeared in the doorway, a few members of his team just behind him, sharing the joke.

They went quiet as Pete approached them, although the smiles remained. As Carson went past, Pete nodded and said, ‘Afternoon, sir’, more out of obligation than respect. Carson didn't respond. Instead, he looked down at Laura, before raising what should have been eyebrows at his team.

Laura looked down and took a deep breath, not yet ready for formalities. As their footsteps receded, she glanced back. One of Carson's men looked back towards her at the same time. He was dressed differently to the rest, in a dark polo shirt and casual trousers, bulky pockets on his thighs. As Laura looked, he smiled and nodded.

‘If ever you need a reason not to get promoted, there's a few to choose from there,’ said Pete.

Laura didn't respond at first. Instead, she walked on ahead, stopping only when she was back at her desk, holding another handover package.

‘C'mon,’ she said quietly. ‘There's another cell to empty.’

Chapter Fifteen

It was cold, and getting colder. Sarah Goode walked quickly around the room, her arms wrapped around her chest as she tried to keep warm, but it was no protection for her naked body. Her skin was pale and goose-pimpled, and she dreaded the thought of the night ahead. When she looked down, she saw how dirty her feet were, made grubby as she walked around, the soles of her feet numb, the soil floor turned to mud by the hose-blast from earlier.

She knew she had to stay strong, but she was cold and she was hungry. Her primal instincts took over, her need for food and warmth and sleep.

The pulsing heartbeat still reverberated around the room. She tried to walk in time to it, to use it as a distraction, to get some strength from it, but every time she got close to the speakers she had to clamp her hands over her ears.

Then the noise stopped.

Sarah went still, listened out for a noise, some hint at what was to come. And then the lights went off.

It was dark and silent for a few blissful seconds, but then she saw a sliver of light under the door. Someone was there. She heard the click of the lock, and, as the door slid open, someone holding a bright torch stepped into the room. All she could see was the light. She looked away and her vision swam with bright speckles.

Sarah shielded her eyes with her arm. ‘Who's there?’ she shouted. Maybe it was someone come to rescue her. ‘Please, who is it?’

The same voice she had heard before answered.

‘Have you thought any more?’ he asked, his loud whisper filled with menace. He walked into the room and started to circle her, the torch beam constantly shining into her face, blinding her.

Sarah tried to move her face away, but the light was too direct. She tracked him, not letting him get behind her. ‘I don't know what you mean?’ she said, her voice filled with desperation.

‘We talked about it before,’ he said. ‘Your future. What awaits you?’

Sarah shook her head. She tried to see behind the torch but it was too bright. ‘I don't know, you tell me,’ she said, and then she started to cry. ‘I don't know what you want.’

‘Don't be scared,’ came the reply, followed by a low chuckle. He was enjoying this. ‘Consequences, Sarah,’ he said. ‘That's all you are interested in. Fear of them. They hold you back.’

Sarah sank to her knees. ‘I don't know what you mean,’ she wailed, but then she scuttled backwards as she heard his steps in the dirt floor, coming towards her, slow and deliberate.

‘Your time is running out,’ he said as he got closer. ‘I am not your enemy. Fear is your enemy.’ And then he laughed again, this time low and mean.

Her head hung down and she dug her hands into the mud, cold between her fingers. ‘Please, please, please,’ she sobbed. ‘Let me go. I won't say anything. Just let me go home. Please.’

He paused, and then said, ‘That's a lie, and it's wrong to tell lies.’

Sarah looked up, sucked in air, tried to calm herself down. ‘I can't do this,’ she said. ‘I don't know what game you are playing, but I don't want to play any more.’

‘It's no game,’ he said. ‘I want to see what you see, that's all, just that moment.’

‘What moment?’

‘The final moment,’ he answered, his voice turned into a growl. ‘It's unique, that glimpse, when you know what lies ahead, the answer to everything. The final look back on yourself, and that last look into the future. Is there life beyond what we know?’

‘So I'm going to die?’

He laughed. ‘We're all going to die, Sarah.’

Sarah put her face in her hands. ‘What about Luke?’ she said quietly. ‘He'll tell the police.’

He laughed again, but louder.

