“Good. If you breathe one word about this call to that copper, your fingers will be next, got it?”

  “Yes. Thank you. You’re so kind.”

  He doubled up again remembering the quiver in her words, then the front door slammed shut, and he closed his mouth, sobering fast. The woman he shared with, Cassandra, came into the living room and plonked down on the sofa.

  “What a day,” she said, her plait sitting on her shoulder, a creepy black snake. “And I’ve got to go back out in an hour to do my shift at The Fiddler’s. They’ve got a lock-in because of the darts tournament, so I won’t be back until gone three, then I’ve got to get up at eight and start all over again. Running on gas, me.”

  T clenched his teeth. His dad went to The Fiddler’s, always had.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Like they say, no rest for the wicked.” He smiled, hoping she took it as a joke. He needed to keep her onside.

  “Then I must be really wicked, because I have sod all rest except on a Sunday.” She grinned, showing her perfect teeth. “What are you up to tonight?” Her plait squirmed.

  He shivered, imagining the hair sticking out below the rubber band was a flicking tongue. “I’ll be staying in, as usual.”

  “Ben’s off out with his missus, then he’s at her place overnight, so you’ll have the house to yourself again. To be honest, we’re rarely here, as you’ve probably noticed. Sorry if you wanted to share with people who are around to bond.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Nah, you’re all right. I like being by myself.”

  The situation suited him down to the ground. With neither Cassandra or Ben knowing whether he was in or out most of the time, he could get on with what he needed to do, them none the wiser, and if that Smith and Wilkins came sniffing round to ask them questions, his housemates wouldn’t be able to tell them much—not that they’d even be here when the police came calling.

  He was safe. So long as he was careful.

  * * * *

  He waited until ten o’clock and, under the cover of a moonless sky, drove to Nancy’s street, parking a few houses away so no one would match his vehicle with her murder once news spread of her death. Frightening her with having her fingers and toes chopped off wouldn’t stop her opening her mouth to someone in the end, so he’d have to get rid of her. Anyway, she’d given birth to the bitch who’d helped kill Chelsea, so she was doomed by association.

  Unlucky for her.

  He carried his large holdall containing everything he needed—tools, a plastic box for the innards, a roll of black bags, the skull material, Superglue, a sock, and the hammer. He’d enjoyed embedding the latter in Opal’s head and wanted the rush of doing it again. Nothing beat the sound of it cracking bone.

  T walked down the alley between her detached house and the next, entering her side gate into her garden. He placed his bag down, put on his latex gloves, and tapped on the back door, staring through the glass into the darkened room. A light came on in the hallway beyond, and a woman appeared in the doorway, staring at him, her face pale, eyes wide, a cigarette stuck to her bottom lip. He took the cigar cutter out of his pocket and held it up, flexing the handles to get his point across: If you don’t let me in, I’ll use these on you.

  He was going to use them anyway, but whatever.

  She stubbed the fag out in a saucer on the worktop, the dirty baggage, then shuffled over and twisted the key, making eye contact all the while, then pulled the door wide. The smell of new and old smoke wafted out at him. He raised his finger to his lips to keep her quiet, and she nodded over and over, stepping back, scared shitless by the looks of her. He held back laughter and went in, hefting his holdall with him. The damn thing was well heavy.

  Locking them in, he gestured for her to walk out of the kitchen and followed her into the living room, turning the light on in there.

  “Bishway Solutions at your service,” he said, a giggle bubbling in his windpipe.

  She backed away to the sofa and lowered onto it. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  She appeared sufficiently wrecked, like his mother, and he enjoyed seeing it. Mum needed to feel wrecked after the life she’d let them live, and this woman here, well, he hoped she rotted in Hell for spawning a murderer.

  He thought about his words to Smith, how he’d said it wasn’t Opal’s fault Chelsea had died—and brushed it away. Thoughts like that didn’t belong here, no matter how true they were. Not when he had a job to do. Not when he needed to do something to avenge Chelsea’s death. Whether it was right or wrong, it didn’t matter.

