“No way. This is like… That place is my absolute favourite. And I tried the bubblegum one.”

  Slight stroking of the ego felt good. “Thoughts?”

  “Disgusting. Worst smoothie you’ve ever made.”

  Slight stabbing of the ego felt bad. “Criticism taken on board.”

  Blondie—who I still hadn’t got the name of but was convinced I was actually falling in frigging love with—laughed. “For what it’s worth, you make a mean Strawberryana Chocolate. So I hope you get your licence back just for that.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Blake Dent?”

  The voice from the secretary, which I’d been expecting to be a huge relief, was actually a ginormous disappointment. It cut my conversation short. Cut it short, before I’d even got a name from this girl.

  Ask her for her name. Get her number. Ask her for a—

  “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Blake. Good luck. Try not to comatose anybody with cough sweet missiles on your way in.”

  I nodded. Noticed her silver engagement ring.

  “Nice meeting you too.”

  And then I got up and I walked over to the short, dark-haired secretary, and away from the gorgeous blonde who’d made me smile before the hour of ten. A miracle, in other words.

  I pulled up my baggy black trousers and approached the secretary.

  “Mr Dent,” she said, smiling and nodding.

  I thought about firing a Tune at her, but figured one was enough for a morning.

  Unless I lost my licence completely. Then, maybe, I’d reassess.

  “Sorry for the delay,” she said. “Mr Adkins, who’s reviewing your case and delivering your verdict, hasn’t showed up just yet. So we’re going to have to postpone your hearing until a later date.”

  My stomach dropped. I tugged at the baggy trousers and pictured myself back at Martha’s, asleep in her spare room. Where I should be.

  “The same applies for the rest of you due for a meeting with Mr Adkins this morning,” the little woman said, addressing the crowd in her whiny voice. “We’ve had to temporarily postpone. I’m very sorry, but we’ll be in touch with you soon to rearrange.”

  She walked away without another word.

  I turned back. Oh well. Bloody waste of time, but at least I was up early anyway. I could get started on the case early today.

  And then I saw Blondie leaving through the glass door.

  A part of me told myself to let her go. She was too young. She had a fiancé. Besides, I wasn’t a capable partner.

  Shit. Partner. Am I even thinking in those terms?

  But the other part of me told me she was fit, found me funny, and she was a matter of feet away, so what harm could talking to her do?

  I jogged through the door and caught up with her.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She jumped. Brought her hand to her chest. “Oh, sorry, sorry. You scared me. Thought you were a mugger or a rapist or something.”

  A drug-dealing, mugging, rapist landlord. “Very flattering.”

  She giggled, and we stepped out into the fresh, sunny air.

  I scratched at the back of my tingling neck as we descended the steps. I tried to muster the courage to ask her name. How did I ask without looking like a blatant creep? Shit. I was way too out of practice. When had I last even been with a woman?

  No. Don’t even dare count the years.

  “I was just wondering what your name is.”

  It came out hammy, like something a primary school kid might say to the class crush.

  “Oh you were? How was that for you? Good wonder?”

  I wanted to laugh but my cheeks were as floppy as papier maché. “Sorry, I just—”

  “Danielle,” she said. She held a hand out to me.

  I took it.

  God, it was smooth.

  And then I let myself ask another question. Something I wouldn’t normally ask, not if my ego hadn’t already been caressed enough.

  “Hey, I was… I didn’t have any breakfast before I came out.”

  “Are you asking me out for breakfast?”

  More floppiness of the face. More itchiness in my neck. “Well only if—”

  “If you’re paying, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Another smile.

  Shit. I was in love. Holy shit.

  We walked outside the court towards the car park. We’d cut through town and grab a Costa, something like that. Did Costa even do breakfasts? Was it a good place to get a breakfast? I needed to Google this shit.

  I needed a new iPad to Google this shit on.

  “Seems weird walking outside this place after what happened the other day, hmm?”

  “What happened the other day?” I asked. My thoughts were fuzzy. I was drifting through space like a horny teenager on a first date.

  “‘What happened the other day?’” she repeated, in a mocking voice. “The woman. Hanging outside the court. Just weird how back to normal everything is since.”

  My stomach knotted. Mention of the woman brought me flying back down to earth, back to the case. “Oh. Oh yeah. That was… that was weird.”

  “Dave—my fiancé—he thinks it’s some kind of serial killer. But I just told him it’s probably a few people. Like terrorists, sort of thing.”

  A few people. Terrorists. Everything Danielle said was like information to me now, not general chit-chat.

  No. Let it go. Let it go like Martha told you to. Focus on life. Don’t obsess over the job.

  I took a deep breath of the breezy air as we crossed at the zebra crossing. “I think it could be…”

  My speech went off when I heard something. Something to my right. Something coming from the car that was waiting at the zebra crossing.

  “Hey. What’s up?” Danielle asked. “You can’t stand there.”

  But I did stand there. I stood in the middle of the zebra crossing and I stared at this Land Rover, which was right opposite me.

  I stared through its windscreen as cars behind it pipped their horns at me, as people shouted out.

  But through the shouts, through the horns, I heard one thing, and one thing only.

