I exchanged a glance with Martha. She looked terrified and pale.

  Again, probably a mirror image of myself.

  I led the way. Moved quickly through the double doors that led to Dr. Parsons’ surgical room. I slowed down every now and then—slowed down at the realisation that I was walking in the direction of a bomb, in the direction of my death.

  Bloody hell. What the frig had I signed up for?

  “You do realise I’ll be requesting two million if we survive the next hour,” I said, as I opened the first door to the surgical rooms.

  “And I’ll be kindly rejecting the request,” Lenny said. “Anyway, what did you expect? A million for chasing a few bunny rabbits? Saving some cats from trees? Funny story, I saved a cat—”

  “I didn’t expect for my home to burn down. For a killer to try to murder me. To be walking into a bloody bomb site.”

  “Nice and calm, Blake. Nice and calm. Wouldn’t want to set any explosives off.”

  “I’ll set something off,” I mumbled.

  We walked across the surgical room towards the glass window, which Dr. Parsons was behind. In the current room, the nurse with the surgical mask had fled, leaving her anaesthetised patient to sleep in the middle of a war zone.

  “At least she’ll be resting in peace,” Lenny said.

  “Or pieces, if we don’t hurry,” Martha added.

  I held my breath as I approached the glass. Raised a fist to bang on the window. Prepared to watch Dr. Parsons explode in front of me.

  But inside the room, I didn’t expect to see what I did.

  Dr. Parsons wasn’t cutting at the body. He’d already cut it open, bits of blood and flesh all over the blue sheet on metal table it was propped up on. He was at the other side of the room inspecting something. Inspecting it very closely.

  I banged on the door. Martha and Lenny joined me, too. Ignorant bastard was either deaf, or just plain rude. How had he not noticed this piercing fire alarm?

  But after a few seconds of banging and shouting, Dr. Parsons came to the door.

  He looked at us all with bewilderment, holding an iPod headphone in one hand. So that’s why he’d been oblivious. “Yes?”

  I gathered my thoughts. Tried to work out what to say, the raging alarm making my head spin. “Dr. Parsons, the body. The body you’re working on. We’re—we’re worried there might be an explosive inside. There was—was an explosive inside another victim at the police station. You… you need to stop cutting at it. You need to—”

  “Explosive?” he said. A little smile appeared on his otherwise bored face. “Believe me, pal, I think I’d know if I was cutting into an explosive. We have some perfect tracing systems in place, security measures. Better than… better than the police station’s, no offence.”

  “None taken, Doc,” Lenny said, his Tom Cruise grin beaming.

  I tried to figure out why only one of the girls would be rigged with an explosive, and what this meant. I couldn’t understand it.

  “Why would a killer only rig one body with explosives?” Martha asked, echoing my thoughts. “If… if they’re lashing out at the authorities, why only one body?”

  “What about the second body?” I asked.

  “The second body?” Dr. Parsons said. He chewed at his nails. Filthy bastard hadn’t even washed his hands yet. “Oh, I inspected that one earlier. And no, I haven’t gone boom yet.”

  I couldn’t understand. Couldn’t get my head around it. But it was good news, I suppose. At least identification procedures would go ahead.

  “I don’t know a thing about explosives,” Dr. Parsons said, turning away, “but I did find these halfway down their throats.”

  He turned back with two small black boxes, like jewellery boxes, in his hand.

  I backed away.

  “Jesus! They could—they could be the explosives. They could—”

  “They’re not explosives,” Dr. Parsons said.

  He lifted the lid of the first box.

  “But they are interesting. Very interesting.”

  He lifted the lid of the second.

  We stood there, all four of us, in total silence.

  Fingers. Index fingers, one in each box, curled up and resting on a reddened foam bed.

  A weight lifted from my aching shoulders.

  Fingers meant identification.

  And identification meant discovering our killer’s motive.

