‘Well, I don’t think it’ll be that red one with the little golfers on it.’

  Tanner grunted another laugh, after which they said nothing for a while. Thorne heard Tanner mutter ‘Stop it’ and, as he didn’t think she had company, he could only guess she was admonishing her cat.

  ‘You think she is local?’ Tanner asked, eventually. ‘Down that neck of the woods?’

  ‘I can’t see any other reason why she’d go back to Thornton Heath.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow—’

  ‘Three more days, Nic.’

  Tanner said nothing.

  ‘Three more days until the last wise monkey. Christ knows what she’s got in mind after that, but I mean it makes sense, right? Saturday night is date night and it doesn’t look like she’s got any intention of slowing down.’

  ‘Well at least we’re making it harder for her,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Getting her face out there.’

  Thorne stared at the TV, then at the wall above it, then at a large cobweb dancing in the corner, where the wall met the ceiling. ‘Right . . . I’m going to bed. Knackering, isn’t it, doing bugger all?’

  ‘Just you then, is it? No sexy shrink around, tonight?’

  ‘We don’t spend every night together.’

  ‘So, a cosy evening of ready meals and internet porn, was it?’

  ‘Well, now you mention it,’ Thorne said. ‘I did spend a fair amount of time on my laptop before you called.’

  ‘Not sure I could even guess what kind of filth you’re into,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Oh, you won’t, because we’re talking seriously bizarre. I tried to fight the urge, but what can I tell you? Twenty minutes online, but I managed it in the end.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know—’

  ‘I joined my local library.’

  SEVENTEEN

  I can’t remember her name but I’m sure I was at school with her.

  She really looks like this girl I used to go out with.

  I don’t know who she is, but she’s proper evil. You can just tell . . .

  Responses from the public had been pouring in for hours. From those who’d seen the appeal on morning TV programmes, logged on to news websites or simply read the bulletins arriving on their phones. From others who had seen the photograph in their daily newspaper or picked up a dog-eared copy of Metro on the bus or the train into work. Call handlers at the Lambeth control centre had their work cut out because, as was always the case, more than a few public-spirited citizens were phoning simply to express an opinion or to pass on bogus information, but once the mischief-makers and those acting maliciously had been discounted there was still enough being sent through to set at least some pulses racing.

  To galvanise the less experienced members of the team.

  Several names had been passed on – though unfortunately none more than once – and among sightings of their suspect from almost every part of the country a significant number had been reported in south London. Given time, everything would be followed up, but these tips in particular would be prioritised.

  ‘Anywhere south of the river,’ Thorne had said. ‘Watch out for those, and straight to the top of the list if it’s anywhere within spitting distance of that library. Croydon, Bromley, Crystal Palace.’

  He had prowled the incident room all morning, sullen and snappy. Sifting through intelligence as and when it came in from Lambeth. Reminding himself that the more excited he allowed himself to become about this or that lead, the worse he would feel when it came to nothing. It was a tactic that had stood him in good stead when dealing with senior officers or the desperate relatives of victims – with anyone pushing hard for a result – but it worked equally well in the somewhat trickier dealings he constantly had with himself.

  Under-promise and over-deliver.

  He knew from bitter experience that a life lived the other way round was only ever going to make him, and those unfortunate enough to get near him, blunted and miserable.

  ‘Works with sex as well,’ Hendricks had told him once; into the Guinness and happily gobbing off. ‘I mean, there’s no point bigging yourself up, is there? They’re only going to be disappointed. But you tell them you’re hung like a hamster, you can’t go for more than a few minutes and you always blow your wad too early . . . then, however you perform, it’s always a nice surprise. Happy days for everyone, right?’

  Thorne watched the notes being scribbled, listened to the phones ring and tried not to think too much about what would make him happy today.

  Just before midday, he and Tanner moved from the incident room into their office. Tanner sat at her computer and logged on to Sky News, which was broadcasting the proceedings live from Scotland Yard.

  They watched the Chief Superintendent make the introductions then hand over to Russell Brigstocke. The DCI stood up and glanced at his notes.

  ‘You were right,’ Thorne said.

  Tanner looked at him.

  He nodded at the screen. ‘The blue tie.’

  The usual Met Police backdrop had been replaced by a huge photograph of the woman responsible for bringing them all together: the police officers and the members of the press; the couple in their fifties sharing the platform with Brigstocke and his boss. Andrea Sumner had declined to take part, but the Powers That Be had pronounced themselves happy enough to have Hari Reddy’s mother and father. Shell-shocked parents would probably play better than a grieving widow.

  Thorne wondered if the usual shoutline should be updated for occasions such as this.

  Metropolitan Police. Hoping you’ll help us make a safer London.

  ‘We’re urgently seeking to trace the whereabouts of the young woman you can see in the photograph behind me,’ Brigstocke said.