‘What's so funny?’ asked Sarah, but she felt her stomach turn as she guessed what he'd done. She put her arms over her head and leaned forward, so that her forehead touched the soil. It was cold on her face, and images of Luke flashed through her mind. Smiles, laughs, good times, all rushing into her head. She started to tap her head lightly against the soil. Then she got faster, and her moans turned into screeches, the pain as she banged her head a distraction, until she was rocking up and down, her arms clasped around her body.

She looked up at him. ‘You've killed him,’ she screamed. ‘You fucking monster!’

He knelt down so that the hood was next to her face. ‘He didn't come to help you, did he?’ he mocked. ‘He stayed in bed as we took you to the car. What was it? Drunk? Or just not bothered?’

Tears streamed down her face. She clutched her stomach, his words making her want to retch.

‘Maybe he thought it was you running up the stairs,’ he continued. ‘He was still under the sheets when I ran in there.’

When Sarah didn't respond, he leaned into her ear and whispered, ‘Would you like to kill me? Right now, if you had the weapon, would you do it?’

Sarah didn't answer.

‘You could do it, right now. Your hands around my neck. I would fall over, you would overpower me.’

Sarah stayed silent, but as she felt his eyes on her, even through the cloth, she spat at him.

He wiped off her spittle. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘there's not much that separates us. Just my courage, and your cowardice.’

He stood up and left the room. And as the door slammed shut, the lights came back on, and the sound of the heartbeat returned, louder this time.

Chapter Sixteen

Bobby was playing on the floor as I browsed the internet, looking for information on Sarah Goode. He was talking to himself, soft chirrups, all part of his game. I liked the distraction. I worked better with a background sound, much different to the hush of Blackley Library.

The library had been my first stop after leaving Katie, to get copies of the stories written about Sarah. It was a long Victorian building, an old workhouse, with stained glass and arched doorways, incongruous among the glass shop-fronts further along the street, where bored sales assistants stared out of the windows and fiddled with their necklaces, the lunchtime rush long gone.

I was able to spend an hour making copies of the articles that had been written about Sarah, and now they were spread across the table. They all had the same theme: a pretty young teacher had killed a boy and run away. It wasn't explicit, but all week long there had been tributes to Luke, about what a nice young man he had been, sporty, outgoing, good looking. The comments about Sarah were different, tinged with surprise, at how a popular young teacher, vibrant and pretty, could kill someone.

I started to trawl through the Google hits once I'd read the newspaper articles, to find out more about Sarah, and it only took a few pages to start to build up a picture of her life. Sarah was listed on Friends Reunited, a jokey entry, saying how she had left school but then gone back, alongside her graduation picture, showing Sarah with a proud smile, her face dotted by freckles, her parents alongside. On other websites, I found news from her workplace, a state school on the edge of Blackley, not often a first choice when the applications went in. A school play. Ofsted reports. A charity event.

I browsed Facebook for her, it was always good for a quote, and wasn't surprised when I found her. I couldn't access her page, though; Sarah would have to accept my ‘friend request’ for me to be able to do that. I sent a request anyway, it only took one click, and then I turned to look at Bobby. He had found the play dough made by Laura a couple of days before, just salt dough laced with food colouring. He was cutting into it with a plastic knife, his tongue darting onto his lip with concentration.

‘What have you got there?’ I asked.

He looked up, distracted from his game, and then he beamed at me, the dimples he'd inherited from Laura flickering in his cheeks. ‘I've made you a pizza,’ he said, and held up a lump of green dough criss-crossed with lines.

I found myself smiling back at him, but I felt a kick of guilt as well. He shouldn't be making things for me. He should be making it for his father. What was I doing, making him live up here, so far from everyone close to him?

‘That looks great,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to eat it now?’

Bobby smiled proudly and brought over the lump of dough and placed it on the table in front of me. I sat him on my knee and tickled him, enjoyed his squirming and his giggling.

‘When's Mummy back?’ he asked between laughs.

‘I don't know. Soon.’

‘Do you like your pizza?’

I mimicked some lip-smacking sounds. ‘The best one I've ever had.’

When he looked pleased with himself, I asked him if he could make me a cake. Bobby hopped off my knee and went back to his place on the floor.

I was about to pick up my papers when I heard a car crunch onto the gravel outside the front door. Bobby looked up and then ran to it. As he looked outside, he shouted, ‘Mummy's here.’

