INTO THE SHADOWS
by
Shirley Wells

Jill Kennedy is a forensic psychologist who has recently moved to the village of Kelton, in northern England. She has decided on a new career of writing,
no longer able to work with the police after her profile of a serial killer led to the wrong man being arrested and tried. She is enjoying life in the
village, meeting a set of standard characters - lord and lady of the manor, estate agent, vicar and his wife and teenage son, builder, post-office lady,
headmaster and his wife, local historian and her ailing husband - in the opening chapters. The idyll is soon shattered, however, by two events: the serial
killer is still at large and is now stalking Jill; and the vicar's wife is found brutally murdered, apparently by her son.

Jill, herself a widow, has previously had a relationship with widower DCI Max Trentham. Max was in charge of the serial killer case, but was taken off it
when the wrong man was arrested. He and Jill have broken up, but Max is still keen on Jill and tries to regain her affections as well as to protect her
from the stalker. Jill is attracted to him but is wary of rekindling their relationship after Max betrayed her by having a brief affair. However, she misses
his two sons and his mother-in-law, and cannot seem to get very enthusiastic about any of the relatively large field of available males (read: suspects)
in the vicinity. 


Constable London

For Nick,
may our steps always rhyme . . .
and with grateful thanks to all those who have helped
along the way

Bertrams
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com


First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007

Copyright © Shirley Wells 2007

The right of Shirley Wells to be identified as the author
of this work has been identified by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,
hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-84529-527-1

Printed and bound in the EU

Chapter One

The stupid bitch thought she was God, all knowing and all
seeing. Conceited cow.
He assumed she had driven to Burnley, as she had the last two
Friday mornings. He'd followed her then, and he guessed he had
at least a couple of hours before she returned.
Her bedroom was soft and frilly, all pastel blues and yellows,
and a vase of flowers, huge yellow daisies, sat on the windowsill.
He hated to see flowers in bedrooms. It reminded him of hospitals
where dozens of sick bodies competed for air with garish
blooms.
He peered around blue and yellow curtains and gazed at the
brooding Pennines. It was easy to picture her standing here and
admiring her view, so different to the one of office blocks and
houses she'd had in Preston. She would admire it as it changed
with the seasons - the hills lush and green in the summer
months, wearing their snowy mantle in winter, or hazy in the
mist of a November morning, as they were now.
A cat ambled into the room, saw him, spat at him and raced
out again.
He liked cats; he'd had one once, a tabby kitten that he'd called
Tiger. He'd been six years old at the time.
Very slowly and carefully, he inched open a drawer, the top
drawer of a set of four in what pretended to be antique pine.
Inside were scraps of material that made his breath catch. A silk
bra in black - no, it was dark blue - caught his attention, then
a tiny thong in the same soft silk.

He pulled off a glove, and allowed his fingers the luxury of
running over the scanty silk.
Deciding to keep a souvenir, he shoved the thong into the
pocket of his trousers, put on his glove again and slid the drawer
back into place.
Her bed had been neatly made and he pulled back the quilt,
inhaling deeply. Her scent was on the pillow.
Tonight, he'd smell her in the flesh, God willing. They would
be at the same bonfire party, in the same house, talking to the
same people, and although they probably wouldn't speak, he
would make sure he got close enough to smell her.
It was tempting to leave the photograph on the pillow where,
later, her pretty head would rest, but it was too soon for that. He
would put it in an envelope and drop it through her letterbox.
After one last look at her bedroom, he left as quietly as he'd
entered.

Chapter Two

Jill walked up the drive to Kelton Manor and wished with
all her heart that she didn't have to be here. At the best of
times, she wasn't a party person and today, despite the fact
that Manor Girl had seen off the favourite and romped
home at 22-1, wasn't the best of times.
There had been three brown envelopes on her doormat
when she'd returned from Burnley that morning - a
reminder that her TV licence was due, a reminder that the
cats' inoculations were due and a photograph complete
with newspaper clipping.
Nothing had been written on the photograph. Even the
envelope, plain manila and self-seal, hadn't seen a printer
or a pen. The piece cut from the newspaper was simply a
large headline that read: Serial killer arrested.
She knew the photograph well. It had been taken a year
ago when, flushed with success, she'd been snapped by the
local press. Due in part to the profile she'd prepared, a
serial killer who had been terrorizing the north-west for
four years had finally been arrested. Oh yes, she'd been
smiling for the cameras that day.
That was before Rodney Hill committed suicide. Before
they realized they'd got the wrong man.
A rocket exploded into thousands of silver and gold
stars that lit the overhead sky. Very pretty, but it did
nothing to improve her mood. She hoped her three cats
would be all right. They should be. There was unlikely to
be much activity along her lane, and she'd locked the cat
flap so they couldn't get out.
It was the dressing up she hated most about parties.
Happier in jeans and jumpers, she resented occasions that
required effort. She wasn't in the mood for being polite to
complete strangers, either. Not tonight.

She pushed a heavy finger at the doorbell, a round brass
affair set in the stonework, and pinned in place the brightest
smile she could manage.

The door swung open and a babble of conversation and
polite laughter drifted out.

'Jill!' Mary Lee-Smith, her hostess, air-kissed Jill's
cheeks. 'Thank you so much for coming, my dear.'

Thank you for inviting me.' The sound of talk and
laughter from within cheered Jill slightly. It was a month
since she'd moved into the Lancashire village of Kelton
Bridge, and it was high time she met some of her new
neighbours. This way, she'd meet a lot in one go. 'It's very
kind of you,' she added.

From what she'd heard, Gordon Lee-Smith's family had
lived at Kelton Manor, a gorgeous square building set in
immaculate grounds that sat in the middle of Kelton
Bridge, for generations. Although Mary's heart was in the
right place, it was said she thought this gave them - well,
her really, as Gordon worked in London during the week
- the right to organize the other residents.

That, of course, was simply hearsay, something Olive
Prendergast from the post office had told her. Olive, who
struggled to find a kind word for anyone, was coming up
to retirement and her heart was no longer in the job.
Apparently, since losing her husband a couple of years
ago, Olive's main purpose in life was to spread local
gossip.

For all that, Jill could believe that Mary was a natural
organizer, despite her small stature.

Jill's coat was taken from her and she was ushered
through an impressive hallway into an even more impressive
drawing room. It was already crowded.
'Let's get you a drink,' Mary said. 'Gordon!'
Her husband was across the room, out of earshot and

unable to see his wife's flapping arms, and then the doorbell
rang again.

'Don't worry,' Jill said, "I'll get myself one and hunt
down someone I recognize.'

Are you sure, dear?' Another fruitless gaze in Gordon's
direction. "I hate the thought of abandoning you.'

'I'm sure.' Jill was more than happy to be abandoned.

Ever since moving to Kelton Bridge, she'd been itching
to see inside the manor, and would rather be nosy on her
own. From the outside, it was an imposing building with
a paddock and stable block to the side. Huge chestnut trees
marked the property's boundary.

It reminded her of the large house she'd seen from her
bedroom window as a child. Only a field had separated
the council estate from Shelton House and Jill had spent
hours watching the comings and goings. A girl, Penelope,
the same age as Jill, had lived there. She'd attended a
boarding school in Hereford but, during the holidays, Jill
had watched her trotting off on her elegant silver pony.
Jill had even fantasized about befriending the girl simply
to have a ride on the magnificent animal. It came to
nothing, of course. Their paths never crossed. The field
separating the River View estate and Shelton House might
have been a million miles.

The interior of Kelton Manor didn't disappoint. Everything
was lavish - huge oil paintings, long and heavy
velvet curtains, antique furniture and old wood that had
been polished to within an inch of its life. With a glass of
very acceptable white wine in her hand, Jill was on her
way to inspect the Victorian conservatory when she
bumped, almost literally, into Andy Collins. At least there
was one person here she knew.

'Jill, I've been looking for you.' This time, her cheeks
were kissed properly.

Tall, slim and blond, he wore rimless glasses, and his
eyes were the palest blue, speckled with silver streaks.

'Hi, Andy, how's my favourite estate agent? Hey, I bet
you'd like this place on your books.'
"Wouldn't I just,' he agreed, sounding wistful as he
looked around. 'No hope of that, though. So how are you
settling in?'
'Wonderfully well. I owe you.'
It was thanks to Andy that she had the cottage. Due
in part to the little sod who'd burned her flat to the
ground, she'd decided the time was right to head out of
Preston and find a place in the country. She'd had several areas in mind. One day, she'd wandered into Andy's office
and, from that moment on, he'd been tireless in his search
for the perfect property for her. He'd certainly earned his
commission.
While house hunting, Jill had begun to despair of estate
agents in general. Despite giving them precise details of
what she was looking for, they either sent brochures for
properties that would only be feasible when she'd won the
lottery, or they omitted to send anything until any possible
properties were already under offer. Andy, however, had
been a gem. He'd called her from his car phone after an
appointment with Mrs Blackman to say Lilac Cottage was
about to go on the market.
"I think it will be perfect for you,' he'd said. 'It's a bit on
the small side, but there's plenty of room to extend. It
needs a fair amount of work, hence the sensible asking
price. It's well within your budget.'
She'd met him there that same day, fallen in love with the
cottage, and immediately made Mrs Blackman an offer.
Andy had been right; it was perfect for her. On the edge
of Kelton Bridge, midway between Burnley and Rochdale,
and nestling in the shadow of the Pennines, she was less
than an hour's drive north of Manchester. The location
couldn't have been better.
All thanks to Andy.
He'd invited her to dinner twice, and twice Jill had
declined. Perhaps she should have accepted, if only out of
gratitude. Her excuses had involved pressure of work, but
the truth was, she didn't want a relationship.
'Good grief, Jill,' Prue, her young and bossy sister had
scoffed. 'The bloke's offered to feed you. How can that
translate as wanting his socks washed for the rest of his
days?'
Prue was probably right, but all the same . . .
Jill slipped her arm through Andy's.
'Come and show me the conservatory. I walk past here
most days, but the walls around the grounds are so high that I haven't been able to get a decent look at it. I've been
tempted to bring a stepladder with me . . .'
'You're just plain nosy'
'Merely interested in people,' she corrected him.
They wove their way around a small crowd and stepped
through double doors into the conservatory.
'Oh, wow! It's massive. And no UPVC in sight. Are these
real?' A finger on one of the tall, exotic ferns told her that
they were indeed real. 'My entire cottage would fit in
here/ she added.
'Not quite,' Andy replied with amusement, 'but it's a
nice size.'
Jill spluttered with laughter. 'Oh, yes, I can picture your
sales brochure - a nice-sized conservatory at the rear.' She
nudged him and said in a whisper, 'The lights are a bit
tacky though.'
Small white fairy lights had been hung from the ceiling
for the party and a few of the ferns were adorned with
lights.
'Behave yourself,' he grinned.
Andy!' a voice boomed out.
They both turned, Jill hoping her disparaging whisper
hadn't been heard, to see a couple who were strangers
to her.
Ah, Tony, Liz, lovely to see you,' Andy greeted them.
'Have you met Jill? No? Jill, this is Tony Hutchinson,
headmaster of the local primary school, and his wife, the
lovely Liz.'
Jill shook hands and went through the pleased-to-meet
you routine. Tony was in his mid-fifties, Jill supposed, a
tall, handsome man with grey hair, and the lovely Liz
looked a good ten years younger. She was also American.
'I've been over here for twenty years,' she explained,
'but I can't seem to shake off this accent.'
From the way she swayed on her feet, she'd also found
the wine to be acceptable.
She was short and slim, one of those women with an
inbuilt sense of style, and was wearing an exquisite pale
mauve linen trouser suit. Jill guessed she only bought the
best quality clothes. Her wardrobe would be full of cashmere
and, unlike Jill, she wouldn't have spent a frantic
hour searching for a pair of black trousers that were relatively
cat-hair free.
'I'm surprised Kelton still has a school,' Jill said, 'when
so many village schools are closing.'
'Fortunately, it's thriving,' Tony told her. 'Pupil numbers
have increased each year for the last five years.'
'Thanks mainly to the two new estates,' Andy put in
lightly, 'which, if I recall, Tony, you were against.'
"I wasn't against the estates, I was against the location,'
he replied, chuckling. Turning to Jill, he said, 'How are you
finding Kelton Bridge?'
"I love it. I've been very busy, work-wise, which is
why I haven't met many people, so it's lovely to be here
tonight.'
'The pleasure's all ours,' he murmured. 'Everyone's
queuing up to meet our local celebrity.'
'Sorry?'
'Tony started a psychology course many years ago,' Liz
explained. 'It was one of the Open University things. He's
been fascinated ever since. Not fascinated enough to finish
the course, you understand.'
Jill was startled by the animosity she sensed between
husband and wife.
'But I'm not a celebrity,' she pointed out, confused.
'Your face was in our local paper for days on end,' Tony
told her, 'when that serial killer was caught.'
The coincidence sent a shiver the length of Jill's spine.
No one had mentioned the case to her for months and now
that photograph had been brought to mind twice on the
same day.
'But as you'll be aware,' she said, knowing her voice
sounded tight, 'it wasn't the killer.'
"I never know the difference between a psychologist and
a psychiatrist,' Liz said, clearly trying to lighten the
atmosphere.
'A psychologist deals with normal mental states,' Tony
told her, 'and a psychiatrist deals with abnormal. A
psychiatrist will have more medical training. Isn't that
right, Jill?'
'Close enough,' she replied, eager for a change of
subject.
'But the job, it must be fascinating,' Tony persisted.
'It's OK,' she told him with a tight little smile. 'Although
not as glamorous as the TV dramas make out. As a forensic
psychologist working with the police, I mainly advised on
selection and training of officers, prepared behavioural
information to support cases in court, and did a variety of
counselling roles.' She shrugged. 'But that's in the past.
I resigned as I wanted to concentrate on my writing.'
Liar, she scoffed.
'Yes, we heard you were writing. What sort of stuff are
you doing?'
'At the moment, I'm writing a book to help sufferers of
anxiety attacks,' she said.
From the expression on his face, she gathered Mr
Hutchinson wasn't impressed.
'Panic attacks, you mean?' his wife put in. 'My sister has
those. She's getting better, slowly, but it's a terrible thing.
Her doctor has given her Valium and told her to do relaxation
exercises.'
"I could have done that,' Tony scoffed. 'Don't you think,'
he said, addressing Jill, 'that people could help themselves
if only they put their minds to it? Is there any need
for books?'
"I don't think we can help ourselves,' Jill argued. 'We can
often help other people, but we get so wrapped up in our
own worries and anxieties that we often can't see the wood
for the trees.'
"I suppose so,' he said, grudgingly. 'And do you enjoy it?
Writing, I mean?'
"I love it.'
That was true. All Jill wanted was to forget Valentine, as
the serial killer had quickly been dubbed, forget her work
with the police, and concentrate on her life. She wanted to
get the work done on her cottage so it was warm and
comfortable, then sit back and enjoy life with her cats. A
simple life appealed to her.
'It can't be as interesting as criminal profiling, though,'
Tony persisted. 'But is there anything in it? I mean, really.
Come on, Jill, you can be honest with us.'
'Of course there's something in it,' she replied, wondering
what sort of moron he thought she was. 'We're all
unique. We all have our different ways of doing things.
Criminals leave tangible clues like fingerprints, footprints,
saliva, blood and all the rest of it, but by the way they do
things, they leave clues that are just as obvious.'
'What do you think of this conservatory?' Liz butted in.
'Isn't it grand? I am so jealous.'
Jill, grateful for the change of subject, warmed to her
immediately.
"Me, too. It's gorgeous. I couldn't believe these ferns are
real . . .'
Another man soon joined them. Jill didn't know him
but she'd seen him about the village. She was ashamed
that she hadn't made more effort to get to know these
people.
'Hi, Bob,' Andy greeted him warmly.
'Bob's our local builder,' Liz explained and to prove that
she really had had too much wine, she burst into song,
'Bob the Builder
The group laughed, as was expected, but Jill could see
that Bob had tired of the joke long ago. Fortunately, he was
too well mannered to say so.
The lovely Liz was struggling to keep her eyes off him.
With good reason, Jill allowed. It was difficult to give him
an age, probably late thirties or early forties. He was fit
and strong-looking, with the sort of tanned skin that comes
from working outside rather than spending a fortnight
beneath a foreign sun. His hair was strawberry-blond, a
young Robert Redford, and he had huge work-roughened
hands. All in all, a very attractive man.
'So you haven't met our local celebrity either, Bob?' Tony
remarked, and Jill groaned inwardly.
Bob looked blank.
'Jill, here, was in the papers when that serial killer was
caught. Or, at least, the police thought they'd caught the
serial killer.'
"I remember that, of course,' Bob said, frowning, 'but
I don't recall the details.'
'Jill was the psychologist who worked out the profile for
the police,' Tony explained.
'Ah, right.' Bob tried to look impressed and failed.
Jill had to smile. 'Don't worry, Bob, Tony's having you
on. I'm no celebrity. I am in need of a good builder,
though. Andy will vouch for that.'
'Oh?'
'I'm at Lilac Cottage,' she told him, 'Mrs Blackman's
old place.'
'Ah.'
A man of few words was Bob.
'My roof needs checking over and making good as soon
as possible,' she explained, 'and every door and window
in the place needs replacing. In the future, I'm thinking of
a loft conversion and a ground-floor extension.'
Bob wasn't surprised. Anyone who drove past could see
the state of her roof and windows.
'Give me a ring then,' he said. 'I'm in the book.'
They chatted about other things - the way Kelton Bridge
had woken to eight inches of snow on New Year's Day last
year, how Tony, a keep fit fanatic, was determined to walk
the Pennine Way next year . . .
'Jill, there you are.' Mary Lee-Smith appeared at Jill's
elbow. 'You must come and meet our vicar and his wife.
They say they haven't met you yet.' She sounded appalled
at the latter.
'Not yet,' Jill admitted as she was whisked away.
Reverend Trueman was a tall, imposing man. He looked
quite stern and, for a moment, Jill remembered her late
grandmother saying 'And what shall I say when the vicar
asks where you've been? I can't lie to a vicar.' Jill, eight
years old at the time, hadn't cared what her gran said. No
way was she sitting in church for hours while her friends
enjoyed themselves outside and that was that. She felt
much the same about church twenty-six years later.
During the customary 'lovely to meet you' and 'how are
you settling in?' conversation that followed, his wife, Alice,
appeared warm, friendly and down-to-earth, so Jill gave
Reverend Trueman the benefit of the doubt.
Alice was also stunningly attractive which was strange,
Jill thought, given that (a) she wasn't exactly a spring
chicken and (b) she seemed to have made no effort whatsoever.
Her hair could have done with a good cut, she wore
no make-up, and her simple grey dress would have suited
a Quaker. Despite this, her finely boned face with those
stunning cheekbones, her height, her slim figure and long,
shapely legs gave her a style and elegance of her own so
that she couldn't fail to turn heads.
"I take it you're not a churchgoer,' Jonathan Trueman
remarked.
'I'm afraid not, no.'
'Why afraid?'
'Silly choice of words. Although I do feel I need to make
excuses for myself.' Blame my gran, she added silently.
'But you're right, I'm not. I love the buildings, and I love
the whole idea of it all, but I'm not a fan of religion. It
causes too many problems and creates too many fanatics
for my liking.'
'For a psychologist '
'Jon,' his wife scolded, 'this isn't the time or the place

