‘She’s not from London?’

  ‘Sheffield.’

  ‘She came to London to study?’

  ‘I wish. She ran away when she was sixteen. Her mum had remarried and her stepfather couldn’t keep his hands to himself. She was on the streets for a while, then found herself a boyfriend who slapped her around, got involved with drugs, then the boyfriend put her on the game to pay for the drugs.’ She wiped her nose again. ‘Life, huh? Some people have it so easy and others …’ She shrugged. ‘She never had a chance.’

  ‘And then you met her?’

  Zoe nodded. ‘Two years ago. Sat next to her in a Starbucks and just got talking.’ She smiled. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’

  ‘It’s never happened to me,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘If you’re lucky, one day it will,’ she said. ‘It’s like hitting a wall. Everything stops. You realise that everything up to that point doesn’t matter and the one thing you want to do is to spend the rest of your life with that person.’

  ‘And Abbie felt the same?’

  Zoe’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She moved in with you?’

  ‘I was a better choice than an abusive boyfriend, is that what you mean? She loved me, Jack.’

  ‘And she started studying?’

  ‘On and off,’ said Zoe. ‘She was at art school.’ She waved at the paintings on the wall. ‘Abbie did these. She’s very talented.’

  ‘You’re not a Goth, obviously.’

  ‘I am sometimes,’ said Zoe. ‘But it’s not a lifestyle thing for me.’

  ‘But it was for Abbie?’

  She nodded. ‘Totally. But it looked good on her. Sexy as hell. She got into it about six months ago.’ She smiled, but her eyes were tearful. ‘I was sorry to see her blonde hair go, though. She had wonderful hair. But she wanted it black, so black it went.’

  ‘And you went with her to Goth bars?’

  ‘Sure. It made her happy. She went with me to galleries and museums, and even tried the opera. I went with her to Goth bars and concerts. I could never really enjoy the music, but I got such a kick out of seeing her enjoying herself. And the dressing up was fun, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you know any of her Goth friends?’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’d call them friends. More like acquaintances.’

  Nightingale leaned over and took the photographs of the four other victims from his raincoat pocket. He spread then out on the coffee table. Zoe’s lips tightened and the blood drained from her face. ‘I can’t bear looking at them,’ she said, turning away.

  ‘You’ve been shown them before?’

  She nodded. ‘And they’re all over the papers and TV whenever they mention Abbie. I hate the way they all get lumped together, as if they stop being individuals.’

  ‘You never saw Abbie with any of them?’

  Zoe sighed. ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. We went to so many places. Abbie was pretty and fun, she always had lots of admirers around her. I’d buy them drinks but most of what they said went in one ear and out the other.’

  ‘Did any of them ever come around here?’

  ‘Sometimes. Abbie would get bored sometimes, so she’d get a few people around to drink and watch TV. Horror movies, mostly.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour and just have a close look at the photographs, just to make sure.’

  Zoe nodded and wiped her eyes, then slowly went through the photographs. She held the picture of Stella Walsh close to her face and squinted at it. Nightingale realised she probably needed glasses. ‘This one, maybe,’ said Zoe. ‘Pretty little thing. How old is she?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s Stella Walsh. She was the first one to be killed.’

  Zoe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I saw her in the Crypt,’ she said. ‘A few months ago, perhaps. But it’s hard to say, with the make-up they tend to look alike. That’s the point, isn’t it?’

  ‘The point?’

  ‘The whole Goth thing. They say they’re expressing their individuality but actually they all end up looking the same. Black hair, white make-up, black lipstick, black clothes.’ She handed back the photographs. ‘But maybe I saw her. I can’t swear on it.’

  Nightingale put the photographs back in his raincoat pocket. ‘The night that Abbie died, she went out alone?’

  ‘She said she was meeting a friend. She wanted to see a film, some stupid sci-fi nonsense. I didn’t want to go.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘And you don’t know who the friend was?’

  ‘Either she didn’t say or she said and I forgot. I wasn’t feeling great.’

  ‘And she didn’t say where she was going to see the film?’

  Zoe shook her head.

  ‘Because she was found in North West London. Five miles from here.’

  ‘In a stinking bedsit, that’s right.’ She blinked away tears. ‘I keep thinking how scared she was, how she was probably calling out for me, and I wasn’t there. When she needed me, I wasn’t there.’ She stood up and walked over to the window and stared over the river as she dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘The police checked her mobile and none of the people she called went to see a film with her. And they checked CCTV footage of all the cinemas within ten miles and there was no sign of her.’

  Zoe whirled around. ‘She lied to me, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, of course not. Maybe there was a change of plan. Maybe she was intercepted before she got to the cinema.’

  ‘Or maybe she lied to me and was off screwing some guy, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, of course not.’ He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. ‘It’s just that no one seems to know how she ended up in a bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘The police say that the bedsit was empty, no one was living there.’

  ‘That’s right. It had been empty for two months or so. Which is why it doesn’t make sense that Abbie would go there.’