  He checked the curtains—closed. Good-oh.

  “Tell me one of the answers on The Chase,” he demanded, squeezing the cutters. He’d had to watch it on catch-up in order to make sure she’d done as he’d told her. While her viewing The Chase wasn’t needed, he liked the sense of control it gave him, to have someone bend to his will.

  “Opal.”

  “Ah, so you were watching it. Where’s Georgia?”

  “At The Ringer Hotel.”

  “What room?” He narrowed his eyes at her, wanting to appear menacing.

  Her whole body juddered, so he reckoned he’d succeeded.

  “I don’t know. I tried all ways to get her to slip up, even asked if I could go and see Georgia, but she wasn’t having it. Alice wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?” He did laugh then, the song chanting through his mind. He sang some of it. “Twenty-four years just waiting for a chance…” Ironic. He’d suffered twenty-four years of wanting to pay the world back for the life he’d been forced to live.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, wringing her hands, her nails gnarled and ridged.

  A bit like his.

  “Never you mind. Get on the floor.” He pointed for emphasis.

  She stared at his gloved hand, shuddered, and sank off the sofa to her knees.

  “And take them stupid fucking slippers off.”

  She loosened them from her feet then kicked them away. “What…what are you going to do to me? I did what you wanted. I got the information.”

  “Shut up, you annoying old bitch. You didn’t get enough information, and that’s narked me.” He opened his bag and took the sock out, shoving it in her mouth.

  Her lips stretched tight, and it looked as though that hurt. She moved her hand to take it out, eyes bulging.

  He flexed the cigar clipper handles again. “I wouldn’t bother, love.”

  Rope out of the holdall, he advanced on her, and she didn’t take his advice. No, she whipped the sock out and opened her mouth wide to scream.

  He punched her in the nose a few times, blood spurting, the only sound coming out of her a whimper of pain. Sock back in her gob, he pushed her flat to the floor, loving the fact she’d banged her head. Loving her being in pain.

  “You’ve pissed me right off now. I was going to do this when you were dead…”

  She said something, but it was muffled. He imagined it was: Do what?

  He dropped the cutters. Looping the rope around her ankles, despite her kicking and flailing and trying to sit up and claw at him, he paused to slap her cheek, and she flopped down again. Wrists secured, he sat on her, holding one of her arms, bringing them both up.

  “You know what I said on the phone, yeah?” He picked the cutters up.

  She flung her head from side to side, snorting through her nose, snot flying, the dirty bint.

  “Well, I always do what I say. I know I said if you told the police, but you would have done in the end, wouldn’t you.”

  He snipped off a little finger.

  The animalistic noise coming out of her was pretty loud despite the gag, so he cut off all the others quickly, plus the thumbs, blood gushing out. He collected them from where they’d fallen on her chest and put the bloodied things on the sofa, in a row, like the pegs on the table at Georgia’s.

  Sadly, Nancy was out of it now, unconscious from the pain and shock, he reckoned, so he didn’t get to see her reaction when he snipped off her manky toes. They joined the fingers, all twenty stubs lined up together.

  Getting off her, he stood and stared at her, this bitch, thinking of how it would feel to kill Mum. Dad.

  He found the hammer and brought it down on her skull, the claw end this time, just to mix things up a bit for the police. Give them something to scratch their chins about. He yanked it, and her head rose with it, then dropped away from the claw, grey matter and blood coating it. Claret gushed from the hole, and he gazed at it for ages while it spread on the carpet, a red river.

  Mesmerising.

  Then he got to work, doing what he’d done to the others, humming Hush Little Baby all the while.

  Her hoover was crap, though.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The day was another bloody hot one, and Bethany waited outside her house for Mike to join her. He was busy gassing inside with Vinny, who’d had a few hours in bed and would be getting back in it soon.

  Her evening with Mike had gone as predicted—lots of shop talk. They’d scrubbed a few suspects off the list: Nancy Forrester, William Bishway, and Liz, Warren, and Georgia Holt.

  Mike left the house and got in beside her.