  Discovering our killer’s motive meant catching the fucker, and catching the fucker meant a whole new addition to the Fun Funds.

  We waited. Stood in silence a little longer.

  Lenny broke the silence: “Are… are those the funny plastic fingers you buy from a magicians’ shop?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  He watches from a distance.

  He knows his next victim will be finishing work soon. He knows because he has watched his victim for days, weeks even. And unless his victim has had a sudden promotion, a sudden change in lifestyle, they’ll leave their offices at five p.m. Make their way down the street towards McDonald’s.

  His victim will be getting picked up today. Getting a ride.

  And they won’t be getting a McDonald’s.

  His arms tingle as he grips the steering wheel tightly. Between his fingernails, he picks off pieces of rubber, rolls them around as he clutches the wheel. He always picks things when he is stressed. His therapist told him it was a nervous tic a while back, back when he thought that help was possible.

  He knows now help isn’t possible. He is too far gone for help.

  Besides, he enjoys letting his impulses run wild.

  He watches the offices as the rain bolts down, rattles against the roof of his car, fuzzing out his music. More people should follow their impulses. Today is an age where too many people seek therapy at the expense of fun.

  Too many people try to curtail their desires when experiencing them is much, much better.

  He plucks more rubber from his steering wheel. Feels his smooth molars pressing against one another. He knows why he is stressed. He knows the exact reason why. And what’s worse is that he shouldn’t be. Right now, he should be happy. He’s sorted three of his victims, he only has four left.

  And he’s saved the best four ‘til last.

  But the explosions. Yes, the explosions. The two homemade IEDs that had taken months of training to perfect, months of grainy YouTube tutorials to master. They went well enough. They exploded, so that was something.

  But did they do their job?

  He’d intended to put two IEDs in two of the first three bodies. Make the police station go boom, while leaving a breadcrumb for the police to identify one of the girls. The most interesting, most misleading of the girls.

  But the man in the checkered shirt with the grey hair. The wannabe detective who’s stuck his nose in where it doesn’t belong. The man who makes his neck warm, makes him struggle to swallow, makes him tense all over. He’s become obsessed with him, no shame in admitting that. Obsessed with involving him in his plans.

  Making him pay.

  He listens to the rain falling heavier on his car roof. Tries to make out the soothing sounds of “Move On Up,” with one of his earphones playing the screams of his victims. He shouldn’t have got distracted. He should have stuck to the plan—the plan that he’d worked on for so long.

  But he couldn’t resist.

  He heard the news on the radio of “Blake Dent’s” survival this morning. The news that he was unharmed in the explosion at his flat. Unharmed, but for a few bruises, a few scratches.

  And then the news came of the explosion at the police station. The explosion that had only blown up one of the girls, killed some poxy pathologist along the way.

  That was the nasty icing on the cake. The news that made him punch a wall until his knuckles split.

  He’s wasted his two IEDs. He’s wasted them because Blake is still alive, and two of the girls—two of the girls with the little finger-presents down their necks—are intact.

  He sighs as he watches the lights of the offices go out. As he sees his fourth victim’s silhouette close the blinds, like they always do when they’re finishing up.

  Sure, he’s made some bad decisions. Some downright stupid decisions.

  But his release is right in front of him. The first of the very, very special remaining four victims.

  And he has enough time to deal with this victim, to deal with all of them. Once the police—once this “Blake”—catches him, he’ll already be long finished. His goals will be achieved.

  He watches as his fourth victim steps out of the offices. As they rub their hand against their round belly, look around as the rain drenches them.

  He licks his lips. Turns up the sound of the screaming, begging victims playing in his earphones. Turns up the sound of “Move On Up,” just enough to get his fourth victim to notice.

  And then he pulls out his earphone and he puts his foot on the accelerator.

  He follows his fourth victim closely. Imagines everything he’s going to do to them. The special treatment he’s going to give them.

  The way this victim will throw the police—throw the city—more than any other victim. That excites him.