  ‘Presumably someone forced her to go.’ Zoe dabbed her eyes again.

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Except that Abbie would never have gone with strangers. She was street smart. And I mean that literally, Jack. She was homeless for a long time and it’s as dangerous as hell out there, specially for a young girl. Her bastard of a boyfriend had her on the game. She was getting into cars with strangers so she had to weigh men up in seconds. She was a good judge of character; she had to be. Her life depended on it.’

  ‘But she made a bad choice when it came to a boyfriend.’

  ‘She needed protection.’

  ‘He used her, Zoe. She made a bad choice right there.’

  Zoe shook her head. ‘He was a bastard and he used her, but he didn’t kill her. Abbie could take care of herself.’ She forced a smile. ‘She always had a knife, can you believe that?’

  ‘A knife?’

  ‘A flick-knife. You know, you press a button and the blade flicks out. I told her, if the cops were to catch her with it, she’d go to prison, but she didn’t care. She always had it in her bag.’

  ‘You think she would have used it if she was attacked?’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Zoe. ‘She pulled it out a few times when she was on the street.’ She tilted her head on one side. ‘You’re wondering why she didn’t use it when she was attacked.’

  ‘I’m assuming she didn’t get the chance,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘The police said she was stunned. Whoever killed her, hit her on the head.’ She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes again. ‘They said she was alive when she was skinned.’ She shuddered.

  ‘She wouldn’t have felt anything,’ said Nightingale, hoping that was the truth.

  ‘That’s what the police said, but they don’t really know, do they? She might have felt every cut.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s a sick world. I can’t understand why the police haven’t arrested anybody.’

  ‘It takes time,’ said Nightingale. ‘If the police are lucky then the killers get caught in the act, but if not it comes down to police work. Asking questions, drawing up timelines and then checking and cross-checking.’

  ‘But they’ve killed five people. How can they do that in this day and age?’ She wiped her eyes and then blew her nose on the tissue before crumpling it up and throwing it in a bin by the side of her sofa. She looked up at Nightingale. ‘It had to be someone she knew. Someone she trusted. She wouldn’t let a stranger get close to her.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea who she was going to go to the film with?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t think I even asked,’ said Zoe. ‘She left here about six and said she’d be back at eleven. When it got to two o’clock in the morning I called the police but they said she was an adult and had to be missing for twenty-four hours before they could do anything. The woman I spoke to said she’d probably turn up, that most missing people did. By the time the twenty-four hours was up, she was dead.’

  Nightingale said nothing. He wanted a cigarette badly but he didn’t see any ashtrays around.

  ‘Do you know how they found her?’ Zoe asked.

  Nightingale shook his head. He did, but he wasn’t sure what the police had told her.

  ‘Her blood,’ said Zoe. ‘Her blood dripped down off the bed and through the floorboards and then it trickled down the light fitting of the bedsit below. Her blood, Jack.’ She shuddered again.

  Nightingale sat in silence. The desire for a cigarette was almost overwhelming but he knew enough about psychology to know it wasn’t a nicotine craving that was kicking in, he wanted to do something to cover his embarrassment. He could see how upset Zoe was but there was nothing he could do or say to ease her pain. Whoever had given her that information deserved a serious dressing down. There were some things that didn’t need to be said, and the condition of Abbie Greene’s body was definitely on that list.

  ‘I had to identify the body,’ she continued. ‘I think they tried to contact her parents but they either couldn’t find them or they didn’t give a damn.’ She reached for another tissue and dabbed at her eyes. ‘They’d covered her body up but her face was …’ She sighed. ‘It was like she was asleep. Her eyes were closed and I sort of thought if I just brushed her cheek she’d wake up and smile at me.’ She took a deep breath and then let it out in a slow moan, then her whole body was racked with sobs. She folded her arms and bent over as she moaned. Nightingale watched her, helplessly. She wailed for several minutes as she rocked back and forth, then she slowly sat up and tried to smile at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for,’ he said.

  ‘I just miss her so much.’ She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. ‘I used to love this flat,’ she said. ‘Now I hate it. Everything in it reminds me of her. I look at the paintings and I remember when she did them. Her cosmetics and perfume are in the bathroom. I haven’t changed the sheets because I can still smell her.’ She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think I want to stay in this world without her,’ she whispered.

  Nightingale leaned forward. ‘Zoe, is there anyone who can come and stay with you?’

  ‘Victim Support, you mean? They sent someone around but I sent them packing. Some stupid woman who just wanted to talk about house prices. I don’t need support from a stranger. I need Abbie back, that’s what I need.’

  ‘I meant family. What about your parents?’

  ‘They’re in the Bahamas.’

  ‘Do they know what’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t think they care.’ She sniffed and blew her nose. ‘I’m an only child and they were, let’s say, a bit disappointed when I turned out to be gay. All their plans to get me married off to minor royalty fell to bits and they’ve never forgiven me.’ She waved her hand around the apartment. ‘I think they’d have taken this back if they could but the money came from my grandfather and the trust fund he set up is pretty much impregnable. So no, Mummy and Daddy won’t be around anytime soon.’