I felt some of his excitement; I always did when Laura came home. While we hadn't been getting on recently, as soon as I heard the car I wanted to see her smile, wanted to feel that sense of excitement of us all being together. Her dimples, the hint of red to her brunette, the colour of the London Irish. And those private moments always came to me, of the Laura that only I knew: the feel of her skin under my hand, the way she kissed, soft and slow, those breathless whispers.

But when Laura strode into the house I sensed the darkness of her mood. She threw her bag onto the table and smiled a hello, but it was perfunctory and brief. Bobby ran to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Laura kissed him on the top of his head, then gently peeled his arms from her and marched towards the kitchen.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

‘Why shouldn't it be?’ came the shout back, but I could hear the frustration in her voice.

I joined her in the kitchen and found her browsing the wine we stored in a rack by the fridge.

‘It must have been a bad day,’ I said.

Laura picked out an Australian white, selected on price, not reputation, and put it in the freezer to cool.

‘Sometimes alcohol is the answer,’ she said.

‘What's wrong?’ I asked.

Laura folded her arms and looked down. I didn't think she was going to say anything, but then she blurted out, ‘I went to the murder team and told them what you were doing.’

‘And how did it go?’

She looked up at me and scoffed. ‘Oh, just fine, once they'd stopped laughing at me.’

‘Why would they laugh?’

‘Because they're pricks,’ Laura snarled. ‘I'm just the skirt who spends her life processing other people's arrests. They put them in a cell and go home, and then leave me to sort out the mess. I'm the one who works late when we need more evidence, not the person who brought them in.’

‘It's not for much longer,’ I said, cajoling. ‘The Court Welfare Officer is coming round the day after tomorrow, you know that, and then the hearing is after that. Once we have it formalised that Bobby stays with us, you can go back to a normal police job.’

‘I want my career to amount to something, Jack, but it seems like I'm the only one making sacrifices,’ she said, her voice getting angrier. ‘Geoff's job hasn't changed, and he doesn't have the day-to-day stuff like I do.’

‘Like we do,’ I corrected her. ‘It's both of us, not just you.’

Laura stopped for a moment, and then she sighed. She stepped forward and put her arms around me. She put her head into my chest, and as I kissed her hair I could smell the cells, the scent of stale bodies and stress. I put my hands on her cheeks and lifted her head up. There were tears brimming onto her lashes.

‘Just be patient,’ I said softly. ‘We're nearly there.’

She wiped her eyes. ‘Sometimes I just wonder at how much I want it, how there must be an easier way to live my life.’

‘What, go back to London?’ I queried, and then regretted voicing it, putting it out there for discussion. I felt my throat go dry as soon as the words came out.

‘Would you want me to?’ she asked.

I pulled her closer, put her head tight into my chest. ‘You'll need to improve your interview technique if you're going to get on,’ I whispered, ‘because you can't ask stupid questions like that.’

We stayed like that for a few minutes. When Laura pulled away from me, wiping her eyes, she asked, ‘How was your day? Is the story getting any better?’

‘It's getting interesting,’ I replied. ‘I spoke to Katie again, Sarah's lodger.’

Laura raised her eyebrows. ‘You're getting keen. She'll think you're a stalker. Good looking, I presume.’

I shrugged noncommittally There was no answer that would be the right one.

Laura turned away, about to go back to Bobby, when I said, ‘Can I ask you something about the Sarah Goode case?’

Laura stopped, and then turned back slowly. ‘Probably pointless. If I know the answer, I won't tell you anyway.’

‘Nothing about letters sent by Sarah Goode, after she went missing?’ I queried.

Laura paused at that. ‘What kind of letters?’

‘Are there different types?’ I said. ‘Just normal letters. I've been looking at the newspapers and there is no mention of them, but Katie mentioned them.’

‘What if they are so significant that the rest of the press have agreed not to say anything about them?’

‘That's what Katie said to me,’ I said, ‘and that's why I'm interested.’

Before Laura could respond I heard a ping from my laptop. It was an email arriving. I walked through, expecting an offer of fake Viagra, but what I saw made me gasp.

Laura must have heard my reaction. ‘What is it?’

‘It's Sarah Goode,’ I said. ‘I guessed she would be on Facebook, and I found her. I sent a friend request, just so I could write up that there was no response.’

‘And?’ asked Laura, coming close.

I clicked on the link in the email, just to make sure, and then I stood up and grinned.

‘She's accepted the request,’ I replied, pointing at the screen. ‘Now that makes an interesting angle.’

Laura leaned forward, curious.