for one of your theology discussions.' Alice gave Jill an
apologetic smile. 'Once he gets started, there's no stopping
him.'
'Nonsense,' he argued, slipping a fond arm around his
wife's slender waist. 'We'll save it for another time,' he
promised with a wink for Jill.
'Here's Michael.' Alice waved to a young lad across the
room. 'Our son,' she added for Jill's benefit. 'Michael, come
and meet Jill Kennedy'
He came over to them, all smiles. 'You haven't run out
of petrol lately?'
"I haven't,' Jill told him, laughing. 'We've already met,'
she explained to his parents. 'Michael helped me unlock
my petrol cap at the filling station.'
'His Saturday job,' Jonathan put in. 'He's in his last year
at school and then it'll be off to university'
Clearly Reverend Trueman wanted the world to know
about his clever son, not the friendly lad who sat in the
kiosk at the filling station. An intellectual snob, Jill
decided.
They were discussing the universities they'd each
attended when Mary appeared at Jill's elbow.
'Sorry to intrude, but Ella Gardner's dying to meet you,
Jill. Ella's our resident historian . . .'
Jill knew she'd never remember anyone's name by
morning, but she set off to be introduced to the resident
historian.
'Spend too long in a place like Kelton,' Ella warned, 'and
you'll be the one needing a psychologist. I swear all the
misfits are born with an inbuilt route planner to get them
here.' She frowned. "I haven't seen you at church.
I wouldn't go myself as I'm a confirmed atheist, but it's
easier to go than put up with Jon's lectures. Besides, he
enjoys the challenge.'
"I managed to avoid his lecture,' Jill told her.
'Ah, yes, he lulls you into a false sense of security and
then goes in for the kill,' Ella warned her.
"I gather you're our resident historian,' Jill remarked.
'Ha! I seem to have earned that dubious title since
passing the age of sixty' Ella grinned. 'Before that, I was
just another dull civil servant. Hmm. Exciting to have a
resident psychologist though. Are you married?'
Ella, Jill suspected, excelled at the frank question.
'Widowed.'
Jill was accustomed to the shock on Ella's face. She'd
seen it on dozens of faces before. She could understand it,
too. Widows were grey-haired old ladies who knitted
scratchy jumpers for their grandchildren while looking
back on a lifetime's memories. They weren't smiling thirtyfour-year-olds.

'What about you, Ella? Are you married?'
"Me? For my sins, yes. Tom doesn't get out much.
Blames his arthritis but, basically, he's a boring old fart. As
he'd tell me though, it takes one to know one. I love him
really, and given tonight's crowd, I can't say I blame him.
God, what a dull lot. In the next breath, they'll all be
complaining that the youngsters leave the village at the
first opportunity. Can you blame them? There's more life
in the graveyard.'
'I'm enjoying myself,' Jill said, amused by Ella's scathing
comments.
'Ah, but as the new resident, you're obliged to say kind
things about us all.'
Mary soon put an end to their conversation.
'Come along, everyone,' she called, clapping her hands
to round up her guests. 'Time for the fireworks.'
They trooped out into the garden to watch the display. It
was, as might be expected, Jill supposed, spectacular. Mary
wouldn't do anything by half measures. They oohed and
aahed dutifully, although Jill had never been a fan of
fireworks. She was pleased when they were ushered inside
again, and she could warm her hands.
She was wondering if it was too early to make her
excuses when Tony Hutchinson sought her out.
'I've been sent to apologize,' he said sheepishly. 'Liz
thinks I was rude to you.'
'Not at all.' Jill was surprised.
"I really was fascinated by the case,' he explained, 'and
I didn't stop to think how you must have felt when you
realized it was the wrong man.'
'It goes with the territory,' she told him. 'You can't win
'em all.'
'Anyway,' he said, 'I'm sorry. Me and my big mouth, eh?'
'Don't worry about it.'
'So,' he said, 'are you really looking for a builder?'
"I certainly am, yes.'
'Then you won't go far wrong with Bob. He's fair and
reliable, an excellent chap. Mind you, he has to be. Living
in the village, we'd soon be up in arms if our houses
started falling down.'
'Tony, there you are.' The lovely Liz appeared at his
side, swaying even more noticeably now. "I might have
guessed.'
"I think it's time we got you home,' he said tightly and,
again, Jill was struck by the animosity.
'Time I left too,' Jill said. 'Do you mind if I walk
with you?'
She'd done enough socializing for one evening and
her feet were objecting strongly to being forced into shoes
that boasted a small heel. Besides, she didn't relish
walking home in the dark with only exploding rockets for
company.
'We'd be honoured,' Tony said, adding a scathing,
'When Liz falls over, it'll be easier to put her back on her
feet if there are two of us.'


Chapter Three

'You bloody superior shit!' Liz's first job was to pour
herself a large vodka. 'God almighty, you're pathetic. You
have to bloody fawn, don't you?'
Her husband, the fine upstanding headmaster, said
nothing. No surprise there. While he was more than happy
to creep and grovel round everyone in the village, he knew
his silent, superior air pissed her off. She was convinced he
had perfected it deliberately. Every time they went out
together, which wasn't often, he made a complete prat of
himself, embarrassed her, and made a mockery of their
marriage. Not that making a mockery of their marriage
took much effort; everyone in the village must know how
shaky that was by now.
'As soon as Mary said the new woman had been invited,
I knew you'd be falling all over her.'
"I was merely being polite, Liz, and now I'm going to
bed. Are you coming? Or are you going to keep your bottle
company?'
'It's better bloody company than you are.'
'Suit yourself.'
He walked off, loosening his tie as he went. Sanctimonious
pig.
Liz would have followed, if only to give vent to her
anger, but she knew it was a waste of time. What would
he do? Apologize for ignoring her all night, sweep her off
her feet and make mad passionate love to her? Some hope
of that.
She kicked off her shoes, stretched her toes, and threw
herself down on the sofa.
There was a time when he'd swept her off her feet,
figuratively speaking of course. She'd come over from the
States to work in England, met Tony, been completely
dazzled by him, and forgotten about returning to America.
They'd been married less than four months after that
initial meeting.
What had appealed to him? That she was American?
That she was ten years his junior?
Sadly, twenty years later, she no longer looked ten years
his junior. While he was terrified of growing old and took
every precaution known to man, she was drinking herself
into an early grave. Perhaps it was this fear of growing old
that made him such an incorrigible flirt. Or perhaps he was
simply bored with her.
She refilled her glass, then carried that and the bottle
back to the sofa.
'The drink will numb the pain/ she promised herself. 'It
always does.'

'Good party?' Tom asked.
Ella bent to kiss her husband's head, took off her coat,
and made straight for the kitchen.
'Interesting. I'll bore you with the details as soon as I've
made a brew. Do you want one?'
Silly question, Ella thought, smiling to herself. In the
forty years they'd been married, had Tom ever refused a
cuppa? She couldn't recall an occasion.
Her hands were cold and she warmed them on the
kitchen radiator as she waited for the kettle to boil. Moving
from a large three-storey house to a small bungalow had
come as a bit of a shock but, three years on, Ella was glad
they'd done it. The bungalow was easy to keep clean and,
more importantly on nights like this, easy to keep warm.
When she carried the tea through, she was pleased to see
he'd switched off the television and folded his newspaper.
He might not be interested in local gossip, but he was a
good listener. A good husband.
'Was I missed?' he asked.
'Of course not. I excused your absence by telling people
you're a boring old fart. Actually, I did,' she recalled,
laughing. "I met Jill Kennedy, the new woman at Lilac
Cottage. I liked her immediately. She's one of those people
you instantly warm to, you know? Anyway, I told her you
were too boring to meet people. I don't think she believed
me, though.'
'I think I've seen her about,' Tom said. 'Slim? Short
blonde hair? Drives a blue Seat Leon?'
'That sounds like her, although I've no idea what car she
drives. Andy Collins has his eye on her, I know that. He
was quite peeved when Mary insisted on dragging her off
to meet people. I was one of those she had to meet. I'm the
resident historian. It's official.'
Tom laughed at that.
'Tony and Liz were looking daggers at each other all
evening,' she confided, clucking her teeth. 'Liz had had too
much to drink, as usual, and Tony was busy flirting with
Jill Kennedy, Alice Trueman . . .' She paused, then laughed.
"I think I'm the only woman he didn't flirt with.'
'He knows the competition's too stiff.'
Ella reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. 'Perhaps
he does at that.'
Tears welled up in her eyes and she had to blink them
back. What was she going to do without her Tom?
When she'd stood in the church all those years ago and
vowed to love him till death parted them, she hadn't
realized that death would come long before she was ready
to face it. Tom was only sixty-seven. He'd been by her side,
putting up with her funny ways for forty years. She
couldn't imagine, didn't want to imagine the day when he
wasn't there. Yet that day was rapidly approaching.
Today was one of his good days, one of those days when
she could pretend the word cancer didn't exist. Tomorrow
could be a different story altogether.
'Six months,' the doctor had said. 'Maybe more . . .'
It was no use getting maudlin. That helped no one.
'Jill Kennedy's a widow,' she went on, forcing her mind
to other matters. "I had such a shock when she told me. It
doesn't seem right, someone so young. I don't know what
happened. I was still getting over the shock when we
started talking about something else. Bob Murphy was
there, and you know how all the young ladies lust after
that finely toned body of his. Liz's eyes were out on stalks,
but Jill barely spared him a second glance. Still mourning
her husband, I suppose. Lord, Bob's a handsome chap,
though. If I were forty years younger '
'If you were forty years younger, my love, you wouldn't
be allowed to go gallivanting on your own.'

Alice was exhausted when she climbed into bed. It had
been a long evening; she'd found it difficult to pretend that
everything was as it should be. She'd imagined people
must know her secret.
It couldn't go on, the strain would kill her.
Jonathan came out of the bathroom and climbed into
bed beside her.
'I'll invite Jill Kennedy to lunch one day,' she said, 'so
long as you promise not to talk religion.'
'Alice,' he scolded, smiling indulgently, 'how am I supposed
to do my job when I'm not allowed to talk religion?'
'By example/ she retorted, dragging a smile from God
only knew where. She rolled over, feigning a yawn. "I don't
know about you, but I'm shattered.'
'It's been a tiring day,' he agreed.
Every day was tiring. It was so hard to live a lie. In the
last seven days, there had been twenty minutes of joy in
her life. Life was so empty that she was reduced to counting
the minutes. Was it so terribly wrong to want more?
She had Michael, of course, and she should be grateful for
that. Next September, though, Michael would be away at
university and then her days would seem endless. Pointless
and endless.
'It was a good party, though/ Jonathan was saying.
'Yes, Mary always throws good parties. I sometimes feel
sorry for Gordon. After working in London all week, you'd
think he would want the house to himself.'
'Perhaps he does. Mary rules at the manor, though, and
she can't seem to go a month without having a party for
something or other. Tonight's fireworks must have cost a
small fortune, too.'
'Hateful things/ Alice said.
Jonathan switched out the light. "I enjoy Mary's sense of
fun, though, don't you?'
"I do,' Alice murmured.
People did have fun - unless they lived at the vicarage.
Life should be lived to the full, and that's what most
people did. They grabbed it with both hands.
How long was it since she'd done something impulsive,
something purely for the fun of it? A long, long time ago.
It was a time she tried not to remember.
In the morning, she promised herself, she would sort out
her life. On that optimistic but frightening thought, she
drifted into a restless sleep.

Chapter Four

Jill held the phone away from her ear as her mother
coughed and spluttered on the other end of the line.
'Still not given up the fags then, Mum?' she said when
normality returned.
"I need some pleasure. And if your dad can throw his
money at the bookie, I can spend mine on fags. In any case
- God, I meant to tell you. You know the Kelly family?
Moved into number 14?'
'No.' Her mother forgot that Jill hadn't lived on the
estate for sixteen years.
'Moved in last year. A mother - as rough as a badger,
she is - one son and a daughter. Well, the lad's been
arrested for stealing a car and dangerous driving. I always
knew they were a bad lot. Like the Westons. He's been
done for aggravated burglary. Did I tell you? They should
lock 'em up and throw away the bloody key. And then you
what?'
Jill rolled her eyes at the conversation, bickering more
like, that was taking place at number 27, River View.
'Your dad wants a word,' her mum said, coming back on
the line.
'OK, Mum, I'll speak to you soon. And I'll try and make
it for your birthday.'
'That would be smashing, love. If you're not too busy,
of course.'
The guilt was like a kick in the stomach. Jill really would
have to visit. It wouldn't hurt her.
'And how's my favourite brainbox?' her dad bellowed
down the phone.
'In Lancashire, not on Mars,' she replied fondly. 'There's
no need to shout, Dad. And I'm good, thanks. How are
you? Hey, I won a few quid on Manor Girl on Friday'
'What on earth made you back that old thing?'
'Just a hunch. And that old thing, as you call it, came in
at 22-1.'
'Huh. Give me a bell if you get any more hunches.
I haven't had a decent win in ages. Not that I'd have
backed Manor Girl '
Again, Jill had to hold the phone away from her ear as
her dad broke off to have a slanging match with her
mother. Even with the phone six inches away, she caught
the gist of it. Her dad, a man who fished as a means of
escaping the house more than anything else, had committed
the ultimate crime. He'd left his maggots in the
fridge - again.
'They're in a bloody box, woman/ he was shouting.
'How the 'ell can they do any harm?'