  He slows the car beside his victim. Rolls down his window, his erection getting hard with all this excitement.

  “Hey, you!” he shouts.

  His fourth victim looks around. Looks right at him.

  He knows his victim recognises him because they stop walking. Then they move towards the car.

  Good. His fourth victim is making it all too easy.

  “I wanted to apologise,” he says. “No hard feelings, anything like that.”

  His fourth victim leans on his window, leans on it with their dirty hands. “I, er… Sure. Sure, no hard feelings. What’re you doing around here anyway—”

  His fourth victim doesn’t say anything else because he presses his chloroform cloth into the victim’s face.

  He holds it. Squeezes it, his victim struggling, muscles going limp. His cock does the exact opposite.

  When the fourth victim goes completely limp and slumps against his car, he ejaculates all over his trousers.

  He knows he’s going to have fun with this one.

  A lot of fun.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It didn’t take long for the first of the bodies to be identified.

  But it felt like forever sat in these surroundings.

  Martha and I followed Lenny and Dr. Parsons to the “makeshift police station.” A dingy row of Portakabins which, to be fair to the local council, had been put in place pretty quickly. The station itself was a travesty, though. Piles of paperwork tumbled to the ground. People rushed past, shouted at one another. The place reeked of a cabbie waiting room rather than a police station. Like shit any work was going to get done in here.

  And then a guy called Jeeves, some nutter from forensics, handed Lenny a few sheets of paper and put us out of our misery.

  Lenny studied the sheets of paper as we sat on some chairs around the side of the Portakabin, like kids not wanting to take part in a school disco.

  “Well?” I asked.

  Lenny studied the sheets closer. Flicked through them. Muttered things under his breath, sunglasses covering his eyes even though he was a.) indoors and it was b.) cloudy as shit outside.

  “Lenny?” Martha asked.

  Lenny looked up. “Oh. You’re talking to me?”

  Martha shrugged. “Erm—”

  “Just we’re in work, here. In my workplace. Therefore I go by the name of Detective Inspector Kole. So shall we try again?”

  “Just tell us what the hell’s on that sheet of paper, Kole,” I said.

  “Okay. Okay. Christina Wilfrieds. Twenty-four years of age. Prints from the fingers found inside her a clear match, and forensics double and triple confirmed it too with DNA, just in case the fingers belonged to someone else.”

  Christina Wilfrieds. Twenty-four. Just hearing a name and an age brought a reality to the case all of a sudden. A sense of progress. Real progress.

  “And she was the third girl? The one from the court?” Martha asked.

  “Second one. Still yet to identify the third, but working on it. And obviously the first girl is somewhere on the walls and the floor of the police station, so… it’ll be a while before we get to her.”

  “Why so quick to identify the girl from the squad car?”

  “Is that a compliment?” Lenny asked. “Because if that is a compliment, thank you, Blake. Thank you very much. That’s very sweet of you.”

  “It’s just DNA. I thought it took time. Spit it out.”

  “Okay. Well the girl from the top of the squad car’s in our DNA log. Luckily a lot of the lab equipment was unaffected by the explosion earlier, so our buddy from forensics got a match on her. He can pull a rush job or two if I ask him very kindly. Asking him kindly usually involves Pringles, things like that.”

  I leaned over to the look at the sheet of paper. “So she has previous?”

  “She’s on record for something, yeah.”

  I didn’t like the way Lenny said she was on record for “something.” Or the way I could see his beady eyes glance away even though they were hiding behind a pair of shitty knock-off Ray-Bans.

  “What’s she on record for, Lenny?”

  “Oh look, the system isn’t perfect, okay? And—and she wasn’t a threat, or anything like that. We don’t always… With people who pose a reoffending risk, sure, we keep those on our system. But—”

  “So you’re saying you don’t know what this girl was arrested for?”

  “Right,” Lenny said. “That’s—that’s right, yeah.”

