She took a sip of the coffee and sighed. It was hot and strong, and she raised it in thanks to the parted curtains on the other side of the street.
You look like you expected more, Dawson said, nodding towards the crime-scene tape. Not used to the quiet life yet?
A week before, Laura might have thought he was having a dig, but she knew him better now. Petes smile softened his words and his eyes changed. They became brighter, warmer, and she sensed mischief in them.
But he was right, Laura had expected more activity, the usual commotion of lawns being combed by uniformed officers, or a squad of detectives knocking on doors. Today there was none of that. The body had been taken away, but the first two cops on the scene were still there, an ashen-faced probationer and a police officer not far off retirement. Scenes of Crime officers were inside, their white paper suits visible through the front window, but out in the street Laura felt like she was on sentry duty.
It doesnt seem like the quiet life, she replied. I moved north for a better life, and I get this, she nodded towards the house, and in the middle of the abductions. It seems pretty dangerous around here.
Pete shrugged. Its not always like this. Once we catch the bastard who has been taking those kids all summer, well get more people to work cases like this.
Laura looked back towards the house. And are we any nearer to catching him?
Every time theres another one, were waiting for the mistake, the breakthrough. He shook his head. He hasnt made one yet.
The abductions had been the big story in Blackley over the summer. The first one only rippled the nationalseveryone thought it was a runawaybut the next one confirmed a pattern and the media all came to town.
Children had been going missing all summer, snatched in the street. They disappeared for a week, sometimes longer. When they were found, they seemed unharmed, but there were things the eyes couldnt see.
There had been seven of them so far, all boys: latchkey kids, early teens, cocky and street-sure. But that was a mask, protection from what they missed at home: love, security, attention. They came back with the mask slipped, and they seemed confused, frightened, days lost with no idea about where theyd been or what had happened to them. Theyd thought they owned the streets, but now they realised how vulnerable they were, and that the world could be much crueller than theyd imagined.
They were found stumbling around, confused, lost, like they had just woken up. They were clothed, with no marks or injuries. They had to be examined intimately, just to check for a sexual motive, but thered been nothing so far. They were sent home, back to the arms of their parents. The boys were all hugged a lot closer after that.
The eighth child was out there now, Connor Crabtree, with whoever was taking Blackleys children. He had last been seen cadging cigarettes in a small car park behind a corner shop, accosting strangers as they went to buy milk or something. That had been six days ago, and no one had seen or heard of him since. The press were on standby, waiting for the inevitable return, something to report; the nation was gripped by the story. The press had even given the kidnapper a name: the Summer Snatcher.
Laura didnt like the nameit sounded corny, no imaginationbut she knew that it helped to keep the story in the news. It was more than just a story in Blackley, though. Everyone knew there would be more. Most parents had stopped their children going out, and the streets seemed quieter once it went dark. But the children being taken were the ones of parents who hadnt listened, whose lives were too difficult to make room for their children.
There werent many clues. There were fibres on the boys, just tiny strands of cloth, from a blanket or something similar, but until they got the source they couldnt get the match. The first two children had dust on their clothes when they were found, small specks of concrete and traces of asbestos, but nothing specific. The police in Blackley were following leads, just to be visible, but everyone knew they were waiting for the return of Connor Crabtree, hoping it would bring fresh evidence.
Laura shuddered as she thought about her own son, Bobby. Four years old, in a strange town and a long way from his real father. She blinked, felt her eyes itch, took a deep breath. It wasnt meant to have turned out like this, but Bobbys father had decided a long time ago that Laura wasnt going to be the last woman he slept with. Hed left, and Laura had struggled on her own for a while, but when she had fallen in love again she was able to give Bobby a family life once more. But it was hard. She needed to be with Bobby in the mornings. She missed seeing his sleepy face, and she wanted to know that he needed her.
Whats your theory about the abductions? Laura asked.
Pete considered for a moment, his face thoughtful, his hands jammed into his pockets. I dont know, he said. Could be a woman. You know, the kids are looked after and then given up again, some nurturing instinct satisfied. He smiled. Not that theyd ever ask me anyway.