Jill wondered, not for the first time, how she and her
sister had survived life at number 27. Fights between their
parents were a regular occurrence and the bickering was
constant. To an outsider, it must look like hell on earth. The
most amazing thing, however, was that they were devoted
to each other. If her dad won on the horses, he'd walk
through the door hidden behind an extravagant bouquet
of flowers and his wife would melt in his arms. There
would be kisses and cuddles for, oh, at least five minutes.
Then the bickering would start all over again.
'Your mum's in an evil temper today,' he chuckled,
coming back on the line. 'I'd better go and sort her out.'
Mum, Jill knew, would take some sorting out. She was a
strong woman. Strong, opinionated, pushy - and Jill
thanked her lucky stars that she was. If it hadn't been for
her mum, pushing her to do schoolwork and get into
university, Jill might be raising half a dozen kids at River
View.
'OK, Dad. You take care and I'll be down to visit soon.'
She replaced the receiver and immediately picked up
her diary. Perhaps this Saturday would be a good time to
visit . . .
'It's open!' The shrill ring of her doorbell had her sliding
her feet into her shoes but she didn't get a chance to grab
the cash she'd put ready.
'Then it bloody well shouldn't be! Jesus Christ, Jill!' Max
slammed the door shut and strode into the sitting room.
'Why in hell's name can't you use the bloody lock? God, if
you saw a tenth of what I see '
'I've ordered a takeaway and thought you were the
delivery man.' Jill's heart raced uncomfortably at the shock
of having Max filling her air space.
'That's a bloody good epitaph for half the people who
end up with a tag round their big toe.' He shook his head
in the cynical way he had. "I suppose you reckon nothing
happens in sleepy old Kelton Bridge?'
Jill took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. Doing
this to keep calm was an art she'd mastered while she and
Max had lived together.
'What brings you here, Max?'
'Detective Chief Inspector to you,' he said, and the
slightly self-conscious smile touched her.
That was the problem with Max. She loved him, she
hated him, she despaired of him, but she couldn't be
unmoved by him.
"I heard.' She'd seen his photo in the local paper with a
small write-up of his promotion. It had been cut out and
put in her 'special box'. 'Congratulations.'
'Thanks.'
'So how's it going?' Badly if the smell of whisky on his
breath was anything to go by. Nothing to do with her, she
reminded herself. If he wanted to lose his job, fine.
'Ups and downs. Downs at the moment.' He took off his
jacket, black suede, and threw it over the back of a chair.
"I need a slash.'
As he raced up the stairs, Jill picked up his jacket and
hung it on the peg in the hall. Then, remembering her days
of tidying up after him were long gone, she took it off the
peg and threw it back on the chair. He wouldn't be staying
long enough for it to bother her.
She could hear him moving around upstairs. What the
devil was he doing up there? She was about to go and find
out when she heard him coming back.
'It's Day of the Bloody Triffids up there/ he said, shaking
his head with amusement.
"I like plants in my bathroom.' Her bathroom. 'So what
are you doing here, Max?'
'This afternoon '
The ringing of her doorbell interrupted him.
'It's open/ Jill called out, smiling sweetly at Max.
He was never more than six inches from her right
shoulder while she thanked the man and paid him, opened
the cartons, took out a plate and cutlery.
'That smells good. I don't really have time, but I haven't
eaten all day'
Suppressing a sigh, she took another plate from the
cupboard.
Samuel, too, had appeared from nowhere. All human
food was high on that cat's list, but chicken was his
favourite. Chefs at Indian and Chinese restaurants could
do with it as they pleased; it was still Sam's favourite.
She had hoped Max wouldn't be staying long, but there
was too much food for one, although probably not enough
for two, not when one of the two was Max. But his need
would be greater than hers; he seldom remembered to eat
without being prompted.
He forgot to eat because he never found time, and he
drank because - well, Jill reckoned life in general stressed
him to hell and he reckoned he simply enjoyed a drink.
They'd agreed to differ on that long ago. Not her problem,
she reminded herself. They'd parted almost a year ago
now. So long as they could be civilized on the rare occasions
they saw each other, that was fine. It wasn't easy, but
it was OK.
'Is there any wine in this place?' Max began searching,
first the fridge, then the cupboards.
'There's a bottle of red in the cupboard above the
microwave.'
He found the bottle and soon had it open. It was only
the second time Max had visited her here, yet he managed
to make himself comfortable as if he'd known no other
home. The knowledge irritated.
Having eased her conscience by phoning her parents, Jill
had planned to curl up in the sitting room with her food.
Deciding the kitchen was less intimate, however, she put
their food on the table and sat down. Max sat opposite. At
least with two of them eating, it would be easier to keep
Sam off the table.
It was ironic, she thought, but she and Max had probably
sat down to eat together more times in the last year
than they had during the time they'd been together.
She wondered if there was anyone else in his life. She
never asked, of course, but she would dearly love to
know. Half of her was jealous at the idea, but the other
half, the sensible half, knew the poor woman was welcome
to him.
'So?' she prompted, spearing a hot chunk of pineapple.
'You were about to tell me why you're here.'
'This afternoon,' he said, 'a woman was killed in Kelton
Bridge.'
'Killed?' She thought he was referring to an accident, but
Max wouldn't be involved in that. 'You mean murdered?
Here? In Kelton?'
"In sleepy old Kelton Bridge, yes.' His smile was mocking.
'Must have been expecting a takeaway'
She ignored his sarcasm. 'Who?'
'Alice Trueman. The vicar's wife.'
'No! Alice Trueman? But I only saw her on Friday night.
I was talking to her.' It simply wasn't possible. Yet she
knew it had to be true. 'Are you sure she was murdered?
It couldn't have been an accident?'
'Difficult to accidentally slit your throat from ear to ear.'
'Good God. Who on earth would want her dead?'
'That's what I'd like to know. How well did you
know her?'
'I don't really know her. I met her at a party on
Friday night.'
'What was she like?'
Was.
Jill pushed her plate aside, her appetite gone, and leaned
back in her chair.
'Very attractive,' she said, causing an impatient raising
of dark eyebrows. 'Sorry. Um - down-to-earth, homely
type, proud of her son, embarrassed by her husband. The
vicar - what's his name? - oh, yes, Jonathan Trueman is a
bit of snob. As soon as I said I'd already met Michael, the
son, he had to make sure I knew that Michael was soon off
to uni and that his job at the filling station was only a
Saturday job. Alice wouldn't have liked that. She stopped
him talking religion at me, too.'
And now she was dead.
'She was incredibly attractive, though/ she went on.
'No make-up, no expensive haircut, no showy clothes and
yet she was stunning. An incredible figure, and long,
shapely legs.'
Dead.
'What happened?'
'The vicar arrived home shortly after two o'clock this
afternoon to find his son holding her. She was naked, his
clothes were covered in blood, and he was holding the
knife.'
'Michael?'
'Yes, we're questioning him at the moment.'
'You think Michael killed his mother? Never in a
month of Sundays.' Something else occurred to her. 'How
old is he?'
'Eighteen. He had his birthday six weeks ago.'
He'd looked younger, but Jill knew that was merely a sign
of her own age. When you hit thirty, and she'd done that
four years ago, everyone else started looking younger.
"I thought I'd have a chat with you,' he said, 'and see
what you knew about the family'
She wasn't convinced. With a murder inquiry only seven
hours old, it would be action stations. There would be no
time to waste. By now they would have spoken to dozens
of people who knew Alice better than she had, people who
had known her for years.
'You're wasting your time then, Max.'
'Hm. There's something else,' he said, and Jill wasn't
surprised. "I thought I ought to warn you that Meredith's
planning to coax you back.'
'Ha! He'll be wasting his time, too.' Although she was
grateful for the warning. 'I've given all that up, Max.
I write. It's what I enjoy.'
'He's not asking you to give that up. He's simply
asking '
'No.'
'Why not, for God's sake?'
She stared back at him, heart pounding with a mixture
of emotions, uppermost of which was anger. They were no
closer to catching Valentine, the serial killer, and every two
months or so, despite being off the case, Max tried to
persuade her to return to her job. Now, it seemed, he had
the backing of his boss. It was easier for them; having
Rodney Hill's blood on their hands didn't seem to bother
them as much.
She'd enjoyed her work, but offender profiling was still
met with a huge degree of scepticism. It was often a last
resort, something to try in desperation. It was over,
though. She was happier writing. So long as the public was
crying out for self-help books, she was guaranteed an
income.
'Why not? How long have you got? Firstly, I'm no longer
employed - I gave it up, my choice. Secondly, I don't know
how Meredith has the cheek. What does he call my work?
Psychology bollocks!'
Max was still eating, still looking infuriatingly calm.
'OK, so if you don't want to get involved with Valentine
again, how about helping me with Michael Trueman?'
'No.'
'Just like that?'
'Just like that. I couldn't work with you, Max.'
'You used to enjoy spending time with me/ he pointed
out mildly.
'You used to enjoy spending time with me,' she snapped
back, 'until something better, something younger and
more attractive, came along.'
'Oh, for '
'Ah, I forgot. We brush the past under the carpet. You
screw around, you come crawling back to me, you expect
me to congratulate you on your pulling power, and then
forget it ever happened.' She could feel her voice rising
hysterically, but she felt hysterical. It hurt like hell. Even
now.
'My head was fucked at the time/ he reminded her.
'What with pressure at work, you threatening to leave me
every fortnight because of your stupid guilt trip -' He took
a calming breath. 'We've done this to death and I refuse to
go over the same old ground. It happened, I've apologized
till I'm blue in the face, and I wish to God I'd never met the
bloody woman. But that's it. Case closed.'
Forget it, he was saying. Your problem, Jill, you deal
with it.
But she couldn't forget it. She still had moments of
frightening fury at his betrayal. Just as she still had sudden
painful visions of him and that woman together. Forget it,
she instructed herself. He's not worth it. Be civil, be civilized,
pretend it doesn't matter and get him the hell out
of here.
A taut silence stretched between them.
When Max had come crawling back to her, his expression
not hers, she'd been so angry that she'd hit him hard
enough to draw blood. Then, as he'd held her close, told
her it meant nothing, and asked her to marry him, she'd


cried and cried. She'd clung to him, even agreeing to
marry him.
They were together for nine weeks after that. Jill hadn't
been able to stand it. Emotions had been too raw. Yet she'd
never quite known if she was more angry or hurt . . .
'Everything we did together, we did well,' Max said at
last, his voice level and calm once more. 'And I mean
everything.'
Jill's head was filled with the scent of him, his masculine
warmth as he made love to her 'We
worked well together, too, Jill. We care about the
same things, and we think in the same way'

She couldn't deny that. It was another reason she loved
him - used to love him.
'Michael Trueman/ he went on, forcing her mind back to
the reason for his visit. 'We're interviewing him now, but
he's not talking. Ask him if he smokes, if he wants a drink
- nothing. Zilch.'
'Shock probably,' Jill said.
'Will you come and see him? Talk to him?'
'Nope.'
'What harm will it do?'
Jill gave a short, mirthless laugh. 'Ask Rodney Hill.'
'Jill.' His voice was softer now, gentle. He could coax
bees from honey if he put his mind to it. 'We arrested
Hill because we thought he was guilty. The fact that he
matched your profile was neither here nor there. You're
not responsible.'
She'd heard all that before. It didn't help.
'Please, Jill. As a favour to me?'
'No. I'm sorry, but I can't.'

'I'm senior investigating officer on this one. I want it
sorted, and fast.'
'No.'
'You can't keep living in the past, you know.'
The intensity of those blue eyes shocked her momentarily
It shouldn't have. Max had been using that piercing
gaze to his own advantage for years. Now, though, she
almost felt as if he could read her every thought.
She hoped not. In the midst of her thoughts, mostly bad,
was that she still found Max very attractive. In anyone
else, the drinking, the long working days, the lack of
regular meals and the way he constantly drove himself
would have taken their toll. Nothing had though. He
wasn't handsome in the accepted sense of the word; his
nose was a little crooked, he had a tiny scar beneath his
right eye, and his mouth had a cynical twist to it. Dark
hair, swept back from a face that could look arrogant and
aloof one moment and as gentle as a playful puppy the
next, was greying rapidly, she noticed.
'You're not prepared to spare a couple of hours?'
'No.' If it were only a couple of hours of her time, she
might consider it. It wouldn't be, though. She would get
involved, not through choice but through necessity. She
always had.
His plate empty, Max looked at his watch, refilled his
glass and topped up Jill's.
'OK.' He was thoughtful. 'So why do you reckon he's
not saying anything?'
"I can't answer that, Max. Shock perhaps. Who knows?
Has he asked for a lawyer?'
'He hasn't even bloody coughed.'
'What's his father said?'
'Precious little. About as much as anyone would say if
they'd come home to find that their son had slit their
wife's throat.'
Jill swallowed hard.
'He seems torn between weeping at the injustice of it all/
Max told her, 'and praying for all our souls. Other than
that, he's just said over and over that he can't believe it.
Jill, you know how things are. We need to get Michael
talking - and quick.'
'And I'm sure you will.' She smiled. 'You find me an
eighteen-year-old who can't talk the balls off a buffalo.'
Max returned the smile. "I just have.'
'No.'
With a heavy sigh, Max drained his glass and got to
his feet.
'Lock that bloody door,' he said as he kissed her cheek.
"I will.'
She almost had the door closed behind him when his
phone rang and he stepped back inside to answer it.
'How come you horrors are still up?' he asked the caller,
his voice warm and loving enough for tears to spring to
Jill's eyes. She glanced across at the mantelpiece where a
framed photograph showed Max's sons, Harry and Ben,
smiling into the camera. God, she missed them.
'Yes, yes,' Max was saying, 'I'll get the tickets tomorrow.
Promise. Now, go to sleep and I'll see you later . . . well,
no, probably not tonight . . . er, no, probably not in the
morning either . . . yes, OK . . . love you, too.'
He ended the call and looked at Jill, his expression
saying more than words ever could.
'How are they?' she asked, her voice hoarse.
'Missing you.'
'Missing you more like,' she replied briskly, 'and missing
their mum.'
'If that's what you want to believe.' He stared at her.
'One of these days, you've got to offload all this guilt, Jill.
Yes, we fell in love while I was still married. It happens.
And yes, Rodney Hill committed suicide. Sadly, that happens,
too. It's a tough world, kiddo.'
She refused to discuss it. 'You smell like a distillery, Max.
I trust you're not driving.'
'Jesus, you've got a nose like a bloodhound. I've had the
smallest Scotch you've ever seen, just enough to make the
glass damp, and a glass, two glasses, of that stuff you call
wine. And as it happens, I'm not driving.'
Was he drinking less these days? She had to admit he
looked relaxed and very much in control. He was good at
his job, and it wasn't an easy role. As senior investigating
officer, he needed to be the strategist and the tactician,
responsible for every aspect of the inquiry. Also, because of
the emotive nature of this crime, he would be working in
the full glare of publicity.
'Jill, you can blame everything that went wrong between
us on what you like - the fact I was drinking heavily,
Rodney Hill committing suicide, me shagging that -' He
broke off. 'There's only one thing that screwed us up,
screwed both of us up, and that's Valentine.'
She shuddered at the mention of the animal's name.
'We'll get Valentine,' he went on.
'You were pulled off the case,' she reminded him, but he
simply shrugged that off as a mere technicality.
'Dead or alive, and preferably the former, we'll get him/
he vowed. 'Off the case or not, with me it's personal.'
She knew that, had known it for a long time. Never
mind that hundreds of officers from three police forces
were after Valentine, to Max it was personal. Which was
exactly why they'd pulled him off the case.
'Meanwhile,' he added, 'we have to put Alice Trueman's
killer behind bars. It's budgets, resources, and all the rest
of the crap. I don't have time to piss about with Michael
Trueman and I need all the help I can get.'
He touched her chin in the lightest of gestures.
'Meredith will be giving you a call, Jill, and I'd think
long and hard about it if I were you. You want Valentine
off the streets as much as anyone. He's taken everything
away from you - your work, your confidence, even the
man you love.'
'Loved. Past tense,' she snapped back.
'If you say so.' Whistling tunelessly, he walked down her
drive and headed back to the vicarage.


