But one thing she was sure of – whether Meadows had been right or wrong, there was no doubt that she had risked her career (and possibly her life) to avenge her boss, and for that, Monika would feel forever in her debt.

  She had decided to have the twins aborted. She had convinced herself she could do that with a clear conscience. And then the same God who she felt had abandoned her when Arthur Jones began to climb the stairs to her bedroom, was back – and this time He had been pleading for the life in her womb, and she had not been able to refuse Him.

  She flicked through a few pages covering the early life of Thomas and Philip. They were the children of rapists, she reminded herself – the product of bad seed. Was it any wonder, then, that she had watched them grow with apprehension, dreading the moment when the mask of childhood innocence was ripped off, to reveal the raging monster beneath the skin?

  It hadn’t happened – or, at least, it hadn’t happened as dramatically as she had imagined it might.

  Thomas had chosen his course in life, and though it was not one she would have chosen for him – one, in fact, she had actually campaigned against – it was his choice, and she respected him for it.

  And Philip, she was forced to admit, could have turned out worse. He hadn’t tortured any small animals when he was a child – if he had, Thomas would have let her know – and though he was violent, he tended to restrict his violence to men well capable of defending themselves, and …

  It wasn’t much to be proud of in a son – the fact that he didn’t beat up women and children – now was it? And indeed, she wasn’t proud of him in any way.

  She turned her gaze back to the album – to a younger Philip, looking up at her and smiling.

  Had there ever been a time, she wondered, when it would have been possible – by saying or doing something differently – to have ensured a better outcome?

  Or had the bad seed from which he had been born, been firmly affixed in his soul from the very beginning?

  She did not like Philip. She did not respect Philip in the way she respected Thomas. If she was honest with herself – and she really was trying to be just that – she despised the slightly-younger of her two sons.

  Yet at the same time she loved him – deeply and desperately – and there was nothing she could do about that.

  In Whitebridge Central, DCI Dawson’s team of detective constables were seated in the centre of the CID suite, getting their final briefing of the day from DS Boyd.

  ‘Firstly, the house,’ Boyd began. ‘The SOCOs are going through it now, but it’s a big place, and they’re being careful, so they’ll be finished by tomorrow evening at the earliest.’ He turned to Dawson. ‘Are you happy with that, sir?’

  ‘Happy isn’t the word I’d choose, but they’re right to be careful,’ the DCI said.

  ‘The next point is Lofthouse’s clothes. The SOCOs have made an initial search of the house, and haven’t found them. Of course, it’s always possible that the killer hung the shirt, jacket and trousers neatly up in the wardrobe and put the underwear back in the drawers, and when O’Casey and Mason get round to doing a more detailed search, they’ll check that out. Our theory, however, is that the killer took them with him and destroyed them.’

  ‘Because he was worried his DNA might be on them,’ Dawson said, as if to remind the rest of the team that he was there, and – despite appearances to the contrary – was in charge.

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ Boyd agreed. ‘Casey and Masey haven’t found the murder weapon, but they’re putting their money on it being a ball pein hammer. They can be bought at any ironmonger’s, and tomorrow I’ll get the uniforms to check on each and every one, in the hope that our killer only bought it recently. It’s a bit of a long shot, but very often, it’s the long shot that actually makes the case.’

  ‘Tell them about the rope,’ Dawson said.

  I was going to, if you’d given me a second, you bastard, Boyd thought.

  But aloud, he said, ‘The rope is the same sort of hemp the official hangman used to use back in the good old days when we hung people for sheep stealing and pickpocketing. There are, however, two things about it worth noting. The first that, judging by the wear and tear, it’s not the first time it’s been used. So one of the many questions we need to ask ourselves is where it’s been used before, and why it was left behind this time.’

  ‘Maybe the killer was so revolted by the head coming off that he just wanted to get out of the house,’ suggested a keen young detective constable, whose name actually was Keene.

  ‘That’s a possibility,’ Boyd conceded, ‘but given just how careful he seems to have been about everything else connected with this murder, I just can’t see him as the kind of man who panics.’

  ‘Tell them about the skin,’ Dawson said.

  ‘There were traces of skin on the noose, but they all came from Lofthouse, which is rather strange, considering that we’re almost sure the rope has been used before,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Maybe he normally cleans it after use,’ Keene suggested.

  ‘The lab says it would be impossible to eradicate all traces of skin without damaging the rope,’ Boyd said. ‘But though there were no traces of skin, there were traces of black velvet.’

  ‘The fabric, not the drink,’ said DCI Dawson, and all the constables chuckled at what was obviously a previously prepared attempt at humour, because when all was said and done, Dawson was the boss.

  ‘We think the killer put the velvet on the rope before previous hangings,’ Boyd said. ‘There could be a number of reasons why he did that. Maybe it was part of some weird ritual which he omitted to follow when he hung Lofthouse. Or maybe he was eager not to leave traces of their skin on the rope, though I couldn’t even begin to guess why that might be important to him. Basically, we have more questions than answers, but at this stage of the investigation, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow, I want somebody checking on hangings nationwide in the last five years,’ Dawson said. He turned back to Boyd. ‘Tell us about the neighbours, sergeant.’