‘She looks happy,’ said Laura, looking at the profile picture.

I clicked on Sarah's pictures, and there was a succession of family photos and ones of Sarah at play: at a party, a bottle of beer raised for the camera; on a fun run, her arm around some friends, their faces flushed. It was fun-loving young woman stuff, the story of a life she used to have that would never be the same again. She didn't update her page very often; perhaps she had joined on a whim – there were few friends in her profile. I noticed that she listed her status as single.

‘This means one thing,’ said Laura, ‘that she must be near a computer. I wonder if we can get the Facebook people to tell us where she is posting from.’

I printed off the page and clicked the events section, where people listed their diary.

‘Shit!’ I exclaimed.

Laura tapped me on the arm, pointing at Bobby. I held up my hand in apology and then tapped at the screen. From Laura's gasp, I realised that she had read it too.

In the events section of Sarah's Facebook profile, for 31st October, were the words, ‘ I die.’

I gave a slow whistle. ‘That's four days away,’ I said.

Laura looked grim-faced. ‘It looks like I'm going to have to go to the murder squad again.’

Chapter Seventeen

Morning already. Sarah guessed it from the way it seemed a little warmer, although not much. She reckoned it had been eight days now, but it was hard to mark time when days and nights seemed almost the same: the constant spotlights, the relentless, steady noise of thumping heartbeats.

Sarah had shivered through the night so that every minute crawled by, her arms wrapped around her chest, no bed, no bedding, no clothes. She had paced around the room to generate heat, twelve paces in an oval pattern before she was back where she started, so she did twelve more, and then twelve more after that, the dirt getting stuck between her toes. She rolled in the mud on the floor, cold at first, but it was like an extra layer of skin once it set hard onto her body.

Maybe the mud had saved her. The early hours were torture, but she knew time was the only cure, that soon the air would become warmer, just. She waited for the sounds of movement.

But as she got warmer, Luke came back into her thoughts. Had they really killed him, or was that all part of the game? Maybe he was still alive and in a room just a few feet away? If she could get to him, maybe they could work together.

She paced faster, but the view never changed. Just a stone wall, and then another after that, broken only by her shadow cast by the spotlights, shifting as she walked faster, more heat, more sound, her feet moving in time with the pulsing coming from the speakers.

She had taken to chanting. As she paced, and then as she jumped on the spot, Sarah would say, ‘Keep strong, keep strong’, like saying it would make it come true.

But it was easier to be strong when she was on her own. There was no one to hurt her, just her own thoughts and dark despair.

Just then, the speakers went silent. Sarah heard someone outside the room. She froze, felt her stomach lurch. What was coming now?

Her strength disappeared when she heard the lock turn in the door.

Laura looked down at the arrest handover package in front of her. It was an A3 piece of paper, folded over, holding a print-out of the incident log and custody record, the former telling her how the job had been called in, the latter telling her what had happened to the prisoner since his arrival.

Pete buzzed around her desk, trying to see what she had.

‘A scrapper,’ she said, her voice struggling to hide her contempt.

‘Todd Whitcroft?’ he asked.

She checked the name on the front sheet. ‘Yeah, that's him. Do you know him?’

Pete raised his eyebrows. ‘Blackley's premier-league scrapper. Feeds his kids by stripping the town's roofs of their lead and cashing it in at the scrap yard. He's moved on to cables now, because he thinks they're less traceable.’

‘Maybe he's got scared of heights,’ Laura said as she skim-read the front-sheet. ‘It looks like they caught him with a van full of them.’

Pete sighed. ‘Oh great.’

‘What's wrong?’ she asked.

‘Todd Whitcroft never admits anything. He will say he had permission, or else he will say nothing at all.’

Laura sensed the day stretching ahead, and she was overtaken by a sense of gloom.

‘So we have to catalogue it all,’ she said, her voice weary, ‘just so that we can prove where it came from.’

‘That's about it,’ he said, as he hopped off the desk and headed for the door. ‘No time like the present.’

Laura got to her feet wearily, and then followed Pete out of the room. As they walked along the corridor, Pete bouncing small talk off the walls, Laura heard conversation coming out of the Incident Room further along. Her cheeks turned red as she remembered the humiliation from the day before, but she couldn't help glancing in as she went past. It looked like most were working the phones, chasing down old leads just to check if they had missed something. Only one person looked up, the cop in the polo shirt with the crew cut from the day before. He was still casually dressed, much different to the suits around Carson, and he smiled a greeting to Laura as he noticed her, a nod of reassurance.