Chapter Five

Just after midnight, Jill padded downstairs and poured
herself a large Scotch. She wasn't a great lover of whisky,
but it sometimes helped her sleep. That was something
else she'd learned from Max.
The wind had increased and it was rattling her bedroom
window. She must get that fixed. Listening to it, and
waiting for the loose roof tiles to crash to the ground was
merely adding to her sense of unease.
It wasn't only the wind and wondering who might have
wanted Alice Trueman dead that was keeping her awake.
There was that photograph, too. She should have spoken
to someone about it. Not Max necessarily, he'd be far too
busy right now, but someone on the force. It was on the
coffee table, wrapped in a plastic cover. There was probably
no point in that as it was unlikely to have fingerprints
on it. Nor was there any point in ignoring it and hoping it
would go away.
Perhaps she should have mentioned it to Max.
What had he said? That she must stop living in the past?
How was she supposed to do that when the past wouldn't
let go?
He'd also said she must unload all her guilt and yes, she
would admit to a fair amount of guilt. Who wouldn't?
There was her relationship with Max for a start. She
could still remember meeting him for the first time, could
remember his boss introducing them. There had been a
stomach-clenching pull of attraction that had had her eyes
darting to the third finger of his left hand to see if he wore
a wedding ring. He did.
Yet, later that day, they'd gone out for a drink. Three
days later, Max had been in her bed. It was convenient to
blame Max for that. In reality though, it had just happened.
They'd both been powerless to stop it. And that,
she thought as she took a swallow of whisky, sounded
like something from the romance paperbacks her sister
devoured.
What she hadn't known, what Max hadn't told her, was
that Linda was ill. To be fair, even Max hadn't known just
how ill.
They'd been at Jill's flat, sharing a bottle of wine, their
arms wrapped tightly around each other, when the phone
call came telling Max that Linda had been admitted to
hospital.
As far as Jill was concerned, that should have been the
end of their relationship. Linda was his wife; she was the
one who needed him. Max, however, could be very persuasive.
He also lived by the premise that life was too
short for hang-up s.
A little over a year after Linda's death, Jill moved in
with him and the boys. It was the happiest time of her life.
If she'd given birth to the boys herself, she couldn't have
loved them more.
Max had been working on the Valentine case, and the
long hours had taken their toll. Jill had been working on
the same case, but she'd been able to work more sociable
hours. Max had worked through the night many times and
the strain soon began to tell on their relationship.
'We've got the bastard!' Max had come home late one
night and danced her around the kitchen. 'We've got
Valentine, Jill. It's all over, sweetheart.'
The relief was so great it was like finding a cure for
cancer. Life was wonderful again. The sky was a deeper
blue, the grass a lusher green. Birds sang again.
Four weeks after his arrest, however, Rodney Hill was
found hanging in his prison cell. Less than a month after
that, Valentine struck again.
The cancer was back and the birds were silent. Max
started drinking heavily: Jill was plagued by nightmares.
Valentine! Jill wished she'd never heard of him. Over the
years, there had been seven murders. The attacks took
place at intervals of anything from three months to a year apart, and the killer had struck in Blackburn, Manchester,
Leeds, Blackpool, Preston, Nelson and Southport.
Each of the victims, all small-time prostitutes working
the streets, had been strangled. When they were dead, the
killer - with a skill that was frighteningly impressive carefully
removed a dozen heart-shaped pieces of skin
from their breasts and abdomens. The hearts were uniform
in size, about two inches at their widest point. They were
neat, almost a work of art.
Hundreds of men fitting Jill's profile had been questioned,
and then there was a breakthrough when traces of
Hill's semen were found on a murdered prostitute. Nothing
had been discovered on any of the other bodies, and
they had assumed he was getting careless. Hill admitted to
having been with the prostitute, but he strongly denied
murdering her or any of the others.
For Rodney Hill, suicide was the only answer.
Jill had dreaded going to sleep, terrified by the nightmares
in which she would be running for miles, all exits
barred by Rodney Hill's body swinging wildly from a
rope. She would wake in the middle of the night, drenched
in sweat, her heart racing, to see Max sitting in the chair by
the bedroom window, a bottle in one hand and a glass in
the other.
Between them, for their own different reasons, they had
been unable to handle it and their relationship had started
to disintegrate.
One day in June, Max came home and told her he'd
spent the previous night in a 'sordid little hotel' with
someone else. For Jill, it had signalled the end.
There was no point, she decided as she refilled her glass,
going over and over it. It happened. It was over.
Shortly after midnight, her phone rang. After the usual
panic thought - one of her parents or her sister had been
involved in an accident - she knew it was Max. A terrier
with a bone had nothing on Max.
'Michael Trueman/ he greeted her, 'who was he with at
the party?'
'Don't mention it, Max. I love being woken at this time
of the morning.'
'Oh, hell. Sorry. I'd forgotten it was - hell, is it midnight?'
'It is.' She sighed. 'And as far as I know, he wasn't with
anyone. Well, his parents, I suppose. I don't really know
anything about him, I told you that. The first time I met
him, I was struggling to get my fuel cap unlocked at the
filling station. A couple of lads work inside on the tills and
he came outside to see if he could help. I wasn't holding
anyone up - there were only two of us getting, or trying to
get, petrol - so I put that down to him being helpful. The
sort of lad who'd instinctively help out. He'll give up his
seat on a bus or train for women or the elderly. Anyway, he
sprayed something on the lock - WD40?'
'Uh-uh.'
'The next time I saw him was a couple of weeks later, the
same place. I handed him my credit card, thanked him for
his help, told him I'd had no problems with the lock since,
cursed the weather and left.'
She thought back to her third meeting with him, just
three days ago.
'At the party, I was chatting to his parents. It was all
the usual inane stuff people say at these things. Alice
spotted him across the room and waved him over to
meet me. When I said we'd already met, his father quickly
- too quickly, I thought - pointed out that it was only a
Saturday job.'
'Impressions?' Max asked.
'A normal eighteen-year-old - except I thought he
looked closer to sixteen or seventeen. Polite. Friendly.

Helpful. Very well mannered. Relaxed. Happy. There
weren't many young people at the party so he was stuck
chatting to older people. I assume they were his parents'
friends. Either way, it didn't seem to bother him.' She
thought for a moment, but there was nothing else she
could tell Max. Had she seen the future, she might have
paid more attention, but she hadn't. 'Sorry, but there's
nothing else.'
'How did he seem with his mother?'
'Relaxed. At ease. As if they had a close mother-son
relationship. He seemed the same with his father, too.'
'He's not very relaxed at the moment.'
'Has he said anything yet?'
'Not a word. Right,' he went on briskly, 'put that bottle
of Scotch away and get to bed. Take it from me, kiddo, the
drugs don't work.'
Before she could even deny having a bottle of Scotch in
the house, he'd cut the connection.
Why was Michael refusing to talk? Either he was guilty,
and she'd already dismissed that, or suffering from shock,
or protecting someone. So who could that someone be?


Chapter Six

Max didn't know what he expected to find at the vicarage.
If he hadn't found anything yesterday, he was unlikely to
find anything today. He knew something about this case
didn't add up, but he doubted he'd find the answer in this
large, gloomy house. Perhaps he was passing time until
Michael Trueman talked.
He'd overheard Phil Meredith on the phone to Jill earlier.
'You know how things are, Jill/ Meredith had said in the
coaxing way he had. He was a hard-bitten individual,
without an ounce of sentimentality, yet Max wouldn't be
surprised if she'd fallen for it. 'I've got all my available
officers on this case and I still don't have enough. The last
thing we need is a murder when we've still got Valentine
on the loose.'
Max had no idea what her response to that was, but
Meredith was quick to argue.
'Total bollocks. You're a forensic psychologist with
qualifications up to your neck and a lot of experience
behind you.'
Max couldn't decide if Meredith was a great believer in
offender profiling, or if it was a case of clutching at straws.
It was difficult to get a straight answer from him, although
it was true they needed all the help they could get. The
public was growing impatient and edgy, comparing Valentine
to the Yorkshire Ripper - or, more accurately, comparing
the force's lack of success with the well-documented
mistakes in that case . . .
After a few words with a forensic chap, Max stood in the
hallway, gazing down at the bloodstains on the carpet,
walls and even the ceiling. These forensic bods went into
too much detail for his liking but, according to the preliminary
report, Michael Trueman - or someone else - had
grabbed Alice Trueman from behind and slit her throat.
The trachea and carotid arteries had been severed and
death would have been almost immediate.
It was a cold house. The heating was switched off now,
but it had been working when he'd arrived yesterday and
the old radiators hadn't had much effect on such large
rooms. It certainly wasn't the sort of house where you
ambled around naked on November afternoons. So why
had Alice Trueman been in the hallway naked?
He walked upstairs to the bathroom, a big, white room,
functional rather than tasteful or cosy, but tidy.
Max knew he was a slob, but this was too neat for
comfort. In his own bathroom, shelves were covered in
dust, shampoo drips were visible, toothpaste lingered on
the wash basin, and white spots marked the wood beneath
the toothbrush holder. Here, there was no dust, and no
soap marks or toothpaste dregs.
So Alice Trueman had climbed out of the bath, presumably
in so much of a hurry that she'd thrown her towel
on the floor, then run downstairs to her killer.
What would make a vicar's wife run downstairs naked?
Fear? Panic?
Or had Michael, or someone else, entered the bathroom,
threatened her, and chased her down the stairs?
Alice Trueman had been a neat, organized person, that
much was obvious. Also obvious was the fact that she
didn't go in for creams, potions and lots of make-up. There
wasn't even a mirror in the bathroom. A crucifix hung
above a wooden cabinet, but there was no mirror. Surely
everyone needed a mirror in the bathroom. How did Jonathan
Trueman shave without a mirror?
Max had no answers, only questions, and he walked into
the master bedroom where again there wasn't a speck of
dust to be seen or a single item out of place. It was a
vicarage, where perhaps a simpler existence was led, but
surely there ought to be some signs of life. There should be
opened books, a radio, or shoes lying on the floor.
The Truemans employed a cleaner, Molly Turnbull, but
she'd been on holiday for the last four days, visiting her
sister in the Lake District. Understandably, she'd been too
shocked to help. She said she hardly ever saw Michael, or
the vicar, but had been fond of Mrs Trueman.
'A saint, she was,' she'd sobbed.
One would need to be a saint, Max decided, to live in
this mausoleum.
He moved on to Michael's bedroom and was struck by
the sadness of the room. At the same age, Max's bedroom
had been festooned with posters of semi-naked women.
Old sporting trophies, busy gathering dust for years, had
sat on shelves. Loose records, the sleeves lost long ago, had
vied for space with half-empty bags of crisps, Mars bar
wrappers and rotting apple cores. Admittedly, Max's
mother hadn't employed a cleaner and, even if she had,
she would never have lived with the shame of allowing
her into her sons' bedrooms. All the same, Michael's room
looked sad. Apart from a few books, all stored neatly in
order of size on the bookcase, a brush, a comb and a can
of deodorant on a set of drawers, there was nothing to say
anyone used the room. There was no hi-fi, no CDs, no posters,
and no mirror, either. Nothing. How did an eighteenyear-old
practise his air guitar without a mirror?
Michael Trueman didn't come across as a fun sort of character.
But it wasn't a fun sort of home. It was all furniture
polish and crucifixes. Cleanliness and godliness.
No clues leapt out at him so he went downstairs.
In the sitting room, a couple of professionally taken
framed photographs sat on the mantelpiece. There were no
informal snaps; this wasn't an informal home. The long
curtains were of velvet, presumably to keep out the cold,
and were a little threadbare. The furniture, too, had a
shabbiness to it. The carpet was dull and well worn. There
was an upright piano that to Max's untrained ear seemed
to be working well, and a fairly new television and VCR.
It was a dreary room, though.
It was the same in the kitchen. Everything was drab and
cold. Even the food in the cupboards, all stored neatly, was
dull and unappetizing. There was a massive old freezer, a
fridge, a washing machine and an old Rayburn. Crockery
was functional.
The vicar's study was lined with books and the only
bright spot in the room was a state-of-the-art laptop computer
that sat on his heavy, mahogany desk. That hadn't
come cheap. The books, Max noted, were mostly concerned
with theology. Others were on local history.
Max reckoned that if he'd lived there, he would have
had to kill someone, too. It was a house that sucked the life
from you.
It was a depressing pastel green colour. Other than the
bathroom, every wall in the house was painted in the same
pale green. Kitchen, study, sitting room, bedrooms, hallway
- all green. Who had said green was a relaxing colour?
It was as depressing as hell.
He wandered over to the window and gazed at gardens
that, even in November, boasted lots of colour in the
foliage. He'd hoped that someone in the house had had a
passion for colour and warmth but no. They employed a
gardener, which wasn't surprising given the size of the
garden. Jim Brody's statement had told them nothing.
When Alice Trueman had been murdered, Brody had been
at the accident and emergency department having a gash
in his arm stitched. Understandably, perhaps, he'd been
more concerned with his own problems than giving them
a character study of Alice Trueman.
As Max walked back to his car, his mind chattered away
to itself.
The vicar appeared to be a dull man wrapped up in his
religion, a man who was too busy thinking of God to think
of anything else. Did he have time for anything else? Was
there time in his life for his wife and son? Did this family
know the meaning of laughter and fun?
what about his late wife, Alice? If she was as warm and
kind-hearted as everyone thought, a woman who enjoyed
the simple pleasures in life, perhaps the vicarage had
suited her.
Had Michael brought his young friends back to this
house? Max couldn't imagine wild parties here, or young
people listening to music at an ear-splitting volume.
He stood for a few moments, watching officers search
the garden. Given that a car boot sale had been held in
the adjoining car park on Saturday and that refreshments
had been available in the vicarage garden, most of Kelton
Bridge's residents would have tramped across those
lawns . . .
As he drove away, none the wiser, Max mentally went
over the details he would feed to the media.


Chapter Seven

'That'll learn me,' Jill muttered to herself.
Meredith, walking by her side, looked up. 'Sorry?'
'Nothing.'
He'd phoned early that morning, offering to buy her
lunch. Deciding that forewarned was forearmed, Jill had
accepted. Bad decision. How many times had her dad told
her there was no such thing as a free lunch?
Before lunch, when she'd walked into his office, he'd
asked, very casually, how she felt about coming back to
work on Valentine's case. Jill had soon put him straight
on that.
"I never had you down as a coward,' he'd murmured,
shrugging it off.
Jill wasn't falling for that old ploy!
So they'd had a pleasant lunch, and then he'd brought
her back here. 'You may as well say hello to everyone/
he'd told her.
And here she was, in the thick of it.
It was as if she'd been away a lifetime. She had forgotten
how many people were packed into such a small building,
and how they still managed to work, and she'd forgotten
how hectic everything seemed. The reality was that everyone
knew exactly what they were doing, but to an outsider,
and Jill considered herself an outsider now, it looked
chaotic.
She had soon lost count of the number of people to greet
her with a 'Great to have you back.' In the end, she'd given
up trying to explain that she wasn't back.
'The new interview room/ Meredith announced, pushing
open a door. 'State-of-the-art stuff/ he added proudly.
'Very nice/ Jill murmured. And it was but On
the other side of the glass, two officers were interviewing
young Michael Trueman.
'You know Grace, of course,' Meredith said, 'and the
other chap's Fletch.'
Jill didn't know Fletch, but she knew Max thought
highly of him and was glad to have him on the team. He
was a short, plump man who, judging by the way that he
constantly pulled his trousers back up to his waistline, had
lost a little weight recently.
Grace, on the other hand, was tall and reed-thin, and
possessed a sartorial elegance to which Fletch could never
aspire. Her voice was gentle as she spoke to Michael, but
Jill had worked with her enough to know that her strong
Geordie accent and no-nonsense approach to life could put
the fear of God into the most hardened of criminals.
'We have trained counsellors who can help you,
Michael/ she was saying. 'You're in a lot of trouble at
the moment, but if you'll only talk to us, tell us your side
of the story, I'm sure we can help you. That's what we're
here for.'
Michael looked exhausted, which wasn't surprising.
He'd been here almost twenty-four hours and the Lord
only knew what was going through his head.
Another officer entered the interview room and
announced the arrival of Michael's father. Jill caught the
look of - what? fear? - on Michael's face. Why was he
more frightened of his father than he was of the officers
questioning him? If she were awaiting retribution, Jill
would take her chances with Jonathan Trueman rather
than Grace or Fletch.
Jonathan Trueman sat opposite his son, and Grace left
the room. Seconds later, she was standing alongside Jill
and Meredith.
'Hello, stranger!' she greeted Jill. "I heard you were
coming back.'
'I'm not,' Jill told her, scowling at Meredith.
Grace looked confused, but didn't comment. She was
more interested in Michael.
'He's terrified of his father/ Jill murmured.

'Then let's hope he can get the little bastard to talk.
Trentham's in a bitch of a mood as it is.'
'Oh? What's wrong with him?'
'The usual unexplained male stuff.'
Jill had to smile. At twenty-seven, Grace was the youngest
of seven. She had six brothers, and often unwound
with a session of male-bashing.
'Bullying is the last thing Michael needs right now,'
Jill said.
Grace made no comment on that; she was of the opinion
that police officers should be allowed to extract the truth
by force if necessary.
They stood to watch the proceedings, breath suspended
as they waited for a word from Michael Trueman.
"I don't know what to say to you, I really don't,' his
father was saying. 'When the police told me you were
refusing to cooperate, I couldn't believe it. Your mother
and I have brought you up better than this, surely? These
people are only doing their jobs, you know.'
No response from Michael.
"I can say this,' Jonathan Trueman went on. "I forgive
you.'
No reaction whatsoever. Not a flicker.
'You're my son, and I love you. No matter why you did
this terrible thing, I can forgive you. More importantly,
God will forgive you.'
Jonathan Trueman took a handkerchief from his pocket
and blew his nose.
'You have to tell us why you did this, Michael. Above
all, honesty is the thing.'
Michael stared at his feet.
'This is helping no one, son.' Jonathan Trueman's voice
was steely now. Was he an impatient man, Jill wondered,
a man with a quick temper?
'If there was an argument, if your mother did something
to hurt you - well, you must tell them. You know that,
don't you?'
Michael continued to stare at his feet.
Meredith wandered off, but Jill stayed put. Just a
few more minutes, she promised herself, and then she'd
head home.
Jonathan Trueman spent over an hour with his son. He
talked, he scolded, he coaxed, he offered support, and he
shed a few tears, but nothing brought a reaction from
Michael. He tried to hug his son, but Michael pulled away.
Eventually, with a shake of his head to the officers present,
Jonathan left the room.
Grace returned to question Michael, but Jill sought out
Jonathan Trueman. She caught up with him in the corridor
looking lost and dazed as he gazed out of the window
down at the car park below them.
'Are you all right?' she asked gently.
He turned round quickly, and it took him a moment to
place her.
'Oh, Jill. So sorry, for a minute I didn't recognize you.
I didn't know you were here.' He took a deep breath. 'Yes,
I'm all right, thank you.' His eyes filled. 'Alice had written
you a note, inviting you to the vicarage for lunch.'
'I'm so sorry.' He had looked an imposing figure at the
party; now he seemed to have shrunk inside himself. He
was terribly close to tears too, and Jill wasn't used to
coping with hysterical vicars. 'Can I get you a coffee?' she
asked. 'It'll be out of the machine, I'm afraid, but it should
be warm and sweet.'
'Thank you.' He looked as if he was glad of the suggestion,
and Jill felt an urge to take him by the hand and lead
him away from this dismal place.
Jill not only managed to get two reasonable-looking
cups of coffee from the machine, a miracle in itself, but she
also found an empty office. Judging by the dust on the
filing cabinets and the boxes stacked in all corners, it