  ‘As you’ll already have gathered, the layout of the area works against us, because the houses are so spread out that somebody could be screaming blue murder next door, and you probably wouldn’t hear a thing,’ Boyd said. ‘On the other hand, it’s also an area that gets very little traffic, which means that people notice it more than they would on an estate. And what three of the neighbours have told us is that two cars drove down the street sometime after ten o’clock, and probably parked in Lofthouse’s driveway.’

  ‘Do we know what make and model those cars were?’ Dawson asked.

  Boyd shook his head. ‘They heard the cars, rather than saw them. Maybe these people are too posh to be nosy.’

  ‘Nobody’s too posh to be nosy,’ Dawson said. ‘Have them questioned again tomorrow, will you? Let’s see if we can jog their memories.’

  Boyd nodded and took a note. ‘One of the neighbours heard one of the cars leaving again,’ he continued. ‘She was a bit vague about the time, because she was already in bed, but she thinks it was at least an hour after the two cars arrived.’

  ‘If it was the killer, it would have been later than that, because, according to the doc, Lofthouse had been home for several hours before he was killed,’ Dawson said. ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘I talked to the general manager at the bottling plant myself,’ Boyd said. ‘It’s obvious that he resents Lofthouse for elbowing his way into the business, and that he knows that Lofthouse was beating up his wife.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’ Dawson wondered.

  ‘I asked him if he knew where Mrs Lofthouse had gone, and he said he didn’t, but when I mentioned Overcroft House, his face gave him away. So if he knows where she is, he also knows why she’s there. And I got the distinct impression that the rest of the old staff know, too.’

  ‘I can see where you’re going with this,’ Dawson said, ‘but is it likely that one of them would kill Lofthouse because of what he’d done to his wife?’

  ‘I wouldn’t give that a definite yes, but I wouldn’t dismiss it as a possibility either,’ Boyd said. ‘From what Cox told me, several of the workers feel a great sense of loyalty to Jane Lofthouse. I think that what Andrew did to her may have made them very angry.’

  ‘Well, there are certainly indications that our murderer was an angry man,’ Dawson said. ‘It’s obvious why he stripped the body and washed it down – that was just being cautious – but hanging him would suggest that he didn’t think killing Lofthouse once was enough. So it’s possible he was killed because of the way he treated his wife. But it’s equally possible he was having an affair, and that the woman’s husband killed him. Or that somebody he had done business with felt he had cheated them. We need more information. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant Boyd?’

  There was only one answer to that question.

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s what we need,’ Boyd agreed.

  ‘Today, we’ve got an overall view, tomorrow I want us zooming in,’ Dawson said. ‘I want all the neighbours reinterviewed, and this time I want to know anything at all they can tell us about Lofthouse’s life. I want everybody at Whitebridge Bottling interviewed, and their alibis for last night checked out. By the end of work tomorrow, I expect to have been told where Lofthouse was last night, and I want a list of possible drivers of the other car that arrived at the same time as Lofthouse’s but left a couple of hours later. And I really would be very interested to learn who beat up Lofthouse earlier in the day. Are we clear on that?’ He waited until everyone on the team had nodded, then said, ‘Right, people, get off home and get a good nights sleep. Tomorrow could make or break this case.’

  He watched his team file out with some satisfaction. He had sounded like a DCI who really knew what he was doing, he thought – and it had not been entirely an act. He had not wanted this case, but now he was starting to get a good feeling about it. He was reasonably certain that with a sergeant like Boyd by his side, he had a more-than-fair chance of catching his killer. And if he did, he would have made a friend for life of Louisa Rutter. When she rose to dizzying new heights – as she was bound to – his help in assuring her ascendancy would not be forgotten.

  ‘Superintendent Dawson,’ he said to himself.

  He liked the sound of that. He would have a nice big desk in a pleasant office, and would sit there and work on budgeting and manpower projections.

  No more robberies to deal with, no more murders to solve. The stink of criminality would be forever banished from his world.

  Oh yes, if he could just hold it together for this case, a rosy future lay ahead.

  What he did not know was that down in the car park there was a man waiting for him – a man who would hold up his dreams, and shred them before his very eyes.

  After a day of driving aimlessly around Lancashire, Kate Meadows had finally forced herself to return to Overcroft House, and now was sitting in her office, her head in her hands, wondering just how much the police investigation would uncover – and how quickly it might do it.

  If she was lucky, they would never find out that Andrew Lofthouse had been to the Hellfire Club that night, and if they didn’t uncover that basic fact …

  She heard a knock on the door, and looked up to find Jane Lofthouse standing there. But it wasn’t her Jane – the Jane she had got to know over the previous six weeks. Her Jane was quiet, withdrawn and – to be brutally honest – as scared as a rabbit caught in headlights. This Jane was the Jane she’d briefly glanced the day before – a confident Jane who had assured her that if she wanted Hadley Security, she would get Hadley Security. And though she was wearing clothes Meadows had seen her in previously – Armani jeans and a Dolce and Gabbana cashmere top – this new self of hers seemed to transform them into a power-dressing business suit.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ Jane said, ‘but before I do, I want to thank you and to give you this.’