Pete pressed the security button and they both went into the cobbled yard at the back of the station. Laura groaned as she saw the dirty cables spilling out of the back of a battered Transit van.

Pete passed her the clipboard. ‘You make notes, and I'll get in the van and shout out what we have.’

Laura was about to object that she wasn't his secretary, but then she looked at her hands, clean and scrubbed, and then at her suit. Maybe there was a time for chivalry.

‘Have you thought some more?’ the masked man asked Sarah as he walked into the room. He was still again, his arms by his sides.

‘About what?’ She covered herself as best she could, arms over her breasts, her thighs clamped together.

‘About killing me,’ he answered.

Sarah shook her head in exasperation. ‘I don't know who you think I am, and I don't know what you want from me.’

He nodded at her. Sarah thought she saw the shape of a ponytail sticking out of the cloth, bobbing up and down in time with his head. ‘I know what you are,’ he said. ‘But you have to work it out too.’

Sarah turned away and faced the wall.

‘Do you think you are the only one here with compassion?’ he asked.

Sarah took a few deep breaths before she answered. ‘It feels that way,’ she said quietly.

‘You'd be wrong at that,’ he replied. ‘Morals suit everyone differently. But what of the things you really want? Not the fantasies people tell you you should have, but your real fantasies, the ones you don't tell anyone about, the ones that come to you in the night? They're your real morals. You should embrace them.’

‘And what do you want them to be?’ Sarah asked, her voice rising. ‘Murder, like you, or worse? Torture? Rape? Is that what you want me to tell you I think about? Or maybe me being raped, how I like to be hurt?’

He said nothing.

‘Or perhaps I just want normal things,’ Sarah continued. ‘Like hoping I meet someone I love and settle down, have a happy home. What's wrong with that?’

‘Cowardly,’ he said. ‘Everyone has a darker side. Feed it, grow it.’

‘And what are your morals?’ Sarah asked as she turned back around. ‘What sick things do you dream of?’

He gestured around the room. ‘I dream of this. Of you, in here, my butterfly fastened by the wings. And of this,’ and then he turned and dragged something into the room. Sarah saw that it was a camp bed. ‘I feel like showing you a kindness. There is no trick. This is just how I feel today.’

Sarah looked at the bed. She craved the bed. She saw a blanket on top. Maybe if she could get in, she could drown out the noise and get some warmth. She closed her eyes as they became filled with tears. She had wanted to be strong, but she had more basic needs.

‘You have seen what I can do,’ he continued. ‘I will follow my emotions. You have to make me want to be kind, if that is how you want me to be.’

‘And if I make you feel different? If you don't feel kind?’

‘I'll just follow my feelings,’ he said, his voice sinister, and when Sarah swallowed, he added, ‘and my imagination.’

‘I'll do as I'm told,’ Sarah whispered.

He dragged the bed further into the middle of the room and unfolded the blanket.

‘Can I have my clothes?’ she asked.

‘Do as you are told and be rewarded,’ he whispered. And then, as Sarah climbed under the blanket, grateful for the warmth, he slipped out of the room.

The noise of the heartbeat returned, but it seemed more bearable now.

Chapter Eighteen

I had been sitting in my car for nearly an hour before I saw Katie walking up the hill to her house. It was steep, and so she didn't see me until she reached her front door, her head down as she climbed.

She had looked deep in thought, but brightened when I stepped out of the car.

‘Mr Garrett,’ she said coyly. ‘Do you have some more questions?’

‘You're too perceptive,’ I replied, playing along. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Depends on the questions,’ she said, and she smiled.

I glanced towards the door. ‘Shouldn't we go inside?’

She considered that for a moment, and then reached for her keys. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

As I went in, I noticed different things to our first meeting. The house seemed quieter, like it had become used to silence. The wind chimes in the hall tinkled like broken glass as we entered, but they sounded too loud. I noticed the smell this time. It was bleach, cleaning fluids, a touch of fresh paint. I glanced into the living room, tried to get an impression of Sarah, but Katie went straight into the back room again, dumped her bag onto the sofa and sat down with a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘You mentioned letters,’ I said bluntly.

She pulled off her shoes. ‘Did I?’