hadn't been used for a while. Meredith couldn't complain
that she was trespassing. Nor could he fire her.
Oblivious to the dust, Jonathan Trueman perched on the
edge of the desk and clutched the hot plastic cup in his
hands as if he were clutching at life itself. Jill ran a quick
hand over the windowsill and sat on the edge of that.
'How are you coping?' she asked, but she knew the
answer to that. Badly. And who wouldn't?
"I have my faith/ he said.
At any other time, she would have involved him in a
theological argument but she could see he was struggling with that faith of his.
'You must have been married a long time/ she remarked
curiously. 'At least eighteen years.'
'Twenty-four years in August,' he told her. 'Alice was
even making plans for our silver wedding anniversary'
'Plans? A party, you mean?' She couldn't imagine either
of them being party people.
'A holiday/ he explained.
'Anywhere special?'
He shook his head. "I never thanked her/ he said suddenly.
"I think that's what hurts the most.'
'Thanked her for what?' Jill asked.
'For marrying me, for staying with me.'
'Isn't that what love is all about?'
'Alice was a dancer, you know,' he said as if he hadn't
heard her. 'She's forty, nine years younger than me.' He
spoke in the present tense, Jill noticed. 'When I first met
her, she was a talented, fun-loving girl.' He shrugged and
smiled at the memory, but the smile quickly faded. "I loved
her passionately and could never quite believe that she
could love me, too. But . . .'
He was silent for so long that Jill had to prompt him.
'But?'
"I sometimes think I stifled her. I needed a wife who
would support my work. I wanted someone who would
be described as a pillar of the community, and a credit to
the parish. That was wrong of me, I see that now. Alice
was a dancer. She loved music and dancing. She loved to
have fun.'
Dance to the Music. Jill was sure that was running at
Wolverhampton this evening. It might be worth putting a
couple of quid on it . . .
"I always lived with the knowledge that, one day, she'd
leave me for someone else/ Jonathan said.
'But she never did/ Jill pointed out.
'No.' He gazed straight at her and Jill saw the moisture
of unshed tears in his eyes. 'No, she never did. She was a
wonderful wife to me and a wonderful mother to poor
Michael. That's how I must remember her.'
The picture Jonathan had painted of his wife was fascinating.
The fun-loving dancer bore no resemblance whatsoever
to the woman at the party who'd been wearing dull
clothes and whose attractive face was devoid of make-up.
'Do you believe Michael killed Alice?' she asked.
'No.' There was no hesitation. 'He's been behaving a
little oddly lately, admittedly, but '
'Oh?'
'Mixing with the wrong sort of people if you ask me. But
no, I don't believe he killed his mother. Not that I can think
of another explanation/ he said grimly. "I was there only a
matter of seconds after him. My appointment with the
bishop was cancelled, and Michael was home early
because of problems with the fire sprinklers at school. No
one else was there, no one else was seen.' He cleared his
throat, adding gruffly, 'According to these people, Alice
had only been dead a very short time when I arrived. They
can tell from '
'Yes, I know.'
"I keep thinking about that red van - if indeed there was
a red van.'
'Red van?'
'As I was walking up to the vicarage, I heard a vehicle
racing along. I turned to look and caught a glimpse of a
red van flying past. At least, I think it was a van. It may
have been a car. I only caught a brief glimpse through gaps
in the hedge.'
'You've told the police about this?'
'Oh, yes. It keeps preying on my mind now. I'm not sure
if it was racing along the road or - or if it was speeding
away from the vicarage.'
He shook his head, suddenly impatient. 'If only Michael
would talk.' He emptied his cup and stood up. "I must go
and pray for him. Thank you for the coffee, Jill. And thank
you for listening.'
When he strode off, looking far more purposeful than
the man she'd met in the corridor outside the interview
room, Jill sat back against the window, closed her eyes
and tried to picture the sort of woman Alice Trueman
had been.

Despite her good intentions, it was almost six o'clock
when Jill left the building that evening. She'd struggled to
find a parking spot this morning, but the car park was
almost empty now. As she was about to get in her car, Max
drove up and parked next to her. She waited for him for
get out.
'Are you back with us already?' he asked, surprised.
'No. Phil Meredith phoned and, erm, invited me to
lunch.' She waited for a sarcastic comment.
'Right/ was all he said.
'Max?'
'Yes?'
'I'm glad I caught you. I was meaning to mention it to
someone but it kept slipping my mind. Last Friday morning,
a photo was hand-delivered to my cottage.' She
unlocked her car, reached inside for her briefcase, and took
out the protective envelope that contained the photograph
and the newspaper headline. 'Could you have it dropped
in at the lab for me? I doubt there are any prints on it, but
you never know.'
He was frowning. 'A photo of what?'
The. The one that was in the papers for weeks after
Rodney Hill was arrested.'
'Hand-delivered?' He was speaking slowly and deliberately,
a sure sign he was forcing himself to keep calm.
'Yes, I was out. When I got home, it was on the doormat
with a couple of items the postman had delivered.'
'Last Friday? Some crank sends you a photo of yourself,
last bloody Friday, and you don't think to mention it?' His
voice was rising.
"I just did mention it/ Jill pointed out calmly, but she
knew he had a valid point.
'Any ideas?' he snapped.
'None. Well, someone's taking the mickey, I suppose.'
'It might be someone taking the mickey/ he agreed. 'Be
on your guard, and if anything else happens, anything at
all, I want to know about it - immediately. OK? And keep
that bloody door of yours locked.'
'OK.' Jill was about to get in her car.
'Have you seen our Michael?' he asked.
'Yes, but he's still not talking. I saw his father, too.
Apparently, Alice used to be a dancer. It would explain her
stunning figure, of course, but it doesn't fit with the
woman I met at the party' She passed over that. 'I've
looked through the reports this afternoon - it's funny, isn't
it, how both Michael and his father arrived home early that
day - Michael because the school closed unexpectedly, and
Jonathan because his meeting was cancelled? Alice
wouldn't have been expecting either of them.'
She broke off as Max's phone rang.
'Yes . . . yes ... so it's what we thought? Nothing new?'
Max was walking a small circle as he listened to his caller.
'You could tell me we were looking for a left-handed
dwarf, that might help . . .'
Jill left him to it. If he wanted her opinion, and she
wasn't yet sure what that opinion was, he would phone.
She wanted to go home and see if Dance to the Music was
racing tonight.

Chapter Eight

The Weaver's Retreat was only half a mile from her cottage
and instead of driving straight home, Jill pulled into the
car park. She'd already stopped to place ten pounds to win
on Dance to the Music.
She always bought her eggs from the pub. Having come
close on several occasions to killing the hens that wandered
at will across the road to the hill opposite, she knew
they were as free range as it was possible to get. Meredith
had bought her a good lunch, but that was hours ago and
a full cholesterol-laden hit of bacon and eggs called.
'Hello, Jill. The usual, is it?' The landlord's hand was
already resting on the lager pump. On only her third visit
to his pub, he'd asked if she wanted her 'usual'.
"I only wanted some eggs, but perhaps I'll have a quick drink while I'm here. A whisky with lots of ice,
please, Ian.'
For a moment, he was thrown, but he soon recovered
and filled a tumbler with ice cubes before adding a measure
of whisky.
'There you go, love.'
He went to the store at the back for her eggs, leaving Jill
to nod to a couple of people she knew by sight.
Ian put the eggs on the counter. 'You won't get fresher
than that.'
'Thanks. Business doesn't look to be booming/ she commented,
handing him a ten-pound note. Usually, the small
bar was packed with locals.
'It were busy at lunchtime,' he told her, 'but it's been
quiet since. What a time, though. The whole village is in
shock.'
'Dreadful,' Jill agreed, knowing how this sort of thing
affected not only the family involved but also the whole
community. Everyone knew everyone else in these small
Lancashire towns and villages.
'And fancy them arresting young Michael,' he went on,
his voice lowered. 'I can't believe he'd do such a thing. No,
I can't have that. Stands to reason. He's a smashing lad. He
helped me out last summer - we had the old taproom
decorated and he were that helpful. Honest, hard-working
- he works at the filling station on Saturdays now.'
'Yes, I know.'
'Idolized his mother,' Ian went on. 'Closer to her than to
his dad, I reckon. Not that he don't get on well with his
dad. A terrible business all round. But I won't have him
down as a killer. I won't.'
A young couple walked in, strangers to Jill and to Ian,
and Jill picked up her change and left him to serve them.
She sat at a small round table in the corner, next to the fire.
People had warned her about the harsh winters endured in
this corner of Lancashire, but she'd had no idea those
winters arrived so early.
She liked The Weaver's Retreat. It was on the edge of the
village, on the Todmorden Road, and was popular with the
locals. Ian always had a warm welcome for his regulars; it
was a homely place to relax.
Not that Jill was feeling relaxed. She was still trying to
picture Alice Trueman as a fun-loving ex-dancer. It didn't
fit. Except, of course, she'd had the elegance and grace of
a dancer, and those long, shapely legs. She was also curious
about the sort of people Jonathan Trueman thought his
son was mixing with. What had he meant by that? Kids
taking drugs? Or simply kids from the council estate?
What would he have made of her, she wondered, if he
knew of her lowly beginnings?
'Are you turning to drink?'
Jill looked up, startled to see that Andy Collins was in
the bar. He must have come in through the back door.
"I called in for eggs,' she explained with a smile, 'and was
tempted to linger in the warmth. Winter's come early.'
'Winter? This is a pleasant autumnal day,' he told her
with a laugh. 'Mind if I join you?'
'I'd be glad of the company.'
He paid for his pint and brought it over to the table.
Before sitting down, he brushed a couple of specks of mud
from his trousers.
'I've been showing a prospective purchaser round Top
Bank Farm,' he explained, 'and the chap insisted on walking
through the fields. It's ankle deep in mud. Still, a sale
is a sale,' he added, downing almost half his pint in one
swallow.
'You look as if you needed that,' Jill remarked.
"I can't seem to get going at all at the moment.' He shuddered.
"I keep thinking of poor Alice. I liked her a lot.'
'Dreadful, isn't it? I wish I'd known her better. Did you
know she'd been a dancer?'
'Yes. Years ago, she was in one of those groups - you
know, like Pan's People or Hot Gossip. Or perhaps that's
before your time.'
'She was that sort of dancer?' Jill was amazed. I'd
imagined her ballroom dancing.'
Andy shook his head.
'She was a real little raver by all accounts. Lovely
woman, though. Lovely family come to that,' he said.
'Michael - now I know the police don't arrest people
without reason, but I simply can't believe it of him. He's a
smashing lad. Jon's the same. He gets on his high horse
now and again, but he's a good enough sort. Once you get
to know him, you'll find he's a good laugh.' He took
another swig of his beer. 'Not that he's got anything to
laugh about now.'
'No, poor man.'
'It's the sort of thing you see on the TV,' he murmured,
'not the sort of thing that happens in real life, to real
people. And certainly not in a place like this.'
Isn't that what everyone caught up in these situations
said? Whether you lived in a sleepy little hamlet or on a
bustling inner city estate, it was one of those things that
happened to other people in other places.
The door opened and Tony Hutchinson came in.
'Andy! Jill!' he called out. 'Can I get you a drink?'
Jill refused. It was tempting to enjoy the warmth a little
longer, but she was hungry. Andy accepted another pint.
'Is this a private party,' Tony asked, 'or can anyone
join in?'
'Sit down.' Jill moved round the table to give him more
space.
'What a day,' Tony said, taking a drink. "I had all the
kids together for a special assembly this morning, but it's
damned difficult knowing what to say to them. They're all
so different, too. While we were praying for Alice and the
family, one girl of ten was in tears and another girl, the
same age, was happily chewing gum and writing "I love
Dave" on her arm.'
'That's kids for you,' Andy said. 'Criminals in the making,
most of them. I'm glad I don't have your job, Tony. I'd
never have the patience.'
'Most of them are fine,' Tony argued. 'They're our
future, remember.'
'Then we're all doomed,' Andy said with a rueful smile.
Tony turned his attention to Jill. 'Am I forgiven?' he
asked.
'Of course.' She wished he'd shut up about it, and she
wished he didn't make her feel so uncomfortable.
'Forgiven?' Andy asked curiously. 'What have you been
up to, Tony?'
'Liz told me I was rude to Jill at the party,' he explained.
'It's just that I'm fascinated by her work. It's a bit like that
film, The Silence of the Lambs, isn't it?'
'No/ Jill said drily, 'it's nothing like that.'
Tony looked embarrassed, and Jill hoped she hadn't
made him look a fool.
'The FBI's Behavioral Science Unit is very different to
anything we have in this country,' she explained. 'It has to
be - you only have to think of the size of the country. And,
well, that was a film. My work is - was totally different.
Very boring,' she added lightly.
"I bet it's fascinating,' Tony said.
"Fraid not,' she said, managing another smile.
'To think that Alice is gone,' Andy murmured vaguely.
'It doesn't sink in, does it?'
'I've just called on Mary and Gordon,' Tony told them,
'and I saw Jon. He's staying with them, did you know? He
seems to be holding up well, considering. Perhaps if you
believe in God - well, I mean I believe in God, but if you
devote your life to Him, perhaps you see some reason to it.
Perhaps you can believe she's gone to a better place.'
At that, Andy looked as doubtful as Jill felt. 'Michael
won't be going to a better place, will he?' he said.
'No,' Tony agreed.
"I was just saying to Jill that I can't believe it of him.
He'd never do such a thing. Never.'
'Did you teach him, Tony?' Jill asked curiously.
'When he was a youngster, yes. He must have been - let
me think - nine years old when the family came to the
village so I only had him for a couple of years.'
'What was he like?'
'Bright, a quick learner, polite - the ideal pupil. A little
out of it at times,' he added thoughtfully, 'but that goes
with the territory.'
Seeing Jill's puzzled expression, he explained. 'As the
son of the vicar, you're going to be considered different by
the other kids. It's the same for the headmaster's son. Used
to be the same for the local bobby's son in the days we had
a bobby.' He grinned smugly at her, as if he'd caught her
out. 'You're the psychologist.'
Jill supposed he had a point, except she hadn't thought
that applied these days. Perhaps it did in a relatively small
village like Kelton Bridge.

'Kids like that go one of two ways,' he went on. 'They
either keep to themselves and concentrate on their studies,
or they become the local troublemaker, determined to
show their mates they're no different.'
'And Michael concentrated on his studies?' she guessed.

'He did. A model pupil.' He thought for a moment. 'He
brought an injured blackbird to school once. We reckoned
it had got on the wrong side of a cat. During the lunch
break, he took it to Betty Taylor's place. She keeps the
animal sanctuary on New Road. Eventually, the bird recovered
and Betty released it, but Michael called to see that
bird every morning on his way to school.' He took a quick
swig from his glass. 'I'm with Andy on this. I don't believe
he could pull a knife on any living thing and certainly not
his mother.'
They fell silent, each thinking, Jill supposed, of young
Michael.
'How's Liz?' Jill asked at last.
'Fine, thanks. I expect she'll be along in a while . . .'
Jill didn't stop to find out. She was ready for her bacon
and eggs.