  ‘No family at all?’

  ‘My uncle. Uncle Murray.’

  ‘Is he in London?’

  She nodded. ‘He works in the City. But he’s always busy, I haven’t seen him in months.’

  ‘You fell out with him?’

  ‘No, I always got on really well with him. He’s my godfather, too. But he’s never out of the office.’

  ‘You need to call him,’ said Nightingale flatly.

  ‘He won’t come.’

  ‘Then I’ll call him,’ said Nightingale. He held out his hand. ‘Let me have your phone.’

  She shook her head and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.

  ‘No you won’t,’ he said.

  ‘What, you’re an expert on grief now, are you?’

  Nightingale smiled but didn’t reply. More often than not, men lashed out when they were in crisis, women tended to strike inwards. Nightingale could see that Zoe wasn’t far off hurting herself. And the fact that she had articulated her desire to end her life didn’t make it less likely that it would happen. It was a fallacy that people who talked about suicide didn’t carry it out. Nightingale knew from experience that the opposite was true. Those serious about killing themselves often tried several times before they succeeded and they would often tell those around them what they intended to do.

  ‘I’m fine, Jack. Really.’ She held a tissue to her face and her hand trembled.

  ‘Just let me talk to your uncle,’ he said quietly.

  Zoe sighed theatrically, then picked up her iPhone off the coffee table. She scrolled through her numbers and then passed the phone to Nightingale.

  ‘You know what, I could do with a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Do you mind?’

  She smiled and stood up. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I could do with tea myself. Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Milk and one sugar,’ he said. He waited until she had disappeared into the kitchen before calling the uncle. He answered quickly. ‘Zoe, love, I’m up to my eyes,’ he snapped.

  ‘This isn’t Zoe, this is Jack Nightingale, I’m with the Metropolitan Police,’ said Nightingale, which wasn’t strictly speaking a lie because Superintendent Chalmers had authorised him to help with the investigation. Nightingale quickly explained where he was, and why, and that he needed Murray to come over immediately.

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the man brusquely. ‘I’ve got back-to-back meetings, then I’m due at a marketing lunch, then I’m involved in a major presentation that is potentially worth eight figures to my firm. I could perhaps get there later tonight, but it would be late.’

  Nightingale stood up and walked over to the window. The balcony ran the length of the apartment. There were sun-loungers and a barbecue and large ceramic pots filled with plants. There was a metal railing that ran above waist-high panels of tempered glass that surrounded the balcony, but other than that there was nothing to stop anyone going over. ‘Now listen to me, Murray. I’m with your niece in her flat, which I’m sure you know is on the ninth floor. She keeps looking out at the balcony and telling me that she wishes she was with Abbie. I’ve seen people like this before and I can tell you that it doesn’t end well. What she needs right now is for someone to hold her and to tell her that she’s loved, and with the best will in the world I can’t do that. You’re her uncle and her godfather. That has got to count for something. From what she tells me you’re the only person left that she cares about so you’re going to have to decide right now which is more important to you: your job or your niece. And I’d think long and hard about that if I were you because if I leave her on her own and something happens, it’ll be on your conscience for the rest of your life.’

  Murray said nothing for several seconds and neither did Nightingale. Nightingale had said all that he had to say. There were times when it was best to stay quiet and wait for the other person to fill the silence.

  ‘I’ll leave now,’ Murray said eventually. ‘Can you stay with her until I get there?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Murray, and it was clear from his voice that he meant it.

  Nightingale ended the call and went through to the kitchen. It was about the same size as his entire flat, with a marble floor, a massive two-door stainless steel fridge and a range of equipment that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Zoe was sitting on a stool next to a square marble-topped island below which were wine racks holding hundreds of bottles. Above her head dozens of cast iron pots and pans were hanging from a metal rack. He slid on to a stool next to her and slid the phone across to her. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a first.’

  ‘He’s your godfather, that comes with responsibilities.’

  ‘Murray doesn’t believe in God, and neither do I. How could God, any God, have allowed that to happen to Abbie?’

  Nightingale didn’t have an answer and he doubted that anyone did. She kept looking at him, waiting for him to say something, and he said a silent prayer of thanks when the kettle came to the boil, switched itself off and she went over to pour water into an old-fashioned brown earthenware teapot. She had already set out two cups and saucers. ‘One sugar?’ she said.

  ‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘You should have sugar, too.’

  ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’

  ‘It’s good for shock.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘I’m not in shock.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, you are. Not the sharp, jolting kind. The numbing, pressing kind, the sort that makes your chest feel tight. Sugar can help. Seriously.’

  Zoe sighed. ‘I’m too tired to argue with you,’ she said. She reached for a sugar bowl and put one teaspoonful in each of the mugs.

  ‘Two would be better,’ said Nightingale.

  Zoe laughed. ‘Fine, I’ll have two if you do.’ She added another spoonful to each of the cups, and took them over to the island. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she said.

  ‘Suggested sugar? We’re taught to do that.’