  “Walking On Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Someone on one of the side roads off Moor Park said they saw a Land Rover outside their house blasting ‘Walking On Sunshine’…”

  I stood in the middle of the zebra crossing and stared at the windscreen of the Land Rover, the sound of “Walking On Sunshine” booming from its sound system. I remembered Lenny’s words. The words about the Land Rover playing that song—the witness report from near the body of the first victim.

  And here was a Land Rover, right opposite me, playing that very song.

  “Blake, come on. Get… get out of the road.”

  I wanted to go with Danielle, I really did. But instead, I couldn’t stop myself staring at this Land Rover. Trying to see through the windscreen properly, see who was behind it. The glass was slightly tinted, and the sun was shining against it, so it was hard to tell.

  Which meant one thing: I’d have to go see for myself.

  I took in a deep breath of the warm, exhaust-fume-filled air and stepped around the side of the Land Rover. The realisation of what I was doing dawned on me with every step.

  I was confronting a killer.

  I was confronting a person who had tried to burn me alive in my own home.

  I stopped when I reached the side of the Land Rover. Tapped on the side window, as the vehicle pulled away slightly.

  And then I walked with it as his car shifted forward. Tapped again.

  The car pulled away some more, pulled out of the way of the traffic, and then he stopped.

  The cars that were stacked up behind the Land Rover flew past it, a few of them cursing at me. Danielle rushed to the other side of the road, looking over her shoulder at me like I was some kind of weirdo.

  She’d understand soon. Everyone would understand. I was doing a good thing. Doing the right thing.

  I was earning my money and bringing some goon to justice.

  The window of the Land Rover rolled down. I was met by an even clearer rendition of “Walking On Sunshine,” blasted by the minty smell of a billion air fresheners.

  And in the driver’s seat, there was a man.

  He was balding, with a ring of brown hair. Slightly chubby, but looked as if he might’ve lifted a few weights in his younger days. Early forties, with brown eyes and big ears. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and a blue shirt, with black trousers on too.

  “What the fuck’s your problem?” he said.

  The words hit me in an instant. I became very aware of just how out of ammunition I was, how clueless I was for words. I’d stopped a man in the middle of the road for doing what? Listening to “Walking On Sunshine” on a summer’s day?

  But shit—how many people still listened to that song?

  And how many Land Rover drivers listened to it in Preston? Was it a nationwide Land Rover theme song or something?

  “Like that song?” I asked. It sounded ridiculous, sure, but I had to try something.

  The guy stared at me. Stared at me with his soft brown eyes.

  “Don’t mind it. Why?”

  My leverage was slipping away. I had to think fast if I wanted to get anywhere—if there was any bloody place to get.

  “Mint air fresheners. They seem pretty excessive. Pretty overpowering.”

  Another long stare. Look of sheer puzzlement, sheer bafflement, in this guy’s eyes. “What are you, the car radio and the air freshener police or something? Fuck off.”

  He started to wind his window up.

  I knew I had to try something.

  I grabbed his door handle. Grabbed it, listened to him shout, and I sat in his passenger seat.

  He looked at me in amazement. “The fuck? Get the fuck out of my car!”

  I looked around the Land Rover. I don’t even know what the hell I was looking for, in truth, but it was early so I could get away with it. I looked on the back seat. Looked for anything I could—a weapon, a body, anything like that.

  And all I had was “Walking On Sunshine,” a few minty air fresheners, and a very pissed-off chubby guy.

  “If you don’t get out of my fucking car in the next five seconds, I’m phoning the police.”

  I sniffed. The air fresheners were strong—ghastly, in fact. They had to be covering something up. They had to be hiding something.

  Or I was going completely insane. Losing myself to obsession, that’s what Martha would say.

  Well Martha could say what she wanted.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I opened the passenger door again and stepped outside. Danielle was still watching me from a distance, looking at me like I was some weird extra from a horror movie.

  “I’ll just take a look in here first,” I muttered.

  I swung around the back of the Land Rover’s boot and lifted it open.

  I heard the driver protest. Heard his engine stop, heard him swear and rattle around in the front.

  But it didn’t matter. Not with what I saw.

  There was a bag. A huge black bag, flies buzzing around it.

  And there were more air fresheners in here, too. An even stronger minty smell.

  A cover-up.

  “Get the fuck away from my vehicle. I’m… Police. Yes. I’m just outside the court, yeah. Some lunatic is trying to nick my car.”

  I ignored the man’s remarks and I leaned into the boot. Leaned in towards the sickly smell which emanated from the bag, which the air fresheners could not cover up.

  I grabbed the side of the black bag. Watched a bunch of flies buzz away from it.

  And then I felt a hand on my back and I was thrown away.

  I landed on my back, tasted copper as I bit my tongue.

  The driver stood over me. His face was flushed, and his fists were tensed. “Fucking lunatic! You stay—stay the hell away from my car. Yes—you! Please, help me. He’s trying to rob me—”

  “Open the bag,” I shouted, shuffling back to my feet. My head was dizzy, my mouth filled with blood, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to see what was in the bag. See what this bastard was hiding.