It was after nine when Max called at Lilac Cottage that
evening. Jill wasn't in the least surprised by his visit.
The cats, despite knowing he wasn't a cat person, gave
him a royal welcome. Even Rabble, who didn't approve of
visitors, was walking in and out of his legs. It did her no
good; he took no notice whatsoever.
'Michael confessed,' he announced grimly. 'Just like that.
He asked for a glass of water, then said he'd like to tell us
how he killed his mother.'
Jill had liked Michael. She'd warmed to him from the
start, and she felt let down. Saddened and let down.
Everyone in Kelton Bridge would feel the same, too.
Michael was a popular member of the community, the
young man who'd been so helpful at the pub, and the lad
who had visited an injured bird every day.
'So what's with the long face?' she asked, sighing as Max
threw himself down in her armchair as if he'd come home
after a hard day at the office.
'His confession's complete crap.'
'What do you mean?'
'According to him, he came home from school, carrying
a knife he'd bought from a complete stranger in Rochdale
or it might have been Burnley some time ago, saw his
mother standing in the hall, looked her in the eye and
killed her.'
'So he can't say where he got the knife from?'
'Nope. Or when.'
'Looked her in the eye? She was killed from behind,
wasn't she?'
'She was. It doesn't seem as if our Michael's aware of
that though.'
'So who is he protecting?' Relief flooding through her,
Jill sat in the chair opposite Max. 'We know he arrived
home early, and we know he was expecting his father to be
out. Was he also expecting his mother to be out? Perhaps
he had someone with him? Does he have a girlfriend?'
'He doesn't have many close friends - lots of acquaintances,
but not what you'd call real friends. But he couldn't
have witnessed the murder,' Max pointed out. 'If he had,
he'd know his mother had been attacked from behind.'
'Does his father know?' Jill asked.
'That he's confessed, yes. That his confession is worth
diddley squat, no.'
'How did he react?'
'I've just come from there and he's pretty distraught.
When it first happened, he was amazingly calm. But he
was still trying to resuscitate her when we got there couldn't
accept she'd gone. I thought he was doing OK
considering, but he's going downhill.'
'He didn't look too good when I saw him, poor chap.
Only the thought of praying for Michael seemed to help.'
Max grimaced. 'He can't accept she's dead, and he certainly
can't accept that Michael killed her. His latest idea is
that someone was at the vicarage and was still there when
we arrived. Either that, or the driver of the mysterious red
van killed her and then took off.'
'It's a possibility, I suppose.'
'A very slim one,' Max replied. 'There was blood everywhere.
Whoever killed her would have been covered in the
stuff, just as father and son were. There's no sign of any by
the front door or the back. No shoe-prints.'
Jill curled her feet beneath her, and tried to get things
straight in her mind. Michael hadn't seen the murder
perhaps, but he had to be protecting someone. Who? It
must be someone he cared about deeply.
'What about Michael's mobile phone?' she asked. "I
assume he does have one? Any text messages from girlfriends
on it?'
'Nothing visible but it's still being checked.' He gave her
one of his coaxing looks. 'Will you come in tomorrow and
have a look through his confession? See what you can
come up with?'
"I suppose '
'Thanks.'
He looked at his watch and, with a heavy sigh, got to his
feet. "I need to go home and get some sleep. Oh, and the
photo that was put through your letterbox
'Yes?'
'Clean as a whistle.'
Jill wasn't surprised.


Chapter Nine

He liked the card, found it appropriate. On the front, From Your
Valentine was written amid a mass of tiny, glittering hearts.
Inside, it read: One day you'll be mine. It appealed to him.
Later, he would put it through her letterbox.
He enjoyed being in her garden, so close to her, and often
spent an evening watching her move around. She rarely pulled
the curtains across until late. Even then, he liked to see lights go
on and off in the various rooms.
Better still, he liked to go inside the cottage. That was best. He
liked to walk around the rooms and look at her things. She was
neat and tidy, and he approved of that. He had to have order in his life and he guessed she did, too.
Still, it was OK watching from the outside. Funny how he was
at home in the dark. He supposed that was one thing he could
thank his mother for. Probably the only thing.
He hadn't liked the darkness as a child. Those hours spent
locked in the cupboard had filled him with horror. He'd begged
and pleaded for a torch but she'd only laughed at him.
'Great baby,' she'd scoffed. 'Not scared of the dark, are you?'
He'd shaken his head, not daring to admit that it terrified him.
He and his mum had shared a bedroom, and he'd hated that,
too. It always smelted funny - a mixture of perfume and something
else that he hadn't been able to identify for years. He hadn't
known it was the smell of sex. All he had known was that he was
banished to the cupboard frequently and, although he didn't have
many toys, those he did have had to be out of sight before he went
to the cupboard.
That smelted funny, too. Dusty and unused. He did nothing
in there; there was nothing to do.
It was when the men came that he was sent to the cupboard.
Or sometimes, she sent him there when she was angry with him.
She'd never been much of a cook, but for some reason she had
enjoyed making biscuits. As she only possessed one cutter, the
biscuits were heart-shaped. Once, he helped himself to a biscuit,
still warm from the oven, and she was so enraged because he
hadn't asked that she sent him to the cupboard. From then on, he
was sent to the cupboard whenever she made biscuits.
'You're a thief. You can't be trusted,' she'd said, and no
protests from him would change her mind.
"I won't touch them,' he'd cried, tears rolling down his cheeks.
'You won't,' she'd agreed, laughing at her own little joke as
she'd dragged him by the arm to the cupboard.
These days, he liked the dark. It didn't take long for his eyes
to adjust and then he was fine.
No, he was better than fine. Standing here, at the bottom of
her garden, behind the lilac tree after which the cottage had
perhaps been named, he saw all sorts of things. Last night he'd
seen a sleek, bushy-tailed fox. The fox hadn't seen him. He was
as wily as a fox . . .
Her bedroom light dimmed and he guessed she was sitting up
in bed with the lamp on. What would she be reading?
He'd watched that policeman, Detective Chief Inspector
Trentham, come and go. Some detective he was. Some psychologist
she was, come to that. There he was watching them both and
they were no nearer the truth than they ever had been.
Still, credit where credit was due. That profile she'd come up
with had been close. They'd published it during her glory days
when Rodney Hill had been arrested.
Rodney Hill - the very thought of the man filled him with
rage. Hill had been a nothing, a nobody. All he'd done was have
sex with a whore. Any idiot could do that. During those long
hours spent in the cupboard, he'd peeped through the crack and
seen hundreds of men arrive, all of them on the verge of wetting
themselves in their excitement. They were nothing. Worthless
pieces of nothing.
At first, he hadn't known what the men came for. It was Micky
Muldoon who told him.
'They have sex with your mum,' he'd said in a matter-of-fact
way. 'She's a whore. A dirty, filthy whore.'
He had been seven years old, too young to know the facts of
the life, but no one called his mother dirty or filthy. Micky
Muldoon hadn't done it again.
His fist had connected with Micky's face and the blood had
spurted from his nose.
'Hey, I was only tellin yer what me mam said,' Micky had
yelled.
That was the first time he'd felt the rage and, lucky for Micky
Muldoon, he'd raced off to the woods to be alone with it . . .
He'd soon had to accept that Micky was telling the truth. His
mum was a whore. She took money from men and let them do
filthy, disgusting things to her. He'd seen dozens, no hundreds
of men over the years. Men like Rodney Hill.
Had they honestly believed that Hill was Valentine? It was an
insult.
He could feel his heart racing with anger, and he had to take
a few steadying breaths to calm himself. No good getting angry
about it. Hill didn't matter. Valentine was the one they were
after. Valentine was the one who had outwitted them. Valentine
- as cunny and wily as a fox.
For two pins But,
no. Later, he'd leave the card for her. It was fun playing
games with her.
When he tired of that, he would kill her. That would give the
celebrated Detective Chief Inspector Trentham something to
think about.


Chapter Ten

Jill was awake early and she dressed quickly, pulling on
black jeans and a shirt. She wanted a quick breakfast
before heading off to read Michael's confession. No way
was she doing it for Max's benefit; she was curious. She
was also in a good mood. Dance to the Music had won by
a short head last night.
She was halfway down the stairs when she spotted the
envelope lying on the mat. It was too early for the postman
to have called. This envelope had been hand-delivered.
Just like the other one.
Blood began pounding in her ears. Pull yourself
together, she instructed herself sharply. Some harmless
crank was trying to frighten her, that's all. The strict lecture
didn't help.
She walked down the stairs and was about to pick it up
when she heard a car slow to a stop outside. A car door
slammed and she went to the window to look out. Max
was unfastening his seatbelt and getting out.
Relieved, she stepped over the envelope and held the
door open for him.
'I've just come from the vicarage,' he said, 'and thought
I'd see if you wanted a lift in.'
'Oh, er, yes. Thanks.' She showed him the envelope still
lying on the mat. "I expect that's another photo - or
something.'
He scowled at it, opened a pair of tiny tweezers that
hung from his key ring, and carefully picked it up. There
was no writing on the envelope. No name, no address,
nothing.
'Of course,' he said drily, 'it could be a note from the
milkman.'
He sliced the envelope open and, using the tip of thumb
and forefinger, pulled out the card.
'Shit!'
Jill could have echoed that.
Inside the envelope was a Valentine card. It mocked the
crisp, cold November morning. There was no message, just
a printed: One day you'll be mine.
"I don't like this, Jill. I really don't like it.'
'I'm not thinking of placing an order for champagne and
party poppers myself.'
'How do we know it's not Valentine playing games
with you?'
'We don't,' she allowed, 'but even if it is, he's unlikely to
hurt me.'
'He's put seven women in the morgue.'
'Yes, but all prostitutes. If it is Valentine, and I can't
imagine it is, he won't kill me. He'll want to show me how
clever he is. And anyway, why now? Why not a year ago?
No, it can't be Valentine. It'll be someone playing a sick
joke on me. Someone who wants to remind me that I got
it wrong.'
'We'll check it out,' Max said, 'and we'll have a look to
see who's been released from prison recently. Think back
over your old cases. We'll have a word with Rodney Hill's
sister, too.'
'It won't be her!' Jill could remember the woman - short,
plump, bleached blonde and very angry - screaming abuse
at her as she'd left the court. 'She might be a nasty piece of
work, but she wouldn't do this. What would be the point?
And why now? Why wait all this time?'
"I don't know.' Max put the card on the table and strode
through to the kitchen. "I need some coffee.'
He filled the kettle and switched it on, then leaned back
against the sink.
'Jill '
'No.'
'You don't know what I was going to say.'

69

"I know exactly what you were going to say. You think
I should go back on Valentine's case and the answer is no.
I can't do it.'
"I think I know how you feel, but you won't rest, not
properly, until he's behind bars. He's taken too much
from you.'
'No,' she said briskly, 'and I refuse to discuss it. Have
you eaten?' she asked, changing the subject. "I was going
to have cereal but I've got some bacon and eggs if you
fancy it.'
'Yeah?' He looked at his watch. 'Thanks, I'll have a
bacon and egg butty. I'll even make it myself. Do you
want one?'
'No, I'll have cereal.'
Conversation was desultory as they ate. Jill, trying to
retain at least some of the good humour she'd woken with,
gazed out at her garden. Like everything else about Lilac
Cottage it was begging for some tender loving care, but it
looked beautiful this morning. The grass was white with
frost and an icy cobweb stretched from the old wooden
seat to the remains of a clematis climbing the shed.
'We'll get someone watching your cottage,' Max said as
he put his plate in the sink. There was no hope of washing
up; he'd never mastered that.
'No resources,' she reminded him.
'With some crank playing postman,' he muttered, 'we've
got resources. Have you seen anyone or anything? Have
any cars driven by slowly? Has anyone been out walking
and looked at this place? Have you seen someone with
a dog?'
"I haven't seen anything,' she told him, 'but I rarely look
out at the front.'
'Get looking and make a note of everything. Get car
registrations, descriptions of people walking dogs anything.'

"I will.'
'We'll get that card checked out but I expect it's clean,'
he said.
Jill was sure it would be.
Could it be Valentine? Had he been lurking round her
cottage? No, she was being paranoid.
God, she wished they could catch him, though.
Of course, if she were to help, they might catch him
more quickly. But could she do it? Could she go through
those files again, look at those grisly photographs again,
and read Rodney Hill's statement again?
She honestly wasn't sure she could.
Anyway, today she wanted to check out Michael's confession
and read the reports. There wasn't time for anything
else. She could think about Valentine tomorrow ...

A couple of hours later, Jill was reading the transcript of
Michael's confession. It was a cold, clinical account telling
how he'd come home from school, with the knife he'd
bought from a chap selling them outside a shop in Rochdale,
at least he thought it was Rochdale but it might have
been Burnley, lost his temper with his mother and killed
her in a fit of anger.
He went into great detail about the new safety equipment
at school, how the fire alarm had been going off at
irregular intervals for days and how, on the day in question,
the sprinklers had come on. Everyone able to go
home had done so, and Michael had been lucky enough to
get a lift with his friend's mother. No, his friend's mother
didn't drive a red vehicle, she drove a dark blue 4x4. No,
he hadn't seen any red vehicles near the vicarage.
Only when he reached the end of his story did he break
down.
He insisted he walked through the front door and came
face to face with his mother. Why was she naked? He
couldn't explain that. Why was she standing in the hall?
He couldn't explain that, either. What was she doing in the
hall? Nothing. Why had he bought the knife in the first
place? No special reason.
When asked why he'd been angry with her, he'd said
simply, 'The usual stuff.' When pressed, it seemed the
usual stuff involved not studying and mixing with the
wrong type of people.

That didn't fit with the Alice that Jill had met, albeit
briefly, or the Alice villagers spoke of so fondly. That
woman had loved Michael, and would have welcomed his
friends. As for not studying - no, it didn't ring true. He
was the model pupil. His headmaster had said so, as had
his teachers, as had Tony Hutchinson, and his school
reports proved it. Even if it were true, surely Michael
would do what other teenagers did. He would throw a
tantrum then sulk for half an hour. He wouldn't kill.
Michael was protecting someone, Jill was sure of it.
But who?
Supposing he had a girlfriend and supposing Alice had
disapproved. Mixing with the wrong type of people,
Michael had said. It's what his father had said, too. Does
any mother like it when her only son finds some other
woman to love? Supposing Michael had kept quiet about
this girlfriend, guessing his mother's reaction would be
unfavourable, and had left Alice to suffer the embarrassment
and indignity of finding out from someone else?
It was the sort of juicy titbit Olive Prendergast would
delight in passing over the post office counter. Jill made a
mental note to ask Olive a few questions.
Even if these suppositions were fact, Michael didn't kill
her. Could the fictitious girlfriend have done the deed?
To what sort of girl would Michael be attracted? Given
the austere nature of his home life, someone different,
someone older with more experience of life, someone wild
and extrovert would appeal to him. Wild enough to kill his
mother? It was possible, she supposed.
There was a pile of paperwork gathered from teachers,
schoolfriends and villagers who had spoken about
Michael. None of them, not even Olive Prendergast, had
mentioned a girlfriend. All the same, Jill would still like a
word with Olive. What she didn't know about the residents
of Kelton Bridge wasn't worth knowing.
Michael was a member of the school's debating society,
along with a dozen more pupils, both male and female, but
no one had mentioned any special friendships he might
have. It seemed as if his social life was non-existent.