‘You know you did. Yesterday. It was the last thing you mentioned before you walked away.’

‘I can't say anything,’ she said eventually. ‘I told you that too.’

‘So why did you mention them?’

Katie smiled at me. ‘You look sweet when you get all serious.’

‘I might get really sweet soon then,’ I replied. ‘Why can't you say anything?’

‘DCI Carson,’ she said, the words coming out with a grimace. I guessed that she hadn't been impressed. Laura had told me all about him the night before.

‘I'm not asking for a copy of the letters, but just tell me what was in them,’ I said.

Katie played with her hair, just teasing it around her ear. ‘I can't. I'll get into trouble. And I'll get you into trouble.’

‘Don't worry about me,’ I said. ‘Knowing a secret isn't a crime. And I would protect my source. All journalists would.’

I let the silence hang there, hoping Katie would say something, but she stayed quiet.

The silence became too long, so I said, ‘Okay, I get the message. Pass on my congratulations to DCI Carson. He's got an obedient student.’

‘Come and see me later,’ said Katie quickly.

‘Why?’

‘About the letters.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because if you want something from me, it will be on my terms. And I don't want to talk yet.’

‘So it has to be later?’

Katie nodded. ‘Come here for six. We'll talk then.’

I looked at her, hoping that she might change her mind, wondered how I would explain it to Laura, but Katie just smiled at me.

‘Later it is, then,’ I said, and started to walk towards the door.

‘Jack!’ she shouted out.

I turned around.

‘I'll look forward to it,’ she said, and then she giggled.

I turned and left the house, and as the door closed I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.

But it wasn't just the story, I knew that. Katie intrigued me. Maybe it was just the looks, but I knew that it was something else too: that she thought she was in charge, that she had something I wanted.

I knew I would have to be careful.

Chapter Nineteen

Rod Lucas took a quick look at Pendle Hill as he walked towards Abigail's door. The skies looked darker than the day before, the bracken top covered in gloom, and it made him raise the collar on his waxed jacket to shield his ears. His wife pestered him to wear a hat and gloves, but Rod wanted to feel the countryside, not just see it through his windscreen. It was what made his patch special.

He knocked on the door and then stepped back. Abigail was out of hospital, but he knew he would have to wait. She lived on her own, not even a cat for company any more, and Rod recalled her injuries. She wouldn't be moving quickly.

He put his hands into his pockets and stayed still. A couple of minutes went past and so he gave another rap on the door, just so that Abigail would definitely know someone was there. Eventually, he heard the rattle of a key, and when the door opened he was surprised at what he saw.

‘You look well, Miss Hobbs,’ he said, and he meant it. There was some bruising around her chin, and one of her eyes was covered by a patch, the other one red and sore, but some of the swelling had gone down and she was walking proudly upright, even with the bandages on her leg.

‘I heal well,’ she said, suspiciously at first, but then she recognised Rod. ‘I'm sorry, but you were dressed differently yesterday.’

He glanced down and remembered his gardening clothes from the day before. It was shirt and tie today, but there was still dirt ingrained into his fingers.

He nodded and smiled. ‘I wonder if we could have a talk,’ he said, just a hint of reproach in his voice.

‘There's nothing much else to say,’ said Abigail. ‘Young vandals or trouble-causers. I can't add anything to that.’

‘What about Isla Marsden? Can she help?’

Rod watched her carefully, looked for a reaction, but she was more prepared for the question than Isla had been. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the sweet smile never wavered.

‘Thank you for calling round, Inspector,’ she said. ‘If I hear of anything, I'll get in touch.’

Abigail started to close the door, but Rod stuck out his hand.

‘Do you want me to come in and make sure everything is secure?’ he asked.

Abigail guessed his motives. ‘I can still turn a window key,’ she said.

‘If you are being targeted for a reason, then someone else might get hurt, or even worse,’ he said, appealing for her help.

Abigail looked at him for a moment, her smile shifting for a second, before she thanked him again and closed the door slowly.

Rod Lucas was left facing the closed door. He stood there for a short while, thinking about what he should do next, before turning around and walking slowly back up the path.

I was in the same coffee shop as the day before, halfway through a cappuccino, when I decided to call Laura.

When she answered, I asked, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Wading through a pile of stolen cables,’ she said.

‘Sounds like you've had better times.’

Laura laughed. ‘No, just routine. Just another morning of preparation before we get the no-comment interview.’

