He didn’t reply, his face expressionless.

  ‘All these questions,’ she said. ‘There’s really nothing to it.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Alice,’ he said. ‘Why are you lying?’

  Nottingham, July 2013

  Brenda

  She left the pub and sat in the car. In the passenger seat Ned was dozing – or looked like he was – the cap over his eyes obscuring the gaping hole the claw of the hammer had left where his right eye had been.

  She felt fantastic. She always did, afterwards. In the run-up the anticipation was almost unbearable, everything sharper, all her senses heightened. It was as though she saw more colours, in sharper relief, heard more sounds, her body primed and ready to do anything.

  But afterwards: the release was the most wonderful drug there was.

  And she wanted more and more of it.

  She took out Alice’s phone and selected Ned’s mum’s number.

  Hi. Is Ned at home? We were supposed to meet up but he didn’t show.

  Then she started the engine and pulled out into the road. She drove home – to Alice’s house – and unlocked the door. The phone pinged with a reply.

  No. He left to meet you earlier. He took the bus. Have you called him?

  I tried. He didn’t answer.

  I’ll try him. He wanted to see you.

  She could only imagine what Ned’s mum had put up with. The moodiness, the tears, the pathetic, heartbroken, lovelorn wet blanket of a son. No doubt she was worried he would never find another girlfriend.

  Well, he wouldn’t now. She was better off without him.

  Don’t worry. I’ll call him tomorrow. I’m home now.

  She put the phone on the table – she didn’t need any tracking data showing where she was about to go – and headed back to the car.

  She had found the place earlier on Google Maps. In Perth she’d wanted the bodies to be found. She enjoyed reading about them in the press, enjoyed the thrill of seeing her work displayed for the world.

  But not this time. This time she needed the body to be gone for ever.

  No body, no crime. Just another missing person.

  She’d had no choice but to kill him. He’d brought it on himself. She could have ignored his phone calls, refused to see him, told him a thousand times it was over. But he would have kept coming. She could have moved to London, Paris, Bangkok, and one day he would have showed up on her doorstep.

  Or maybe not. Maybe he would have found some pride and walked away. It was a risk she couldn’t take.

  And then there was the thrill of it. Once she had started to plan to kill him, once she had started to anticipate the moment, imagine the swing of the hammer – well, once the idea was in her head there was no getting it out.

  Once the needle was in the addict’s hand and the vein was raised, the outcome was fixed. There was no turning away.

  So here she was.

  Calm. Centred. In control.

  Satiated, for now.

  She had memorized the route. A slag heap next to a deep, toxic pool of sludge from a long-ceased mining operation. It was due to be filled in in the coming years, tons of dirt poured into it in an attempt to hide the scars.

  A toxic legacy, buried.

  That was fine by her. It could bury her toxic legacy too.

  There was no one there when she arrived.

  No one to see her cut a hole in the wire fence.

  No one to see her drag his body to the edge of the pit of sludge.

  No one to hear the pop and hiss as it sank into the filth.

  She waved as his body disappeared.

  ‘Bye Ned,’ she said.

  Sunday, 29 August 2021

  DI Wynne

  Wynne had been sceptical when she first spoke to Tony Munro, the Australian detective – she was glad he had called, but how likely was it that a series of murders nearly a decade ago on the other side of the world were linked to what was happening in South Warrington right now?

  Not very, was the answer, and in her experience long shots rarely paid off.

  It was, though, the only thing she had to go on. There were no other leads. No CCTV, no DNA that they could trace, no witnesses. That was the thing with detective work that most people misunderstood – they thought cases were solved by high tech forensics or images from satellites or sudden, Sherlockian flashes of inspiration, but the truth was much more prosaic. Most cases were solved because someone saw something and told the authorities, or because the criminal made a stupid mistake and left their wallet at the scene. Most often of all was the humble confession; under questioning, few people could hold out.

  And in this case she had none of those things. Not even a suspect.

  So the Perth murders were all she had to go on, and although she wasn’t hopeful at first, the more she thought about them, the more she became convinced they were linked.

  A savage blow from a hammer to the head. Late at night, in a deserted location. No pattern, and nothing at the scene that spoke of a ritual element to the killings.

  Just a random, efficient murder in the dead of night.

  Untraceable, inexplicable, and, without some stroke of luck, unsolvable.

  She read the notes she had made. Six killings, terminating abruptly in mid 2013. The detectives on the case had speculated as to why they had stopped: perhaps the murderer moved away or was hurt or went to prison for some other offence. It was impossible to know.

  She paused and tried to put her thoughts in order. She had no more evidence, no new suspects, but she had learned – potentially – that there was a link to the earlier murders. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  She scrolled through the files on the screen. There were hundreds. Each detective had been assigned a group of them to review; if they found nothing, they would swap their group with another detective so that two sets of eyes saw each file. It was tedious, but it was the only way.

  She had her files to review, too. She clicked on one, and began to read.