Chapter Eleven

They all looked the same. With their coloured hair, short skirts,
fake leather boots, heaving cleavage, heavy make-up and cigarettes
in their hands as they stood on street corners trying not to
shiver, they looked like his mother.
This one was younger than most, and her hair was red. It
wasn't a natural auburn, or even a chestnut, coppery sort of red.
No, this was more a plum sort of red, the kind that came straight
from a bottle. She had one hand in the pocket of a short, white
jacket, and the other held a cigarette on which she dragged as if
she needed a hit. Most of them took drugs of some sort or
another. Stupid bitches.
He slowed the car as he pulled alongside her and hit the button
to wind down the window. There was no one around; it was
unlikely anyone would see the car. Even if they did, it wouldn't
trace to him. The registration plates were covered in mud,
making them illegible.
'How much?' he asked.
'Depends on what you want,' she told him, throwing her
cigarette to the ground. She leaned on the roof of the car and
looked at him through the open window. 'If you want a blow
job^ '
"I want more than that.'
On closer inspection, he saw she was a lot younger than he'd
first thought. Her skin was fresh beneath the make-up and her
teeth were strong and white. How old was she? Eighteen?
Nineteen? It didn't matter.
'Get in,' he said, 'and we'll talk about it.'
Even before she got in he could smell her cheap perfume. It
was almost overpowering and he kept the window open as he
drove off.
'It's a nice evening,' he said, 'and it would be a shame to waste
it. I know a deserted spot.' It was a cold but clear night, and a
full moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds. 'I'll pay
you well for the extra time,' he promised. He took his wallet from
his shirt pocket and showed it to her so she could see the wad of
notes inside. 'Don't worry about the money. You be good to me
and I'll be good to you.'
The sight of the cash loosened her tongue and she didn't stop
talking about how badly blokes treated her and how she was
saving up to buy her own place. His fingers were white as he
gripped the wheel. If she didn't shut up in a minute, he'd kill her.
The thought tickled him. That's exactly what he was going to do
anyway.
'What's funny?' she asked.
'Nothing.'
'How much further is it?'
'Nearly there.'
They deserved all they got. For the promise of a few quid, they
would happily climb in a car with a stranger and head off into
the countryside. She'd been in his car for twenty minutes now,
but all she was thinking about was the money.
'I'm Annie, by the way.'
Yeah, yeah. And he was Michelangelo.
'What's your name?'
'Micky,' he muttered.
A few minutes later, he pulled the car off the Burnley road and
on to a rutted track. It was doubtful if the police would get any
decent tyre tracks but, even if they did, the tyres would be long
gone by then. They bumped along for a couple of minutes. It
wasn't a comfortable ride but at least it kept her quiet.
He'd checked it out - no one ever used it. It led to an old
farmhouse but that had been empty for years. Apart from stray
sheep that took advantage of the shelter, it saw nothing.
'It's a bit creepy,' she said as he shone his torch inside the
empty building. 'Cold an' all'
'I'll soon warm you up,' he promised distractedly, and she
giggled.
He put his torch on the stone windowsill and leaned back to
look at her. The torch was powerful, giving off more than enough
light, yet he knew it couldn't be seen from outside. He'd
checked.
It was this attention to detail that made him so good. Would
Hill have checked? No. Why not? Because Hill was a nobody. A
simpleton.
The thought of Hill claiming his limelight filled him with rage.
It always did . . .
'Let's have a look at you then,' he said.
She licked red lips and grinned at him, then took off her jacket
and threw it to the dusty floor. Her top, a flimsy blue thing, was
next, and then her skirt, short, denim and grubby.
When she was wearing only boots, stockings, briefs and bra,
she stood before him, hands on hips, licking those red lips again.
'Well? Like what you see?'
He loathed what he saw. Filthy, disgusting bitch.
She took a step forward, hands reaching out for the buckle of
his jeans, but he stopped her, gripping her tiny wrists in his
strong hands.
'Turn round,' he ordered her, and she did, spinning on her
high-heeled boots.
She wouldn't have seen the scarf; he was too quick for her. It
was tight around her neck before she knew it. She didn't even
have time to scream and although her long fingernails were
digging into him with a strength that surprised him, he doubted
his skin was even marked.
The breath left her body and he felt her go limp.
When he was sure she was dead, he let her fall to the floor.
He pulled the scarf from her neck and was pleased to see that,
apart from the marks there, and the way her tongue and her eyes
protruded, she looked the same as she had half an hour ago. She
looked startled - yes, startled. Not terrified of death, merely
startled.
He began taking things from his pocket. First, he put on the
disposable gloves and then, very carefully, wiped her wrists with
a solution of alcohol. Fingerprints on skin didn't last long, he
knew that, and her body was unlikely to be found for days, but
it was that attention to detail again. It was his professionalism
that made him so good.
He took a cotton bud from his pocket and cleaned beneath
her fingernails with the same solution. He had all the time in
the world.
Using the small, sharp knife he cut away her remaining
clothes, only struggling a little with her tight boots.
When they were off, he walked around, looking at her from all
angles. Her clothes were folded neatly by her side, and his torch
rested on the pile. Yes, she was ready.
He unsheathed his scalpel but, before starting work, he
chopped off a lock of hair. It was the first time he'd done that, and
for a moment, he was unsure. He didn't want to spoil her, yet he
needed the souvenir. Not for himself, oh no. That was for Jill
Kennedy.
The missing hair wasn't noticeable and, satisfied, he began
work, cutting the small hearts neatly and carefully. It was slow
work, but precision was everything.
Once again, he was in that dark, dusty cupboard listening to
his mother making her biscuits. He could almost smell her, that
heady mix of cheap perfume and sex. He could almost taste the
tiny, heart-shaped biscuits, still warm from the oven . . .
This part, working carefully on her still, lifeless body, was
what excited him most. He wished she could watch him and
marvel at his skill and precision.
His erection was strong long before he'd finished, but he
contained himself. Attention to detail.
Each of the twelve heart-shaped pieces of skin was wrapped
carefully in tissue paper and put in a small plastic tub.
He returned the scalpel to his pocket and surveyed his work.
Perfect. So perfect it made him want to weep. He often thought
Michelangelo must have felt like this when he'd finished painting
his ceiling, as if, finally, perfection had been created in an
imperfect world.
As he gazed at his work, tears welling in his eyes, he knelt to
the side of her, unzipped his jeans and freed his throbbing
erection.
He grabbed her skirt - attention to detail again - and wrapped
it around his penis. When he came, with huge sobs wracking his
body, not a drop of semen touched her body . . .
As soon as he'd caught his breath, he got to his feet, gathered
up her clothes, including her soaked skirt, and put them in a bag
that he took from his pocket. He double-checked everything,
picked up his torch and walked out.
There was nothing to connect him to this.
Now, it was a simple waiting game. Waiting for them to
find her.


Chapter Twelve

It was 7 a.m. on Sunday morning, a time when all hardworking
people should be sleeping soundly, happy in the
knowledge that they could lie in bed undisturbed for at
least five more hours. Max, however, had two young boys
leaping all over him as they tried to coax him from the
warm comfort of his bed.
He wished he had a tenth of their energy. 'How about
you make me a coffee?' he suggested.
'OK,' Ben agreed, 'and then can we talk about the dog?'
'It's a deal. You make me a coffee and then I'll tell you
again why we can't have a dog.'
Whether the boys heard the last remark, he didn't know.
They were already halfway down the stairs.
They were good kids, the best, and he'd love to let them
have a dog. Ben, eleven years old and a more gentle soul
than his older brother, could think of little else. With their
lifestyle, though, it simply wasn't practical. Lifestyle was
describing it loosely, Max thought grimly.
He was lucky in that his house had a self-contained flat
on the second floor, and even luckier that Linda's mum
had been willing to move into said flat to be both mother
and father to her grandchildren. God knows what they
would have done without Kate.
She'd been there for them all - the wise and caring
mother-in-law to Max, loving grandmother to the boys,
and friend to Jill.
Kate wasn't a dog person, though, and it was unfair to

78
inflict one on her. With the kids at school and him at work,
she'd be the one left to cope with it.
Life had been much simpler when Jill had lived with
them. They'd managed to arrange their working lives
around the kids most of the time. For a short time, life had
been normal.
Still, it was no using dwelling on that.
The coffee was taking a suspiciously long time. Max was
about to rouse himself to investigate when the boys
returned. He hadn't known they possessed a tray, but
Harry was carrying one laden with toast, butter, marmalade
- and coffee.
'Blackmail is a very serious offence,' he told them, and
they spluttered with laughter.
Their capacity for fun never failed to amaze him. Their
mother was dead, their father was hardly ever home, and
yet they still managed to embrace life. He knew a sudden
urge to hug them close and never let them go.
'OK,' he said, settling the tray firmly on the bed and
buttering his toast, 'let's pretend it's lunchtime on Wednesday.
What is this dog of yours doing?'
'Either sleeping off the long walk we'll have given him
before we go to school,' Harry said, 'or sitting by the door
waiting for the long walk we'll give him when we get
home from school.'
They'd clearly rehearsed this.
'Or chewing every stick of furniture we possess,' Max
pointed out mildly, 'while peeing on the carpet.'
The boys giggled at that.
'Nan would let him out in the garden for five minutes,'
Ben said.
'She'd probably like the company,' Harry put in. 'Look,
Dad, we're not kids any more. We know all about responsibility
and stuff like that.'
They weren't, and they did. Max couldn't argue with
that.
'Don't you think,' he said, taking a sip of strong, black
coffee made just how he liked it, 'that this family is dysfunctional
enough without adding even more chaos?'
'Nah,' they scoffed in unison. 'We like chaos.'
'You might,' Max grumbled, "I don't.'
'You do.'
But he didn't. He would give a lot to come home at a
sensible time each day to a wife who was eager to see him
and to kids happily doing homework. If life were normal,
they'd be able to make plans for the weekend, knowing
that his phone wouldn't ring and drag him away to some
terrible place.
He had a day off though so he was going to try and
push all thoughts of work from his mind. His subconscious
could mull things over while he relaxed. Today was for
him and the kids.
'We'll think about it,' he said, 'and discuss it next week.
Meanwhile, you can take my tray away, thank you, and
decide what you fancy doing today.'
As he dressed, he thought of driving out to Southport. It
was cold, and a stiff wind was blowing, but the kids would
enjoy messing around with a football on the beach. The
fresh air would do him good, too. It might clear his head.
They could have a McDonald's for lunch. No, they'd stop
somewhere decent and have a proper Sunday lunch . . .
A car pulled up outside and, when Max saw that Fletch
was driving it, his heart sank. Perhaps work wouldn't wait
until tomorrow after all. As he walked down the stairs, he
could hear the boys laughing with Fletch.
'And we'll be having a dog soon,' Ben was telling him.
'We'll be discussing not having a dog soon,' Max corrected
him as he walked into the kitchen. 'Right, you two,
scram for a few minutes. Go and see if Nan's OK.'
After saying goodbye to Fletch, they raced upstairs to
their grandmother's.
'You don't deserve such good kids,' Fletch told him
fondly.
'We always get what we deserve,' Max argued with a
grin, 'and I deserve a day off. What's new?'
'Not a lot. I'm on my way home, but thought I'd stop by
and let you know that another hooker's been reported
missing.'
Max felt his guts clench, but he knew it meant nothing.
They came; they went. Sometimes they moved on to a
different patch, sometimes they went to work at the nearest
massage parlour, sometimes they got so stoned they
vanished for days. The possibilities were endless.
'Where from?'
'Burnley. A sixteen-year-old by '
'Sixteen?'
'Yes. An Anne Levington. We don't know much about
her, just that she has a missing drunk for a father, and a
mother who kicked her out. She'd been squatting with a
gang of misfits. She had a burger with a mate and both of
them were going to work the streets for a few hours before
meeting up. Anne didn't show and the other girl's worried
about her. The girls working the streets are a bit twitchy at
the moment.'
'Not twitchy enough to keep them behind closed doors,'
Max said grimly.
'It's easy money, I suppose.'
'Risking your neck every time you go to work isn't easy'
'No, guv.' Fletch shuffled his feet, and Max made a
mental note not to be so miserable with people.
'Fancy a coffee?' he asked.
'Thanks, guv, but no. Sandra's got me down for a spot of
decorating, and my life won't be worth living if I don't get
back soon.' He turned to leave. 'If she turns up, I'm sure
someone will let you know. Cornwall's on to it, of course.
They're taking it seriously, just in case.'
With Valentine on the loose, every prostitute who was
missing for more than five minutes was taken seriously.
That maniac had a lot to answer for and, come hell or high
water, he would damn well answer for it.
It was nothing to do with him, Max reminded himself.
Cornwall was on to it. When they'd pulled Max off the
case - 'too obsessed to be objective' - they'd brought in
on Cornwall with his flash suits and 'fresh ideas'. Max
had been reprimanded on more than one occasion for
treading on Cornwall's delicate toes.
Max headed for Kate's flat and told himself it was
probably nothing. The girls on the streets were as twitchy
as the police force right now.
He wondered, belatedly, if Kate had been trying to have
a lie-in. It was doubtful, though. She was a lark, not a night
owl like Max.
'How's my favourite son-in-law?' she greeted him, dropping
a fleeting kiss on his cheek as she moved from table
to oven.
'He's just dandy,' he said, 'despite being woken in the
middle of the night by this pair.'
'Quite right, too. No point missing the best part of
the day'
She was a lot like her daughter, both in looks and
temperament. Linda, too, had been a lark. To her, a lie-in
had meant staying in bed until 7 a.m.
"I thought we'd drive out to Southport and mess around
on the beach,' he told the kids.
Unsurprisingly, this news was met with a whoop of joy.

'Coming with us, Kate?' he asked.
'Not on your life. Far too cold to shiver on a beach while
you mad things chase a football around. In any case, I've
too much to do. I'm having a late spring clean of these
kitchen cupboards.'
She looked at Max and he wondered what she saw. Was
she wondering what her daughter had seen in him?
Was she thinking that he hadn't deserved her daughter?
Perhaps she was thinking that he didn't deserve her
grandsons. Did she think him an idiot for finding another
good woman in Jill and then blowing it?
'Enjoy your day, Max,' was all she said.

From the outside, St Lawrence's church was nothing to
look at. Part brick and part stone, it could have passed for
an old factory or office building if it hadn't been for its
impressive tower.
When Jill pushed open the heavy door, it looked as if
every member of the parish had turned up for the morning's
service. The church was packed.
She slid into an empty pew right at the back and, seconds
later, Tony and Liz Hutchinson came and sat beside
her. The organist was already playing and they whispered
their greetings.
Tony had jogged along the lane past her cottage early
that morning. Getting in training for walking the Pennine
Way perhaps. He'd said he was a keen runner, and he'd
certainly been moving at an impressive pace.
Across the aisle, Bob - Jill didn't know his surname, just
knew him as Bob the Builder - was sitting with his head
bowed. She made a mental note to have a chat with him
after the service if she could. She'd seen and heard enough
about the winters in the Pennines to know that her roof
needed attention before much longer.
Bob was sitting next to a couple Jill didn't know. She was
about to ask Liz to enlighten her but Liz was in a world of
her own, her gaze fixed on Bob. Even sitting, he was an
impressive figure. He was a wearing a charcoal grey suit
that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. A shaft of
light from a stained-glass window gave his blond hair a
streak of electric blue.
Gordon and Mary Lee-Smith were sitting in a pew
towards the front of the church and Jill made yet another
mental note. She'd popped a thank-you note through their
letterbox, but she'd catch them after the service and thank
them again for the bonfire party. At the same time, she'd
see how they thought Jonathan was holding up.
Just then, Jonathan and Michael walked slowly up
the aisle.
The police had had to release Michael. His statement
was full of inconsistencies and, in the end, he'd said that
he hadn't killed his mother, and that he had no idea who
had. He'd said he thought people wouldn't believe him
innocent as all the evidence pointed to him.
The force, she knew, was divided. Some believed
Michael was innocent, and some thought he'd cleverly
talked his way out of it. Either way, they had nothing that
would stand up in court.
Father and son walked side by side, united in their loss.
Jonathan walked tall and erect, the only sign of his grief a
ghostly pale face dominated by bloodshot eyes. Michael
walked with his head bowed and his hands clasped in
front of him. They sat in the empty pew in front of Gordon
and Mary. Both looked as if they were attending a
funeral.
The funeral was still to come of course.
The stand-in vicar took to the pulpit. He was a young
chap - energetic and keen. Not surprisingly, he spoke of
the tragedy and guessed the congregation was questioning
its faith, something all Christians were called upon to do in
times of tragedy. He then asked them all to pray for
Jonathan and Michael.
Jonathan knelt to pray. Michael sat with his head bowed
and a handkerchief to his nose. Jill wasn't sure if he was
sobbing or if he had the beginnings of a cold. Neither
contributed a lot to the hymn singing. Jonathan made a
token gesture and mouthed the words. Michael stared at a
spot straight ahead of him. If it hadn't been for Tony,
singing loudly if tunelessly on Jill's right, and Gordon and
Mary's stirring performances, the vicar might well have
been left to sing alone.
When the service was over, the vicar, Jonathan and
Michael all stood at the church door. The vicar thanked
everyone for attending.
'I'm sure it's a comfort to the family,' he said, shaking
Jill's hand.
Jill didn't argue, but neither Jonathan nor Michael
looked comforted.
She walked across the grass to where Gordon and Mary
were standing. They looked as if they were waiting for
someone to join them.
"I wanted to thank you for the party,' Jill said. "I enjoyed
it, and it was kind of you to invite me.'
'We're only glad you could make it,' Mary said, adding
a whispered, 'Thank goodness we didn't know what lay
ahead.'
Jill remembered Alice, how she'd scolded Jonathan for
talking religion, how her face had lit up with pride as
she'd called Michael to join them.
'Jonathan and Michael returned to the vicarage yesterday,'
Mary went on in a lowered voice. 'Jonathan's coming
back for lunch, but nothing would persuade Michael to
join us. I hate to think of the poor boy alone at the
vicarage.'
'Perhaps he needs to grieve alone,' Jill suggested.
'People deal with the grieving process differently. I expect
he's trying to be strong and finding it too much effort. Far
easier to cry alone sometimes.'
'Perhaps you're right,' Mary agreed.
'You're more than welcome to join us for lunch, Jill,'
Gordon put in.
'Of course you are. Where are my manners?' Mary
looked beside herself at the gaffe.
'That's very kind of you, but I've made other plans,' Jill
said quickly.
It wasn't a lie. She'd just decided to pay Michael a visit.
With his father out of the way, he might open up a little.
Doubtful, but it was worth a try.
She was heading down the path, away from the church,
when she spotted Bob again.
'Bob!' She broke into a run to catch up with him. 'I'm
sorry, but I don't know your surname. I don't think I
was told.'
He smiled at that. 'I've an even worse confession. I've
forgotten your name and you're the celebrity'
'The celebrity you'd never heard of,' she reminded him
with a smile. 'Jill Kennedy'
'Bob Murphy - at your service.' He took a business card
from his suit pocket and handed it to her.
'How busy are you?' she asked. 'There's quite a bit
I need doing, and I'd like it done soon. If I leave it much
longer, I'll have no roof left.'
'I'm pretty busy at the moment,' he said, 'and that's
unusual at this time of the year.' He took a pen and
another card from his pocket. 'Give me your phone number.
I'll give you a call and make an appointment to have
a look. If it's not me, I'll send Len along. OK?'
She scribbled down her name and number on his card.
'I'm in and out a bit at the moment, but you can leave a
message on the machine.'
'OK. I'll try and make it for the end of the week, probably
late afternoon. I'll give you a ring to confirm.'
'Thanks.' A huge raindrop landed on her nose. 'Oh,
great. No car and no umbrella.'
St Lawrence's had been built long before parking had
been a consideration and, as it hadn't looked like rain, Jill
had decided to walk.
'I'd offer you a lift,' Bob said, 'but I'm in the same boat.'
He looked back at the crowd still outside the church.
'There's Len - he's my roofing man. He'll give us both a
lift.'
Jill saw that he was referring to the couple with whom
he'd shared his pew.
Len and his wife, Daisy, were more than happy to oblige
and she and Bob climbed in the back of their elderly car.
'I've been itching to get my hands on that roof of yours,'
Len told Jill as he drove them away from the church.
'Nothing bugs me more than seeing a good roof allowed to
get in that state. It should have been done years ago.'
'Ah, but old Mrs Blackman didn't have the money,'
Daisy reminded him. 'It would have cost more than she
paid for the cottage in the first place. Mind, she had the
garden lovely, didn't she?'
Len talked roofing, and Daisy talked gardens - at the
same time. It was impossible to get a word in. For all that,
they were a delightful couple, clearly devoted to each
other. Although they'd dressed for church, there was
something of the hippy about them. Len had a huge,
untidy beard and his thin dark hair was tied back in a
short ponytail. Daisy had long auburn hair tumbling this
way and that, and bangles, rings and chains on every
limb.
Minutes later, Jill was back at her cottage, waving
them off. Bob would have to take her place in the
conversations.
'Call on us sometime,' Daisy yelled at Jill through the
open car window. 'We've got a narrowboat on the canal.
Can't miss us . . .'
Jill was still chuckling to herself as she went inside the
cottage. What a lovely couple. One of these days, she'd go
and find that narrowboat.