  I watched Martha’s head slump into her chest and felt like doing the same.

  “Okay. That’s fine. Wouldn’t expect anything better of you. Shouldn’t take too much investigating to figure out what she’s been up to, right? Have you spoken to her parents? Her family? Friends?”

  Lenny moved away his glasses. Wiped some sweat from the bridge of his nose, as people continued to scurry around this makeshift office. Mobile phones rang like mad everywhere. “Yeah,” he said. “Informed Miss Wilfrieds’ next of kin.”

  “And?”

  “And they took it badly. We offered our condolences. Told them we were doing all we could to catch her offender. Offered a choice of roses and fuchsias, I think they were. Or maybe it was dahlias. I’m not certain. But anyway, the usual stuff grievers go for.”

  “The usual… so you didn’t ask why she was arrested? What she might’ve been inside for? Why somebody might’ve wanted to frigging kill her?”

  “Hey, hey,” Lenny said, raising his hands and his voice. “We asked, okay? We asked why she was arrested.”

  “And?”

  “And her dear old mum didn’t have a clue. Said she hadn’t been in touch with her daughter much, not since she left home at twenty-one. A bit of a runaway. One of those wild girls, you know.”

  “This is good, Len,” I said. “I’m building a real detailed picture of the girl. Keep going like this.”

  “But… well there wasn’t much more we could ask the mum. She clearly doesn’t know a thing. So we’ll work on identifying the other girl and—and see if we can get some more from her. I’ve got a good feeling about her, y’know? Older. Older ones always are more mature.”

  I ignored Lenny’s weird remark and tried to figure out what to do next.

  “How about we pay the mum a visit?” Martha asked.

  “Absolutely out of the question.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “I mean, you’re clearly busy trying to clean up here. We could do you a favour. I could earn that money of mine—”

  “You are not to go near the mum, Blake. All fair and good doing your little investigations after the police, but we need someone to act in an official capacity first. Besides, I don’t think the mum knows much.”

  “Which makes me think she probably knows every frigging thing about this case.”

  Lenny smiled. “It would be typical, wouldn’t it? It would be déjà vu.”

  I frowned. “Déjà vu—?”

  “I think he means ‘cliché,’” Martha said.

  “Cliché, that’s the one. Cliché, déjà vu, arrivederci. Always am confusing my French phrases.”

  I was pretty impressed with Martha. Her ears were getting more tuned to LennySpeak than mine.

  That said, I’m not sure whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  “I do have something else for you, though,” Lenny said. He closed the papers and looked at me. “A juicy, tasty, super-wonderful morsel of information that you’ll relish getting your teeth into.”

  I nodded. Waited for Lenny to continue.

  Waited some more.

  “And the information is…?”

  “A witness report,” Lenny said.

  I felt a twinge inside as my heart picked up. “A… a witness? Wait—what kind of witness are we talking? Someone from the courts? Primary witness?”

  Lenny tilted his head either side. “Something like that. Someone on one of the side roads off Moor Park said they saw a Land Rover outside their house blasting “Walking On Sunshine.” It’s a song. A pop song from the—”

  “We know,” Martha said. “We know.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

  “And?”

  “And the guy who got out of the Land Rover was wearing a black hoodtop and carrying a huge black rucksack. Looked to be really struggling with it.”

  “Wow,” Martha said. “Apart from the ‘hoodtop’ part, you can colour me pleasantly surprised, darling.”

  Lenny looked at the ground, blushing, as if he was unable to process the “darling” part. “Yeah. Good—good information.”

  “Have that area checked out for CCTV. I refuse to believe that every CCTV camera was eluded by our killer.”

  “You never know with how dodgy Preston CCTV is. Trust me, I have to deal with it every day. Anyway, Blake, Martin—”

  “Martha.”

  “You’re gonna have to let a man do his work. I trust you’ll be able to hold your horses until we get some more on the girl from outside the courts, which’ll hopefully be soon.”