Why not?
Ive spoken my mind too often.
What do you think about this? she asked, nodding towards the murder scene.
He exhaled. I dont know. Some nutcase is the obvious guess, but there is one thing.
Go on.
The victim knew the killer. There was no break-in, no sign of a struggle anywhere else in the house. No one reported it until the old guy made the call.
Laura knew there was some sense in what Pete said. This was no domestic or a burglary gone wrong. It was a sadistic execution. A young woman, Jess Goldie, small and frail, barely twenty-five years old, had been strapped to a chair and strangled with a cord. There were no signs of a fight, no evidence of sexual assault. There was just a chair in the middle of the room, a dining-room chair with strong wooden legs, and she was strapped into it, her wrists tightly bound with thin nylon rope.
But that wasnt what had struck Laura when she first went into the house. It was something else, the sight that had caused the young probationary officer to spend the next hour sitting outside, gulping lungfuls of fresh air in between dry-heaving.
Whoever had killed this young woman had ripped out her tongue and gouged out her eyes.
Laura had methodically examined the scene. She was at work, a detective, so the shock stayed away, her mind too busy to process emotion. It would come to her later, she knew that, maybe when she was in bed or taking a bath, alone and vulnerable.
There was nothing to suggest a struggle, no defensive wounds to the hands, no ripped clothing. But then Laura spotted the marks ringed around the womans neck, as if the cord had been pulled many times over. It hadnt been a quick kill. It had been dragged out, made to last.
She turned to Pete. What did you make of the old boy who called it in?
Pete stroked his cheeks thoughtfully. Eric Randle? Hard to say. He didnt look the sort, if there is such a thing, and the only blood on him looked like contact blood. No splashes or spray. But its all too neat for me.
Laura was about to ask something else when she heard a car drive into the cul-de-sac. It pulled up in front of the house, and she watched as a small man in a sharp suit climbed out.
Oh great, Pete muttered. Now its all going to turn to shit. Egans here.
Oh great, Pete muttered. Now its all going to turn to shit. Egans here.
Egan?
DI Egan, said Pete, his voice low and quiet. Dermot Egan. We call him Dermot Ego. Youll soon find out why.
As she watched the figure walk towards the house, Laura sensed that he was right.
Chapter Three
Sam Nixon parked his car and looked out of the windscreen. He used to like sunriseit made even Blackley look prettybut the view had lost its charm years ago.
Sams office was in the middle of a line of Victorian bay fronts, with stone pillars in each doorway and gold-leaf letters on the windows, legacies of Blackleys cotton-producing heyday. The town used to rumble with the sounds of clogs and mills, and the mill-owners money would end up in the pockets of the lawyers and accountants who spread themselves along this street. Blackleys life as a Lancashire cotton town had ended a couple of decades earlier, but it was marked by its past like an old soldier by his tattoos.
Sam could see the canal that flowed past the end of the street. The towpath was overgrown with long Pennine grasses, and ripples in the water twinkled like starbursts as they caught the early-morning sun. The old wharf buildings were still there, three-storey stone blocks with large wooden canopies painted robins-egg blue that hung over the water, but they were converted into offices now. The sounds of a new day filled the car, the whistles of the morning birds as they swooped from roof to roof, the rustle of leaves and litter as they blew along the towpath. It was heritage Lancashire, lost industry repackaged as character.
But it was the only bright spot. The factories and mill buildings further along the canal were empty, stripped of their pipes and cables by thieves who traded them in for scrap, left to rot with broken windows and paint-splattered walls. Those that were bulldozed away were replaced by housing estates and retail parks.
Blackley was in a valley. A viaduct carried the railway between the hills, high millstone arches that cast shadows and echoed with the sound of the trains that rumbled towards the coast. Redbrick terraced streets ran up the hills around the town centre, steep and tight, the lines broken only by the domes and minarets of the local mosques, the luscious greens and coppers bright dots of colour in a drab Victorian grid.