  They had plumped for the photo ‘Jenny’ had posted on the Hookupz website. It had been suggested they might also show an earlier photo of the suspect when she was ‘Jasmine’ and had long, blonde hair, but had decided this would only lead to confusion and perhaps twice the number of unhelpful calls to chase up. The information was all in the press pack anyway. The aliases, the dating apps and websites, the changes in appearance.

  ‘We believe that this woman is responsible for the savage murder of Hari Reddy on Saturday evening and that this murder is connected to that of Richard Sumner, one week before that . . . ’

  ‘You want to translate?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘You know how it works,’ Tanner said.

  ‘And furthermore,’ Thorne said, ‘we believe that they will both be connected to the murder of some as yet unidentified individual two days’ hence . . . ’

  Tanner shushed him.

  It was standard procedure to withhold the specifics of the crime, but grislier details aside, the language of the DCI’s statement had been carefully chosen. Responsible . . . connected to. The experienced journos would know what was being said, of course, and those who took the tabloid shilling would not hold back on sensationalism when they ran the story. That was not Brigstocke’s job. On top of a basic appeal for information, Brigstocke was there to ensure the public remained vigilant, but it was in nobody’s interest to scare them to death.

  The use of the word savage had been seriously debated.

  It was also why there would be no questions taken afterwards.

  So, are we talking about a serial killer on the loose in London? Could you explain why there’s been so little progress on this case? How confident are you of catching this woman?

  The press had a decent line in mischief and malice, too.

  When Brigstocke had finished, he introduced the parents of the second victim. Hari Reddy’s father gulped down water from the tumbler in front of him. He stood up and fumbled with his glasses for a second or two, before reading a short statement. He begged those watching to do anything they could, to pass on any information they had, in the hope that no other parents would have to suffer in the way he and his wife were. The man’s voice was quiet, but remained steady. At one point, without taking his eyes from the piece of paper in his left hand, he reached out his right to brush the shoulder of the woman who sat next to him with her head bowed, weeping silently.

  ‘Hari was a wonderful boy,’ Mr Reddy said. ‘We loved him more than anything and he did not deserve this. Burying him will be the second hardest thing we have ever done. The first was identifying his body.’

  Thorne and Tanner watched as the 101 contact number scrolled across the bottom of the screen; as the Detective Superintendent stood to wind things up and Brigstocke leaned across to whisper something to Hari Reddy’s mother and father.

  ‘What do you reckon he’s saying?’ Tanner said.

  Thorne shook his head. ‘I don’t know . . . thank you or well done or whatever. Nothing he’d be wise not to say.’ He knew Brigstocke well enough. Whether or not they ended up delivering anything, he never over-promised.

  Thorne didn’t feel quite as wiped out as he had been the previous night, but it was pretty close. He put away three slices of cheese on toast while Hank Williams sang Live At The Grand Ole Opry, then texted Melita to find out if she was still awake. As soon as he’d received a thumbs-up emoji, he rang.

  ‘Is this a booty call?’

  ‘A what?’

  Melita explained.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Thorne lay back on the sofa. ‘It’s . . . whatever the opposite of that is. I just called to say goodnight, really. Anyway, as far as sexual advances are concerned, I think it’s your turn to make the first move.’

  ‘What about the other night?’

  ‘Oh . . . yeah.’

  ‘Well, it obviously wasn’t that memorable.’

  ‘No, it was. It doesn’t matter . . . I just wanted to make a shit joke about the booty being on the other foot.’

  Melita laughed, but she sounded tired, too. Or distracted. Thorne asked if she’d seen the press conference.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve had back to back clients all day. I’ll watch it online when I go to bed. Was it useful?’

  ‘Hard to tell yet,’ Thorne said. The volume of calls had certainly been high immediately afterwards and had increased towards the end of the day, when people had begun getting home from work. By the time Thorne had knocked off, there had been a significant number of sightings in the borough of Croydon – South Norwood, Crystal Palace and two in Thornton Heath – as well as half a dozen names which were being checked out at that very minute by the team on the overnight shift. ‘Should have something to chase up tomorrow.’

  ‘Let me know how it goes,’ Melita said.

  ‘As long as you won’t just think I’m calling for a bunk-up.’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  Thorne was trying to formulate another joke based around booty being in the eye of the beholder when the tone on his phone told him that another call was waiting. He looked at the handset to see who the caller was and told Melita that he needed to take it.

  Dipak Chall was working the late turn.

  ‘Dipak . . . ?’

  ‘There’s a call I think you should hear,’ Chall said. ‘Came in about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Right . . . ’ Thorne heard a click and a hiss. He sat up. All calls were routinely recorded and he guessed that Chall had loaded the relevant sound file. He listened to a civilian staff member answer the incoming call and ask how she could help. The voice was tinny and Thorne presumed that Chall was simply holding his phone close to the computer speaker.

  Then, a second voice.

  ‘Well, it’s just information, really.’ High and light, an estuary accent. ‘I mean, that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘What information do you have, madam?’