  “I just had a thought,” she said, waving at Vinny on the doorstep as she drove off.

  “What’s that then?” Mike plugged his seat belt in.

  “What if Harriet Bishway isn’t really as frail as she seemed?”

  “Oh…”

  “What if she was so distraught about Chelsea, she killed Jason and Opal? After all, she knew their names, and William was probably in The Fiddler’s both nights. Who’s to say she didn’t just get up and anger gave her the strength to bump them off?”

  “Really, though?” He glanced at her, eyebrows high.

  “Stranger things have happened. She could have used all that rage she probably feels towards William.”

  “I suppose so. So what about the bloke buying the printer transfers? There’s no way we can discount that. It could be Timothy Bishway.”

  “Ugh, you always have to be the voice of reason. Ignore me. I was being fanciful.”

  “I get where you’re coming from, but no. It’s a bloke.”

  She parked at the station, and they went inside.

  “Oh, Miss Ursula Fringwell, you look absolutely knackered,” Bethany said, approaching the front desk.

  “I am.” She sighed. “What a night. Suspected burglar, a stabbing, ABH, shoplifting from Sainsbury’s—a cup with a dog on it, of all things. I tell you, we’ll need more holding cells at this rate. Bloody ridiculous.”

  “Sorry you had a shit time of it. Anything for us?”

  “No one’s been hoovered out, no.”

  “Oh, don’t,” Mike said, walking away and going upstairs.

  “Something I said?” Ursula asked, clearly bemused.

  “Don’t mind him. The poor sod keeps trying to forget seeing that Dyson, and I’ve been a bit of a cow and kept reminding him of it last night.”

  “You’re awful.”

  “I know.” Bethany smiled and waved, then shot up to the incident room.

  Kribbs sat with Mike at his desk. Fran and Leona weren’t in yet.

  “Oh, hello, sir.” She moved straight to the coffeemaker, sorting cups while it brewed.

  “I just nipped in to say the paperwork for Shoe Zone regarding the boots and Eye Spectacular on the lenses should be with us by the end of play today. They’re backlogged, apparently, so it was a good job I applied for it before I went home last night. Going by recent requests, don’t hold your breath on it arriving until tomorrow. I think they were being kind in their time estimate—or didn’t want me whinging.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Want a coffee?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.” Kribbs smiled. “How did you get on at the printing shop?”

  “We think it’s the man. We viewed the CCTV in and out of the shop, plus some from H & M. He bought a large printer pack but also stole a smaller one—stuffed it down his bloody trousers—which we’re guessing he used for the eyes on the skull image. He left the shop and disappeared into the crowd.”

  “Did you get a look at his face?” Kribbs asked.

  “No, he had his hood up. Bloody annoying.” God, that coffee was taking ages. “I’ll get the dongle off to Isabelle, and her lot can work out how tall he is and an average weight.”

  “What about the boot prints?” Kribbs ran his finger between his shirt collar and his neck. “Full or partials?”

  “Toe-end partials, so we don’t know what size he takes.” She shrugged. “Me and Mike were talking last night and wondered why he’d worn a different pair when killing Opal. Too blood-soaked? If so, where did he put them?”

  “If he was sensible, he’d have burnt the buggers. If he wasn’t, he’ll have dumped them.” Kribbs loosened his tie knot.

  “You all right, sir?” she asked, concerned that his face was going an unhealthy shade of red.

  “Just a bit hot, and I have some things going on that means I lose focus. Health. Nothing to worry about, though. Still, that’s neither here nor there. I’ve got a job to do, just like everyone else. So, I’m off. If you need me, I’ll be in my office until lunchtime. Then I’m out for a meal with a few bigwigs.”

  “Lucky you,” she said. “And don’t forget your coffee.” She quickly poured a cup from what had managed to drip through into the carafe, added Coffeemate and sugar, then handed it over.

  “Thanks.” He left them to it.

  Once the coffee had finally finished brewing, Bethany made another two cups and carried Mike’s to him. She leant her backside on his desk and stared at the whiteboards. “Suppose I ought to add what we discovered last night.”