  There was a knock on the door. It opened and DS Alexander stepped inside. She was holding a mug of tea and a piece of paper.

  ‘Here,’ she said, and put the tea on the table. ‘I just had one.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Wynne said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘That’s not the only reason I’m here,’ DS Alexander said. ‘There’s this.’

  She handed the paper to Wynne.

  ‘I found it in the files, and printed it out. I thought it was really interesting. Certainly a new perspective.’

  ‘What is it?’ Wynne said.

  ‘Forensic psychiatrist’s report. Take a read. I’ve highlighted the interesting part in yellow.’

  Wynne scanned down to the highlighted section.

  All of the murders have been committed in ‘cold blood’, by which I mean there is no evidence that the killer was in a heightened emotional state. It is probable they were in some way more focused than usual, but there are no signs of frenzied behaviour. Often in serial killer cases there are significant injuries inflicted post-mortem as, with the victim at their mercy, the killer indulges their wilder fantasies. These can include butchery and /or sexual assault. Of course, these things can also occur pre-mortem; what is striking in this case is their absence.

  Wynne looked up at DS Alexander. ‘It is striking,’ she said. ‘We should have noticed that these killings are so dispassionate. Almost like assassinations.’

  ‘There’s more,’ DS Alexander said. ‘Read the note at the bottom.’

  Note, added by Det. Tony Munro following conversation with forensic psychiatrist, Sandy Newell.

  Dr Newell indicated that she had suspicions the killer might be a woman. She was clear that this was speculation on her part based on no more than an intuition, and hence not in her report. However, the absence of the elements of frenzied and / or sexual assault pre-or post-mortem leads her to question the gender of the killer.

  Wynne picked up the mug of tea and took a sip.

  ‘You know,’ she said. ‘Dr Newell may have a point.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ DS Alexander said.

  ‘But I’m not sure it helps us. It simply means we have twice as many suspects. And what about the voice? Australian, and male.’

  ‘Could be a simple mistake,’ DS Alexander said. ‘Or a piece of mis-direction. The killer said a few words in a deep voice and an Australian accent to put us off.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Wynne said. ‘Although if there is a link to the Perth murders, all they were faking was the deep voice.’

  ‘So what’s next?’ DS Alexander said.

  ‘I don’t know. Keep looking. But’ – Wynne paused for more tea – ‘we are making – finally – some progress.’

  Wynne looked at the clock – 2 p.m., so 10 p.m. in Perth.

  Munro would be awake.

  Maybe.

  She dialled his mobile phone number. It rang for a while – she was expecting it to go to voicemail – and then he answered.

  ‘G’day,’ he said. ‘You just caught me. Another ten minutes and I’d have been dead to the world.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you so late. But I wanted to talk something through while it’s fresh in my mind.’

  ‘No worries, mate,’ Detective Munro said. ‘If it helps with this case I’m all yours. It’s been on my mind for nearly ten years now. What is it?’

  ‘The forensic psychiatrist’s report,’ Wynne said. ‘There’s a note to the effect that she wondered if the killer was a woman.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We talked about it. As you know, more often that not it’s men in these cases, but not always. And she said she had a feeling this was a woman. Or might be.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought that it could be either. Women can be equally as vicious as men. But I saw her point. Often the assumption is that a bloke did it – and often it’s the right assumption.’

  ‘Did you do anything with the information?’

  ‘Not really. I did wonder though about the woman who disappeared after her parents were killed. The theory there was that she was killed too – but I wondered. Never found a trace of her, though, so the trail went cold.’

  ‘What was her name again?’ Wynne said.

  ‘Petersen. Andrea Petersen. I sent the notes on that, too.’

  ‘Great,’ Wynne said. ‘I’ll look them over. And apologies, once again, for the late call.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Munro said. ‘But keep me posted, all right?’

  Nottingham, July 2013

  Brenda

  Ned’s mum kept calling, but there was no way she could talk to her. She would realize instantly it wasn’t Alice on the line.

  She typed a message.

  Hi. I’m tied up. Can I call later?

  Please do. I’m worried about Ned. He didn’t come home last night.

  No, she thought. He didn’t, and he won’t be any time soon. Not unless he comes back to life and crawls out of that sludge pit.

  Really? I haven’t seen him. He probably crashed at a friend’s house.

  Maybe. But he’s not answering his phone, and you know Ned. He’s pretty responsible.

  He is. Let me know if you find him.

  She put the phone aside and opened Alice’s laptop. She had to get away for a while. That was no problem; she had plenty of money.

  She sent Nellie and Maddie a message – Hey, going to travel in Europe for a while, get a break from Ned – he’s been pretty relentless – and started looking for flights.

  Sunday, 29 August 2021

  Tom

  Alice stared at him, her eyes hard and unreadable. Then her expression softened.

  He got the impression it took some effort.

  ‘I’m not lying,’ she said.

  ‘You are. I know you are.’