Beyond those, Sam could see a cluster of tower blocks that overlooked the town centre, bruises of the sixties, dingy and grey, where the lifts reeked of piss and worse, and the landings were scattered with syringes. They had views to the edges of town, but everything looked bleak and wet from up there, whatever the weather.
Sam closed his eyes and sighed. He was a criminal lawyer in Blackleys largest firm, Parsons & Co. As soon as he hit the office his day would be taken up by dead-beats, drunks, junkies and lowlifes, a daily trudge through the towns debris. Criminal law was budget law, the most work for the least reward, so he had to put in long hours to keep the firm afloat. He started early and finished late, his day spent fighting hopeless causes in hostile courts, and most evenings wrecked by call-outs to the police station.
He used to enjoy it, the dirt, the grime. A legal service. A social service. Sometimes both, with a touch of court theatre, just the right phrase or the right question, maybe just a look, could mean guilty or not guilty, jail or no jail.
But then the job had worn him down. He had two children he hardly saw, and he couldnt remember the last time he had hugged his wife.
And he was sleeping badly. He was staying up too late, and when he did finally fall asleep he woke up scared, bad dreams making the day start too soon. They were always the same: he was running through doorways, dark, endless, one after another, someone crying far away. Then he would be falling. He woke the same way each time: a jolt in bed and then bolt upright, drenched in sweat, his heart beating fast.
He opened his eyes and sighed. He rubbed his cheeks, tried to wake himself up. He couldnt put it off any longer: he had to start the day.
His head was down as he walked towards his office and fumbled for the key. He had to put his briefcase down to search his pockets, and thats when he saw him.
On the other side of the street was a man, stooped, old and shabbily dressed, his clothes hanging loose from his body. His hands were clutched to his sides as if he were stood to attention, and his eyes were fixed in a stare, unblinking, unwavering.
Sam felt uneasy. The courtroom usually protected him, shrouded in respect and court rules, but defence lawyers pissed people off. Victims, witnesses, sometimes just the moral majority. He felt himself grow nervous, checked his pocket for his phone, ready to call the police if a knife appeared. But the old man just stared at Sam, his face expressionless.
Sam eventually found his key. He took one last look into the street. The old man hadnt moved. He was still watching him.
Sam made a mental note of the time and turned to go inside.
Chapter Four
As Egan walked towards them, Laura could sense his self-importance. He was jogger-trim, his nose tight and hooked, his hair bottle-dark and cut just too neatly, not a strand out of place. His white shirt was bright and crisp, to emphasise his suntan, she guessed, which seemed more salon than sunshine.
Pete smiled. Hes going to be pissed off about this.
Why?
Because the last time I saw him he was at one of the press conferences for the abducted children, preening himself. There isnt much airtime in this case, and hell want to get in and out quickly. He wont give up a place on the podium for what might be just a bad domestic.
Laura looked at Pete. If hes involved in the abduction cases, why doesnt he stick with those?
Pete looked at Laura and said under his breath, I suspect it wasnt his choice.
DI Egan looked around as he took in the scene. He almost stepped on Lauras toes before he noticed her. She saw his quick appraisal, eyes all over her body, ending at her bare ring-finger. Lesbian or prey, in his eyes she could see that she was either one or the other.
He spent too long looking at the identification she had hanging around her neck and then asked, So what do we have, Laura? He looked away before she had a chance to answer, so she ended up talking to the back of his head.
Deceased is called Jess Goldie. It looks like she died from strangulation, sir, but it wasnt quick, she said, trying to hide the fatigue in her voice. The early start was catching up on her.
Egan started to show interest. What do you mean?
I saw her neck before the doctor arrived, and there were a lot of marks, as if she had been strangled over and over.
What, you mean sex games? You know, strangle, release, strangle, release?
Laura thought she saw a twinkle of excitement in his eyes. Cant say I do, she replied, weary of cops who saw the quick thrill in everything. She died in her clothes. If it was kinky, it was shy kinky.
Egan pursed his lips and looked away.
And there was something else.