‘Doesn't anyone answer questions any more?’

‘We can't make them, Jack,’ Laura replied, ‘but I still have some faith in the system. It succeeds more times than it fails.’

‘That's not the impression I get.’

‘Yeah, but that all depends on how you report it.’

I exhaled loudly. ‘You need a break,’ I said softly. ‘When it's all sorted out with Bobby, we'll go away somewhere warm, just me and you, where we can lie down for a couple of days and watch the sea and feel the sun on our faces.’

The line went quiet for a few seconds, and then Laura said, ‘That would be nice’, her voice soft. ‘I miss you, Jack.’

‘I haven't been away.’

‘It feels like you have,’ she said.

I shook my head. ‘I've always been here,’ I told her. ‘I'm just not sure you saw me.’

‘Why have you called?’

‘I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all,’ I replied.

Laura stayed silent, and I tried to picture the Laura that had first captivated me. The brightness to her smile, the way she bit her lip when she was feeling mischievous, how she giggled at my jokes.

‘I'm glad you called,’ she said quietly, and then she took a deep breath. ‘How was your morning?’

‘Interesting.’

‘More than yesterday?’

‘I didn't know about the letters yesterday.’

‘Are you still going with that? I told you: you need to be careful.’

‘But you still haven't heard anything?’

‘I told you last night – even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. But I don't.’ Then she asked, ‘Where are you going next?’

‘The head teacher at Sarah's school,’ I replied, ‘and then I'm chasing down the letters.’

Laura paused, and then she said, ‘Be careful, Jack. She's killed someone, so everyone believes, and murderers can be desperate people.’

‘So you need to keep the murder squad informed of my whereabouts.’

‘Huh!’

‘So they can find my body,’ I said jokily.

Laura laughed. ‘If you keep on, I don't think Carson would bother looking too hard.’

Chapter Twenty

Sarah was under the blanket, some warmth tingling back into her feet, the mud cracking off her skin, when she heard the screech of the door moving on its runner, just audible over the sound of the heartbeat blasting through the speakers. There was the crunch of feet in the dirt again, but faster than normal. Sarah peered over the top of the blanket. She saw the familiar hood, but the shape of the head looked different. Leaner, smaller. It was the other one, the one who had come to her when she had been in the box.

She shrank back, shaking suddenly. She remembered the time in the box.

It had been waiting for her when she first arrived in the room, after the cramp of the car ride, squashed into the boot, gripped by panic, hyperventilating, her breath coming out as short rasps that echoed under the lid. There had been voices in the car, just murmurs, too quiet to make out, not rising above the hum of the tyres on the road. Sarah had tried to work out where they were going from the turns and the stops, but she got lost pretty quickly. The car was old, so the suspension had bottomed out of every pothole, sending a kick to her back.

When the car came to a stop, Sarah had been pulled out by the rope around her wrists, her arms twisted back, and then dragged along a path, sharp gravel under her feet, hands over her eyes. She was taken down some stairs and thrown into the room, her chest breaking her fall in the dirt.

He had untied the rope, his mask still on, but then she had been dragged to the corner of the room, towards the box.

The box was lying on the floor, long like a rifle chest. Entry was at one end, and she was put in head-first, like a corpse in a mortuary drawer, on her back, her arms by her side. It was only just wide enough, so that her arms were wedged against the sides, impossible to move. Her head pushed against one end, and when the open end of the box was slammed shut, it banged against her feet so that she had to curl her legs up to fit.

The sides or front had no give to them, no cracks in the lid to allow a view out, and the top was only inches from her face, so that her breath made the air condense around her cheeks, warm and stale, just a vent by her feet to let it out. She wanted to stretch out but couldn't. She had screamed, she had cried, but none of it made a difference. She thought hard on how to stay calm, how to think and how to rationalise, to work out time. But then another night had come, obvious from the cold, and another one after that. Hunger gnawed at her, Sarah's survival instinct superseding her fear, her mouth dry.

But then he had returned and turned the box over.

Sarah had spent the next day face down, unable to move her arms, not knowing when she'd ever be able to move again. She felt her captivity against her head, her feet, her back, her front. No water, no food, trapped in her own piss and shit.