  “The bag?” The driver looked from me to the bag, his eyebrows furrowed. “Why… why would you want to see what’s in the bag?”

  I stared him in his eyes. Stared at him and saw pound signs. Saw money.

  “You know damn well what’s in that bag,” I said. “And if you aren’t gonna show me, I’m gonna see for myself.”

  I made a lunge for the boot. Tried to reach my hands out.

  But something was wrapped around my wrists. Something stopped me pulling my hands out, from getting closer to the back of the Land Rover.

  “Sir, let’s take a little trip to the station,” I heard.

  Damn. The police. The fucking police.

  “In the bag,” I said, as the officer dragged me away from the scene. “The—the killer. The killer you’re looking for. In the… in the bag.”

  The driver shook his head. Laughed in complete confusion. “In this bag?”

  He unzipped it.

  Emptied it.

  “The only thing in this bag is my fishing equipment,” he said.

  Fishing rods and wires dropped out of the bag. As too did a cracked plastic container of maggots, half of them turned into full-blown bluebottles.

  “And by the looks of things, a few of my maggots turned. Thanks for the heads up.”

  He tossed the fishing equipment back in the bag. Slammed the boot of his Land Rover, walked around to the front door.

  I watched as he shook his head, cursed under his breath, got into his car.

  Watched as he started up his Land Rover and drove away, “Walking On Sunshine” still faintly audible through the opened window.

  And as the police officer dragged me towards their vehicle, I watched as Danielle turned away, looked away from me like she’d never even known me in the first place.

  Great job, Blake. Great frigging job indeed.

  THIRTY

  He isn’t going to stop shaking for the rest of the day, that’s for sure.

  He takes deep breaths. Deep breaths to make the colours go away. His car radio plays “Walking On Sunshine,” but he doesn’t hear it, not properly. It is all so muffled. All so detached, like screams—but bad screams, if ever there were such a thing.

  He lets the minty smell of his air fresheners calm him as he turns off the main road and pulls down a side street. He can’t believe how close he came to everything falling apart. How close that nosey fucker Blake Dent came to destroying everything for him.

  Blake Dent. His hands tighten around the steering wheel. Just the thought of his name makes him want to puncture someone’s skull.

  He turns down his car radio. Turns it down so he can barely hear the music. For Blake to know he enjoys “Walking On Sunshine,” that must mean the police are on to him. Some idiot of a witness must’ve reported his car playing that song. Which means he has to be extra careful from now on. Extra careful, if he wants to finish his task.

  Extra careful if he wants to finish the final three pieces of the greatest puzzle of all.

  He looks over his shoulder. Looks at his back seat to check for any evidence he might’ve left lying around, anything that Blake might’ve seen. But he’s been careful. Very careful.

  Just not careful enough.

  He slams his palms against his steering wheel, sending more plucked pieces of loose rubber tumbling onto his knees. What was Blake Dent’s problem, anyway? If he understood what his task was—what the puzzle was all about—maybe he’d understand. Anyone would understand why he was doing what he was doing if they knew what his task was. Even if they didn’t want to admit it.

  He turns right. Heads towards the hills of the countryside surrounding Preston. Problem is, he doesn’t need to beg for anyone’s understanding. That isn’t how he works. He is strong. He has a task, and he is going to complete that task.

  No room for sentimentality. No more room for error.

  He drives up the hilly road. Contemplates just how lucky he has been. Blake Dent was inches, centimetres, millimetres away from uncovering all his hard work. He was so, so close to ruining everything for him.

  He was a problem. A big problem that needed sorting out, for real this time.

  He stops when he reaches the Brockon Fell Nature Park. Pulls up just before the car park, which is far from full. Looks around just to see nobody is watching.

  Part four of his jigsaw is going to be discovered.

  And it is going to stun and confuse everyone.

  He takes a few deep breaths of the minty car again, lets the smell and the taste of the air freshener calm him.

  And then he opens his Land Rover door and steps outside.

  He keeps his head down as he approaches the boot, the cool summer breeze brushing against him, and against the leaves of the trees. He looks left, looks right, sees noone, and he opens the boot.

  The bluebottles buzz out at him and he wafts them away. Damned things. Genius idea of his to mix fishing equipment with the dead. Ah well. Even the most enlightened of individuals are flawed, deep down.

  He covers his hands with clear plastic gloves. Moves away the black bag of fishing equipment, stares at the covered panel on the floor of the boot.

  He inhales the stench of death. Savours it. It calms him. Brings back all the sweet memories of what he did to his fourth victim, the way he carved up his skin into fillets, the way he struggled and struggled all through the night, every second of every minute of every hour…

  He takes another look to the left. Another look to the right.

  Still clear.

  And then he opens the compartment and is bathed in another crowd of bluebottles.

  He lets the smell surround him as he lifts the bag from out of his Land Rover. Lets it surround him as he throws the bag over his shoulder, keeps the cracked plastic maggot container on show to explain the mass of flies.

  And then he lifts his hood from under his brown jacket and he walks.

  His mind is clear. Clear as the sun beats down on his skin, as the smell of decay and the stench of the river combine to make a beautiful symphony of the nose.