  ‘Only that sometimes a date can go a bit wrong. That’s all. Sometimes there just isn’t that . . . spark. Like, you know from the off there’s no future in it, so you just have to make the best of things and do whatever it takes to enjoy yourself. You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m listening . . . ’

  ‘I’ve had a few dates like that recently, where I was the only one enjoying themselves, but only a couple of them seem to be common knowledge. It’s like, one’s gone . . . under the radar.’ She waited. ‘You still there?’

  The woman in the incident room confirmed that she was.

  ‘So, there’s a house in Hadley Wood. All very posh.’ She gave a street name, spelled it out. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember the number, but it’s a big one down near the end. There’s a white fence . . . ’

  There was another click and Chall came back on the line. ‘Boss . . . ?’

  Thorne already had his jacket on. ‘You trace the number?’

  ‘Unregistered pay as you go,’ Chall said. ‘Not much we can do until people are back at work in the morning.’

  ‘Right, get all the usual bodies over to Hadley Wood. I’ll meet everyone there.’ He snatched up his car keys. ‘And call DI Tanner.’

  ‘You reckon that was her?’

  Thorne said they would find out soon enough, but as he slammed the door behind him he was asking himself why he was even bothering to hedge his bets. He already knew the third wise monkey had shown up two days early.

  EIGHTEEN

  She’d had one large vodka before making the call and a couple more since. Lager to chase them with. The pub was noisy, but she was enjoying herself at her table in the corner, tuned out from the chatter and the music; wondering if the police had got there yet and remembering the fun she’d had in that lovely house.

  Thinking the place was enormous and how full of old furniture and dusty knick-knacks it was. How nice the old man seemed to be.

  ‘I don’t have much female company,’ he’d said.

  ‘Well, I hope I’m not a disappointment.’

  ‘Oh, no. I think I’m the one that’s likely to disappoint.’

  She’d laughed then and put a hand on his knee. ‘You’ll do.’

  Thinking that the bottle of wine he’d produced probably cost more than she earned in a week and that, seeing as the poor old soul was knocking on a bit, it wouldn’t be too long before he’d need the toilet and she could pop a little something into his glass.

  ‘I’m feeling rather odd,’ he’d said twenty minutes later. Blinking very slowly and sucking in air. ‘Awfully tired, suddenly.’

  ‘Well, we’d better go upstairs then, before you conk out completely.’

  ‘I haven’t done this before, you know.’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘No, really. I wouldn’t want you to think I pay for this kind of thing all the time.’ A few more deep breaths. ‘I’m not even sure I can remember what you’re supposed to do. It’s been such a long time.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she’d said. ‘It’s like riding a bike.’

  He’d laughed at that, then coughed for a while. ‘You might have to bear with me, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll talk you through it.’

  She’d helped him up from the sofa then, and now, downing the last of her vodka, she remembered thinking that he weighed bugger all, that his comb-over hadn’t been doing him any favours and that the silly old bugger had overdone it on the aftershave.

  He’d said, ‘You’re very sweet,’ as they slowly climbed the stairs and she’d felt like she was his mother or something, that she should be making him hot chocolate and tucking him in.

  ‘I aim to please,’ she’d said.

  He was as good as asleep by the time she was helping him off with his clothes and it had all been very easy after that.

  All the houses were big on Claremont Road, but they’d found the place easily enough. Set back and detached, with a sizeable front garden and an expensive car in the driveway, same as most of its neighbours, though it was almost certainly the only property on the road whose occupant was dead as mutton. In terms of desirability, the location of this latest atrocity might have been a step up from the Sumner house and was certainly a far cry from Hari Reddy’s student flat, but the crime scene itself was much the same as the previous two in all the ways that mattered.

  The clothes scattered on the bedroom carpet. The wine bottle and glasses in a sitting room two floors below. The strands of hair recovered by the CSI team, the colour of which suggested that the dark-haired woman who was formerly blonde had been a redhead before that.

  The latest murder scene, but not the latest murder.

  Thorne watched Hendricks work, delicately taking samples and measurements, muttering into a recorder. He had called him on the drive north, but he didn’t need a pathologist to tell him that the victim had been dead a while. The smell had made it obvious enough; that punch of ripe cheese and foetid meat as soon as the Tactical Support Unit had put the front door in.

  What remained of the victim was grey-green and marbled. The tissues had already begun to soften and Thorne could see the first signs of adipocere, or grave wax, across the distended abdomen and the top of the legs. The organs had burst, and fingernails and teeth had fallen out. There was a pattern of reddish-brown stains around the body left by the blood and a variety of purged fluids.

  And there were insects.

  In other circumstances, Thorne might have guessed that maggots had consumed the dead man’s eyes, but the ragged black holes told him there had been nothing there for them to feed on. He’d known what the killer had taken before they’d got there.

  ‘At least three weeks.’ Hendricks closed his bag. ‘Heating’s been on to help things along. I’m guessing nobody’s too gobsmacked by the cause of death.’

  Thorne was only surprised by how much more obvious the injury had become during decomposition. The gash in the man’s neck had widened as the skin had grown loose and slipped; a grisly second scream.