She was tipped out of the box on the third day and allowed some water and a crust of bread. He had stood over her, the light from the room blinding her after those days in darkness, and she spent a few precious moments of movement trying to get used to the glare. He had said nothing. He just watched her, nothing to see but the hood, stood still, his arms by his sides. But then she was slotted back into the box. She struggled and screamed, begged not to go back in, but he was too strong for her.

This went on for another three days. No talk, no reasons given. Just captivity and silence.

But there had been the other person, the one in the room with her now.

Sarah could tell he was younger, from the excitement in his voice when he came into the room, calling her name, taunting, tormenting her. One day he turned the box on its end so that Sarah was upside-down, his groans of effort loud against the lid. She couldn't stop her body slumping down so that her neck bore her weight, unable to get her arms free to provide support. All that kept her in place was the tight dimensions of the box. Sarah wasn't like that for long, just a few minutes, but she thought she was going to suffocate on the weight of her own body pressing down on her, but he returned and threw the box back onto the floor.

Another game was banging the box with hammers. Just noise, the only break in the silence, but the hammers banged around her, thudding, too loud in the box.

Although the room scared her, she did not want to go back in the box.

‘What do you want?’ asked Sarah, looking up, a tremor to her voice.

He threw a bag onto the floor. Sarah looked. It contained clothes. Her jeans were clean, and the shirt too, and there was a jumper in there, home-knitted, warm-looking. Sarah climbed out of the bed and began to pull them on, almost smiling at the warmth. He left the room and then returned almost immediately with a plate of food, soup and bread, with coffee, along with something else.

Sarah looked at the food. ‘More kindness?’ she asked.

‘Nothing for free,’ he said. ‘But you must do something for me,’ and he held up a clear plastic bag.

Sarah saw the pen and paper inside, and then she noticed his latex surgical gloves and the way he was holding the bag away from himself.

‘Another letter?’ Sarah asked. She remembered the other times, the only respite from the box. She had gone along with it, hoping for some reward, maybe some comfort, but the words were disturbing, frightening.

‘I want people to know that you're still alive,’ he said. He sounded excited. Sarah noticed that he seemed twitchy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘But why like this?’ she asked. ‘They don't make sense.’

‘Because I say you should,’ he replied.

He put the food on the floor, out of her reach. He walked over to her and passed her the pen and paper. He then reached into his pocket and put some pre-prepared scrawl of his own in front of her.

‘You know what to do. Copy that and you can have the food.’

Sarah looked at him and she felt angry. It was time for a little victory of her own.

‘Let me eat first and then I'll do it.’

‘Do it now,’ he said, some irritation creeping into his voice. ‘If you don't, I walk out and you won't eat.’

Sarah looked down at the tray of food, the aroma of the soup making her salivate. She looked down at the scrawl she had to copy. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I'll do it.’ Tears began again. ‘Don't go. Please.’

The shuffling of his feet seemed to get faster, almost gleeful. He was enjoying it too much. She wiped away the tears, ashamed, and looked more closely at what she had to write. It made her shiver.

‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

He shook his head, and Sarah knew she had no choice, so she wrote, her cold fingers struggling with the pen.

She put the pen and paper back into the bag, which he held open for her. Once satisfied, he walked out of the door, holding the bag in front of him.

Sarah looked over at the food and felt her hunger rush back at her. She ate the soup quickly, the spoon clattering against her teeth, and then gulped down her coffee. It was hot and strong.

She lay on her back, feeling stronger, and looked at the grain in the wood of the beams that crossed the ceiling. She looked at nothing else for around twenty minutes, but then she realised that she could see the grain clearer than she could before. The grooves were sharper, showing shade. The light bounced around them, made them move like a slow pulse, rainbows flashing around each swirl, the knots moving in time with the noises that came from the speakers. She was transfixed, wanted to see where the lines went. They moved towards each other as she looked, seemed to get tangled, and then she shrank back as the beams came hurtling towards her, as if the ceiling was collapsing, her arms over her eyes. But there was no pain. She looked up again, and saw that the beams were still there. But they were vibrating in time with the heartbeats that blasted out of the speakers. She scuttled backwards, scared, feet kicking against her blanket as she sought refuge. But there was no safe place to hide. She ended up on the floor, on all fours, her eyes darting around, looking at her cell. She saw that all the walls were moving, beating in time with the noise, and then in time with her own heartbeat, which went faster as her fear grew. The stones of the wall started to blur together and grow darker, making shadows that seemed to blot out the glare from the spotlights.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.