  She laid a cheque on the desk. It was made out to Overcroft House and was for ten thousand pounds.

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ Meadows said. ‘Are you sure you can afford it?’

  Jane smiled. ‘There won’t be much of my share dividend left when I’ve covered it,’ she said, ‘but yes, I can afford it – easily.’

  ‘And I’m not sure it’s wise for you to leave just like that,’ Meadows cautioned, pushing her own worries aside only by a huge effort of will. ‘You’ve not stepped outside Overcroft House for nearly two months. You should move out in stages.’

  ‘I’ve no time for that,’ Jane told her. ‘Now Andrew’s dead, I have a business to run – two businesses, in fact, mine and his.’

  ‘I can’t believe there aren’t any good people there you could delegate to,’ Meadows said.

  ‘You’re sort of right,’ Jane said. ‘There are people who could probably run the business for a while, but I daren’t risk trusting them with it, because if I’m even a little bit wrong about their abilities, the competition will eat us alive.’

  ‘We all think we’re indispensable …’ Meadows began.

  ‘When I made Amos Hardcastle an offer for Whitebridge Bottling, he virtually ripped the cheque out of my hand,’ Jane said. ‘Because, you see, he thought I had no better chance of saving the business than he had himself. Most people thought it was doomed, but I had a few loyal staff who believed in me, and in themselves, and by hard work and self-sacrifice, we managed to pull it off. And I can’t let those people down now, because they’ve got commitments – which I encouraged them to take on – and they can’t meet those commitments without their monthly salary.’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘Andrew may have been a brute in our private life, but I trusted him to run the business more than competently, and look after our employees. The only other person I trust to do that is me.’

  ‘Very well,’ Meadows conceded. ‘I suppose, when all’s said and done, it is your choice.’

  But she was thinking, ‘And there goes my last chance of keeping my connection to Andrew Lofthouse quiet.’

  ‘You’re worried that when I talk to the police, I’ll mention the fact that Andrew came here yesterday afternoon, aren’t you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Meadows lied – because the last thing she needed was Jane telling the bobbies that Meadows tried to talk her into holding back information.

  Jane smiled. ‘You don’t fool me. I know you have your reasons for wanting me to keep quiet, and I understand them completely.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course! If I tell them, they’ll be up here in a flash, questioning anything that moves, and bagging anything that doesn’t. The fact that they’ll be dealing with battered wives won’t bother them – but it will definitely bother me. Can you imagine what being questioned by the police might do to Lucy’s delicate mental balance? Or how Joyce’s three kids are likely to react? And it would be even worse for Lizzie, whose been a very good friend to me, because she’s already terrified of the cops. They’ve all been through enough already, and I don’t want to be responsible for subjecting them to any more. Besides, Andrew’s visit had nothing to do with his murder, did it?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Meadows agreed.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going, then,’ Jane said, and though she sounded casual, they both knew it was not a casual decision she was taking.

  Meadows rolled her chair over to the small bank of monitors. ‘Better check out the grounds before I open the door,’ she said.

  ‘Is that strictly necessary?’ said Jane, who was now obviously impatient to leave.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Meadows told her.

  ‘But there’s not likely to be anybody out there, is there? I mean, we don’t exactly announce the fact that this is a home for battered women, do we?’

  ‘Your husband found us,’ Meadows pointed out. ‘Why wouldn’t some other violent man – Lizzie’s boyfriend, for example?’

  Jane laughed. ‘That’s rather unlikely, isn’t it? After all, Andrew was an intelligent chap, and Gary’s just a mindless thug. And besides, isn’t he in hospital?’

  ‘He’s just come out,’ Meadows told her. ‘You should never underestimate the cunning of a wife beater, Jane – and you should know that better than most.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Jane said, sounding a little shamefaced.

  Meadows tapped out commands on the keyboard, and the CCTV cameras did a broad sweep of the grounds.

  ‘Your husband told me that he knew you were here because he got an anonymous letter, and I’ve been wondering who might have sent it,’ she said. ‘Who did you tell you were coming here, Jane?’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone. I suddenly couldn’t take it anymore, and I just packed a bag and ran away from home. I wasn’t even sure I was coming here until I found myself on the front doorstep, ringing the bell. The leak must have come from one of your staff.’

  ‘It didn’t,’ Meadows said fiercely. She took a deep breath and grinned self-consciously. ‘Sorry about coming on so strong.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Jane told her. ‘You’re loyal to your staff, like I’m loyal to mine.’

  ‘I just can’t believe the leak came from here,’ Meadows said. ‘I trust Mary and I trust the doctor. And the cleaners don’t even know your surname.’

  ‘What about the police?’ Jane asked.

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Don’t you register your inmates with them?’

  ‘Yes, we’re required to …’

  ‘Well, there’s your leak,’ Jane said.

  That was possible, Meadows conceded, and under normal circumstances she would have raised that possibility with Louisa Rutter – but these were not normal circumstances.

  She scanned the monitors again. ‘I can’t see anything out there to worry about,’ she said.

  ‘Is everything we can see on the screens taped?’ Jane asked, sounding slightly troubled.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’