  ‘Tom,’ Alice said. ‘You don’t know what I looked like back then. I had long hair, and I cut it short. Plenty of people change their appearance.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ he replied. ‘I’m agreeing that’s you.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ she said.

  He pointed to the woman on the left of the photos. ‘She,’ he said. ‘Is Alice Barnes.’ He pointed to the woman on the right. ‘She is you. Brenda, according to the email.’

  Alice shook her head. ‘No. She’ – she pointed to Alice Barnes – ‘is Brenda.’ She gave a huff of exasperation. ‘The other woman is me. I don’t know why you don’t believe me. It’s obvious she’s me – with blonde hair and a decade younger – but she’s me.’

  Tom’s vision swam. He wanted to believe her – it would make everything much simpler – and for a moment he almost did.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re lying.’

  ‘Don’t call me a liar.’

  ‘Alice—’

  ‘No. Don’t call me a liar.’

  ‘Do you want to know why I have this photo?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m putting together an album for your birthday. Old-fashioned paper one. And so I asked your friends for photos of you from before I knew you. Nellie and Maddie. They sent me plenty, including this one.’

  ‘OK.’ She folded her arms. ‘I need a beer. You want one?’

  He did, desperately. ‘Sure.’

  She walked into the kitchen. A few minutes later – no doubt she was taking some time to compose herself – she came out with two bottles of beer. She passed one to him.

  ‘So, you were saying. You went behind my back to get photos from my friends.’

  ‘I was doing something nice. Nellie wants to get back in touch by the way. Anyway, here are the photos she sent.’

  He handed her the phone and watched her scroll through the photos. The beer was cold and necessary and he took a long swig, then another.

  ‘Well,’ she said, and put the phone on the table. ‘I see what you mean. Their friend – Alice Barnes – is in the photo with me, which means I’m the other woman.’

  She caught his gaze and held it. Her eyes were different, hollow and empty. A chill ran through him.

  ‘I’m Brenda,’ she said. ‘You got me, tiger.’

  He couldn’t process what he was hearing; since he’d seen the photo he’d known something was wrong, but he’d been sure there was an explanation of some sort.

  A long lost sister. A name change. Mistaken identity.

  But to hear her confirm she was not Alice Barnes, that she was someone else entirely – it wasn’t possible.

  But it was happening.

  ‘You’re Brenda?’ he said.

  ‘Damn straight, mate,’ she said. Her voice had changed.

  She had an Australian accent.

  ‘But,’ he paused, ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  On the table his phone started to ring. She picked it up.

  ‘Roland,’ she said. ‘Your fucking idiot brother.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She touched the screen and the call ended.

  ‘Hey. That’s my phone.’

  She threw it onto the grass. ‘Go and get it.’

  He started to get to his feet, but his legs felt heavy and he slumped back into his chair. His hands were starting to go numb and his vision was fading.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  Alice

  Fuck.

  Typical fucking Tom. Some stupid romantic gesture and he’d come this close to ruining her plans.

  What if he’d found out a day earlier, when she wasn’t ready? It would have been a disaster.

  But he hadn’t. He’d found out today, when she was ready. She’d been planning to wait another day or two, but no matter. Everything was in place now.

  He tried to get up and fell back in his chair. Idiot had drunk the beer. It had a sedative in it – a powerful one she kept in her washbag, and which she had sprinted upstairs to get.

  And now he had drunk it, it was time. Time to get rid of him. Time to get rid of this damn baby.

  She couldn’t even think about the baby without her stomach clenching in anger and regret. How had she let it happen? She’d been on the pill and she’d fucked up somehow. She still wasn’t sure how. Maybe it was a faulty batch. That could happen. By the time she found out it was too late. Tom was deliriously happy. She couldn’t have got rid of it.

  So she’d gone through with it. She’d thought it would maybe be OK.

  It was the worst mistake of her life.

  But she was going to fix things.

  She glanced up at Tom. His eyes were closed and he was slumped in the chair, his chin on his chest. He reminded her of Ned after she had caved his skull in with the hammer.

  His phone buzzed. It was face down on the grass. She picked it up. There was a message from Roland.

  Give me a call, when you get a moment.

  Fucking Roland. He wasn’t that dissimilar to Tom. They were both weak, although in different ways. That was why she knew she could do this; it would take someone a lot stronger than Roland or Tom to stop her. That had been the case all her life: she was simply better and stronger than the people she encountered.

  In part because they couldn’t even imagine what she would do. Someone upset her, or got in her way? They might think she would be annoyed and try to take some petty, harmless revenge.

  The idea that she would crush their skull would barely – if at all – even enter their minds.

  Which was the source of her advantage.

  She typed a reply.

  Maybe tomorrow. I’m tied up tonight.

  She switched the phone off and put it down on the table. This was another stroke of luck; when tomorrow came this message would take on a new, more sinister meaning.

  A meaning that would only add credence to the story she would tell the world.