  She pushed off and went over there, using a marker to update the information. Just as she finished, Fran and Leona walked in with hearty good mornings and got themselves settled at their desks.

  “Morning,” Bethany said. “Did you have a good evening?”

  Fran nodded. “Went to watch a film and ate too much popcorn. Mum babysat, bless her. Much as I love our daughter, I do like spending adult time without her.”

  “I bet. What about you, Leona?” Bethany asked.

  “Ironing. Lots of it. Oh, and cleaning the shower tray. My flat’s well grotty, and it keeps getting mouldy. The landlord won’t do anything about it. Tight git.”

  “About time you upped sticks to a better place then, isn’t it?” Mike sipped his coffee. “I’ll help you on moving day if you like.”

  “I might have to take you up on that.” Leona hung her bag over the back of her chair. “I’ll let you know if I ever get my arse in gear and find somewhere else.”

  “Right.” Bethany clapped. “Gossip time over.” She told them about their visit to the printing shop.

  “He stole a pack?” Fran’s thin eyebrows joined in the middle. “Cheeky bastard.”

  “What got me,” Bethany said, “was he handed over a twenty, so he could have actually paid for it.”

  “Ooh, assumption! Just because he had the money, doesn’t mean he didn’t need it for something else. He might be skint and could only manage to splash out for the big pack.” Leona booted up her computer.

  Fran chuckled. “He probably is skint, what with buying red contact lenses.”

  Her dry humour had them all laughing.

  “So we’re in agreement it’s probably this bloke then, yes?” Bethany popped the marker down on the lip at the bottom of the whiteboard.

  A general murmur of agreement went round.

  “Okay, I’m off to make a couple of calls. Back in a minute.” Bethany strode to her office, glanced at the post, and pushed it to one side. It could wait. She dialled Presley after checking he hadn’t sent an in-depth email last night.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I ran late into overtime, hence no update. What a bloody shitshow that PM was. Jason, by the way. I haven’t even got around to Opal. She’s in the fridge.”

  Bethany didn’t need the visual. “Okay, what have you got on Jason?”

  “Wedged up in the chest cavity was a crystal swan and a pink clothes peg.”

  “What? The swan was stolen from Georgia’s house.”

  “Obviously taken but used straight afterwards. A diamond earring had been poked into the hole in his head.”

  “That’s just bloody sick, that is.” She couldn’t think why they would have been placed in the body like that. And what was the peg thing all about? “Okay, another crystal was taken—a teardrop. You might find that in Opal.”

  “I’ll certainly look out for it. Like I said before, cause of death is the smack to the head on the hearth spike. Cutting was inflicted after death—stomach and face. I’d say a small spade was used to scrape the remains of the innards out after they were sliced away—there are cut marks all over the cavity where a knife had been used, probably to chop at the liver et cetera. Isabelle has the contact lenses in case they were stupid enough not to wear gloves when applying them. Let’s hope a print comes off them.”

  “Unlikely. Our suspect even wore gloves to buy the printing transfer pack, so it’s doubtful he wouldn’t have them on while murdering. Right-handed, Isabelle reckons.”

  “Definitely. Well, I need to get on with Opal’s now. I’ll let you know if I find a crystal and another earring.”

  “Or a necklace. That’s missing as well.”

  “Deary me. Bye for now.”

  She called Isabelle next. “Sorry to bug you so early. Has anything come through?”

  “Yes, the digital footprint. Jason had three phones, not two—forgot to tell you I found another one wedged behind a filing cabinet in his home office, which must have been the one he got rid of, pretending he’d lost it. I can only apologise for not keeping you in the loop—so much to do. Okay, so he made many calls to a phone registered to a William Bishway—however, before you get excited, it’s clear the messages are from Chelsea, so you might want to check whether Mr Bishway got it for her on contract.”

  “I can’t see that myself,” Bethany said. “Timothy Bishway said his father keeps all the money to himself and wouldn’t even be likely to part with cash for a gravestone, so I can’t see him forking out for a contract, but you never know. I’ll look into it.”