Chapter Thirteen

The church clock was striking twelve as Jill parked her car
on the drive at the vicarage. Hopefully, Jonathan would be
at the manor by now. Not that she had any objection to
seeing him, she just thought Michael might be more talkative
if she could get him alone.
That, of course, was assuming he answered the door.
She rang the bell a second time.
She could understand perfectly his wish to be left alone.
In the same circumstances, not that she'd ever come close
to being in those circumstances, she would want to lock
the world away, too.
Michael opened the door and stared blankly at her. It
was as if he didn't know her, but he'd recognized her at
the party.
'Oh, it's you,' he mumbled. 'Sorry, I've forgotten your
name.'
'Jill. Jill Kennedy'
'Dad's out,' he said. 'He won't be back for a couple of
hours. Shall I tell him you called?'
He clearly didn't plan to invite her inside so Jill took a
step forward, leaving him little option.
'That's OK. I came to see both of you really. To see how
you were coping and if there was anything I could do.'
'You'd better come in then.'
She was already halfway in, but she welcomed the invitation.
The hall floor was bare and her shoes clattered on
the concrete.
'The carpet's - gone,' he explained. 'The police said erm,
it's been painted, too.'
The air was still heavy with the smell of paint, but better
that than a murder scene.
There had been blood everywhere, according to Max.
Not surprising. Alice's main artery had been slashed when
she'd been in a state of panic. Her heart would have been
pumping blood for all it was worth.
'Let's go in the kitchen then,' she suggested briskly,
leading the way to what she hoped was the kitchen. It was.
"I don't know about you, but I practically live in my
kitchen. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?'
A less polite boy would have told her to sod off, but
Michael just mumbled, 'Sorry,' and began getting cups
from the cupboard.
Cups and saucers rattled in his hands. He was shaking.
The kitchen was large, with a big, scrubbed pine table in
the centre of the room. The units were old, but clean and
serviceable. Tea, coffee and sugar containers sat in a neat
row near the kettle.
'I'd like coffee if that's all right,' Jill said. 'How about
you?'
'Mmm? Oh, yes, coffee's fine.'
He wanted her gone, she knew that.
'Are you back at school tomorrow?' she asked, and he
nodded. "I bet your friends are missing you.'
'Er, yes. Oh, I wouldn't think my friends '
"I bet your girlfriend is,' she put in quickly.
'Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend.' But the hot blush
that spread across his face told Jill otherwise.
'Come on, you don't have to be shy with me!' She
nudged him in an all-pals-together sort of way. 'Besides,
I saw you with her.'
'Oh.'
So he did have a girlfriend.
"I was exactly the same at your age,' she rushed on,
knowing she had never been like this vulnerable young
man. 'If I so much as mentioned a boy's name to my
parents, they'd want to know it all. Then, knowing it all,
they would decide he wasn't right for me. In the end,
I kept quiet.'
He listened politely, but didn't comment.
'So what's she like? Lovely, I bet. Does she go to the
same school?'
He gave her a suspicious look. 'No. Er, she's older.'
'Really? I only saw her from the back. Is she pretty like
your mum?'
'Yes.' He smiled shyly.
Their coffee ready, Jill made herself comfortable at the
table, leaving him little choice but to do likewise. Except he
didn't look comfortable.
"I wish I'd known your mum better,' Jill said. "I only met
her at the party, but she seemed a lovely woman. Very
pretty, too, and a stunning figure. I envied her that. Comes
of being a dancer, I suppose. Your dad said she'd written
me a note, inviting me to lunch. That was so kind of her.
She was a kind lady.'
'Yes. We miss her.'
His immaculate manners would drive Jill crazy. He
knew something, she was sure of it.
'Any news?' she asked. 'Have the police come up with
anything? What about that red van your dad saw? You
didn't see it, did you?'
"I don't remember seeing anything on the road.'
'Your dad arrived only minutes after you, didn't he?'
'Yes.' He cleared his throat. 'Look, I'd rather not talk
about it if you don't mind.'
'Of course. Sorry.'
The house was freezing and she shivered. She was glad
she'd chosen to wear a thick jumper.
'You must come to me for lunch one day/ she said. 'No
need to make it lunch, either. Call in any time. I'm a good
listener and sometimes it helps to get away from home,
doesn't it?'
'Thanks.'
'My cooking's pretty dire,' she told him, 'but I always
have plenty of cakes and biscuits, tea and coffee. There's
always a can of beer or a bottle of Scotch, too,' she added
with a smile. 'Call in, Michael. I don't get many visitors
and the cats would like the company'
'Cats?'
His world was disintegrating yet the mention of cats had
sparked his interest. Jill supposed the subject offered him
an uncomplicated, easy escape from his problems.
"I knew you had one cat,' he added. 'I've seen it about.'
'I've got three. One's sixteen, a black and white female
who keeps the other two in line. The other, Sam, is eight
now - a big, fat, lazy torn. And the third, a pretty black and
white tuxedo, adopted me. When I lived in Preston, I knew
a cat was coming in at night and stealing food. Sometimes,
if I crept into the kitchen, I'd be in time to see a black tail
vanishing through the cat flap. After a week or so, I found
her sitting on the kitchen chair. The poor thing was too
tired, too ill and too hungry to escape.'
'Ah, shame.' At least she had his interest. If she could
gain his trust as well, she might get somewhere.
"I took her to the vet and he gave her a shot of antibiotics
for an infection. While she was there, he found she had a
microchip. I was hoping that some poor person had lost
the cat.'
'Did they trace the owner?'
'Yup.' Jill grinned. 'Officially, Tojo is stolen goods.'
'How come?' He was smiling, too.
'Later that day, I had a phone call from a woman who
said, "I believe you've got my cat." She didn't sound very
friendly. Anyway, it turned out she only lived at the back
of my place. Her kitchen window was always open so the
cat could have gone back any time. She asked if the cat was
still with me, and I lied. I said she'd run off as soon as I'd
got back from the vet's. I even promised to call the woman
if I saw the cat.'
He laughed at that, and Jill wondered if it was the first
time he'd laughed since his mother had been murdered.
'It's a special feeling to be chosen by a cat,' she said
thoughtfully. 'Anyway,' she went on briskly, 'you must
come and see her. She's a gorgeous little thing. Not that
she's little now. She's fat. The others are, too. They love
visitors though.'
"I will. Thanks.'
'Promise?'
There was a long pause as he made up his mind.
'Promise,' he said at last.
'Good.' Jill got to her feet. She'd done all she could for
now. There was no point alienating him. I'm truly sorry
about your mother, Michael. I don't have your dad's faith
in God, so I can't offer any help in that direction, but I do
know that time heals. It's a trite saying, one that probably
infuriates you now as everyone will be telling you that, but
it really is true.'
'Thanks,' he said gruffly.
'I'll be off then. No need to see me out. I'll see you soon,
Michael. Hey, bring your girlfriend too. The more the
merrier!'
As she walked away from the vicarage, she thought of
all she'd learned. The main thing was that Michael had a
girlfriend. How much older was she? Was she twenty?
Perhaps she was in her thirties even. If that were the case,
there was no doubt that Michael's father would disapprove
strongly. Alice, no matter how much she loved her
son, and no matter how easy-going and fun-loving she
was, would have hated that, too.
The main thing at the moment was gaining Michael's
trust and she was fairly confident he'd be a visitor at Lilac
Cottage before long.

Chapter Fourteen

'So what was she like?' Max asked.
Jim Brody, the Truemans' gardener, had been interviewed
before. Grace thought they were wasting their
time, but Max thought it worth talking to him again,
mainly because the cleaner had said he got on well with
Alice Trueman.
'Alice would spend hours talking to him,' the Truemans'
cleaner had said.
No one liked to speak ill of the dead, but usually someone
had something unkind to say about some member of
the family. Not the Trueman family it seemed. As yet, not
one person had said a bad word about any of them.
'I've told your people all this before,' Brody pointed out.
Max ignored the expression on Grace's face. "I know, but
humour me, will you?'
Brody sighed, and he was struggling to look Max in
the eye.
They were in Brody's lounge, an untidy, cluttered room,
but homely for all that. It was a homely sort of house,
old and detached, with an enviable garden. One would
expect the garden, Max supposed, as it was a good way
of advertising a trade, yet this one was more peaceful
than showy.
Constantly in the shadow of Brody's feet was a dog, a
sleek black and white border collie that Ben would have
killed for. Her eyes never left Brody's face, and she was
poised and alert for any move he might make.
'Alice was always good to me,' Brody said at last. 'Not

like some I've worked for. She was one who'd invite you
inside to shelter from a sudden downpour, or bring you a
cold drink on a hot day. Some folk look down on you, but
not her.'
'Are you married?' Max asked, and Brody stared at him
in amazement. 'Just curious,' Max explained.
'No/ Brody told him.
'How did Alice get along with her husband?' Max
asked.
'All right, I imagine. Look, I was only the gardener.'
"I know that, but you must have formed an impression.
I didn't know her, yet I've been given a picture of a fun
loving woman who used to love dancing.' He scratched his
head. "I can't imagine a woman like that living with a man
like Jonathan Trueman.'
'Because he was a vicar?' Brody scoffed.
'Partly, I suppose. But vicar or not, he doesn't strike me
as a party animal.'
Brody shrugged. 'I wouldn't know.'
'According to the cleaner, Mrs Trueman used to spend a
lot of time talking to you.'
'So what? Plenty of folk have an interest in their gardens.
Not much point me putting an area to grass when
what they wanted was a rose garden, is there?'
None at all, Max thought, but surely they wouldn't have
spoken only of the garden. Max was no gardener, far
preferring to have a big lawn that only needed mowing
once a week, and he couldn't believe there was that much
to discuss.
'You must have talked about other things. She must
have said something in passing. People do.'
'No.'
Call it intuition or gut instinct, but Max was convinced
Brody knew something.
He wished people would talk, it would make his job
much easier. This case should be cut and dried by now.
They didn't talk, though. Villagers looked out for their
own. They knew all there was to know about their neighbours,
but wouldn't divulge anything to outsiders. And
Max was an outsider. Worse, he was a copper. He'd have
liked to get Jill more involved, but even she was an outsider.
As the new woman, she wouldn't be trusted. Bloody
villages. Max hated them.
'You must have liked her,' he pushed on, 'so you must
want her killer put where he belongs.'
Brody didn't comment.
'Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me? Someone
who disliked her? Some family problem?'
'Nothing.'
Max knew he would get nowhere. 'Give me a call if you
think of anything,' he said.
"I will.' Brody was quickly ushering them out of the
house, eager to get rid of them, but Max stopped in the
open doorway.
'Lovely garden,' he remarked.
'Thanks.'
'Kelton Bridge is a decent village, isn't it?' Max persisted,
turning to look at him. 'A friend of mine has just
moved here, Jill Kennedy. I assume you've met her?'
'Kennedy?' Brody shook his head. "I don't think so.
Where is she? Up on the estate?'
'No. She's along Pennine View. Her place, Lilac Cottage,
is at the end of the lane.'
'Ah, that'll be Mrs Blackman's old place. I knew someone
had moved in there. How's she settling in?'
'She loves it,' Max said, wondering why Brody was
friendlier and easier to talk to when he wasn't discussing
the murder of Alice Trueman.
Brody's dog nudged Max's hand and licked his finger.
'Lovely dog,' Max said, bending to stroke the animal's
head.
'Holly's a good one,' Brody agreed. 'She doesn't usually
take to strangers. I suppose she's a one-man dog. I've had
dogs all my life, but never one like Holly. I don't know
why she's like that.'
Max, feeling honoured, fussed the dog some more before
leaving.
'While we're here, Grace,' he said, 'we'll have another
word with the Truemans' cleaner. She works mornings,
and should be at the vicarage till twelve.'
'Right,' Grace replied, voice clipped to register her feelings
on the matter.
Molly Turnbull was indeed at the vicarage.
'There's only me here,' she said as she opened the door
to them.
'It's you we've come to see,' Max told her.
There was an exception to every rule and, in Kelton
Bridge, Molly Turnbull was that exception. She loved to be
the centre of attention. The other villagers might close
ranks, but Molly loved to talk.
'We've been chatting to Mr Brody, the gardener,' he
explained, 'and thought we'd have another chat with you
while we were in the village.'
'You'd better have a cup of tea then,' she said.
While she clattered around, she talked non-stop. None
of it was of any interest to Max, but he let her ramble on
for a while.
'Mr Brody says he and Alice only used to talk about the
garden,' he got in eventually.
'Is that so? Well, it's not my place to contradict him but
I can't believe that.' She lowered her voice to a whisper.
'The only times I heard Alice laugh were when she were in
the garden with him. Can't see that talking about the
garden would make her laugh, can you?'
'Not my idea of a joke, Molly'
'Quite. She had a soft spot for Jim Brody, you mark
my words.'
'Are you sure?'
"I suppose there's only her would know that,' Molly
allowed, 'but she were always eager to go and chat to him
and, like I said, he used to make her laugh. The rest of the
time, she were quiet - lonely, I always reckoned. Of course,
Mr Trueman were out and about all the time doing his
good deeds in the parish. Perhaps she were different when
he were home. Perhaps he made her laugh.'
'Perhaps he did,' Max agreed.
Molly pushed a plate of biscuits in front of them, and
Max took a couple of chocolate ones.
'How big a soft spot do you think she had for him?'
Grace asked.
'A big one, I reckon,' Molly said. 'Not that she would
have done anything about it. She wasn't the flirty type if
you know what I mean.'
Max and Grace nodded to indicate that yes, they knew
what she meant.
'What about Brody?' Max munched on a biscuit. 'How
do you think he felt about her? Did he realize she had a
certain fondness for him, do you think? Did he look forward
to their chats?'
"I always thought so. I never saw anything improper, but
I reckon they had a certain way of looking at one another.
Put it this way, I wouldn't want my Ronnie looking at a
woman like that.'
'Really?'
As Molly told them all about her Ronnie, Max's mind
went through the possibilities. How would Michael have
felt if he'd seen the glances between his mother and the gardener? Would he have been angry with his mother?
Angry enough to kill her? Was there more than a certain
fondness on both sides? Was Michael jealous? He was a
strange kid, no doubt about that.
'My Ronnie reckons I read too many Mills & Boons,'
Molly was saying. "I told him I thought Alice were a bit too
friendly with Jim Brody, and he laughed at me. Said I were
talking nonsense, and that I were too much of a romantic.
Perhaps he's right.'
'There's nothing wrong with a touch of romance, Molly,'
Grace said.
Max, surprised the word romance even existed in
Grace's vocabulary, helped himself to another biscuit.
'A friend of mine's just moved to Kelton Bridge,' he
remarked casually. 'Jill Kennedy. Have you met her yet?'
'No, but I've heard all about her. Moved into old Mrs
Blackman's place, used to be one of them psychiatrists but
gave it up.'
'Psychologist,' Max corrected her.
'All the same to me,' Molly said, and Max had to smile.
It was all the same to most people.
'Andy Collins sold the cottage to her,' Molly added.
'Nice spot there, so long as you don't mind being a bit
cut off.'
'It is,' Max agreed.
'Anyone new comes to the village and people talk about
them until the next person moves in,' she said. 'So yes, I've
heard all about her.'
'And what are people saying about her?'
'Pleasant enough, clever, keeps herself to herself. Nothing
scandalous,' she added with a laugh, 'but that'll come
later. If they can't find any skeletons in her cupboard,
they'll invent a few. That's village life for you.' She was
about to pour them a second cup of tea, then paused. 'Ah,
I remember now. It was her were in the news when you lot
thought you'd caught that serial killer, weren't it?'
'Yes.'
'Now who were telling me about that?' She poured them
each a cup of tea. 'Can't remember. Perhaps it were Tony
Hutchinson. Yes, I reckon it were him. I clean there, too. A
couple of afternoons a week.'
'Tony Hutchinson?'
'Headmaster of the primary school,' Molly explained.
'His wife Liz has a drink problem.' That last came in a
hushed whisper.
'Does she?'
'Yes. Mind you, I reckon I'd turn to drink if I were
married to him. He's all right, I suppose, but a bit of a
know it all. Reckons he's cleverer than the rest of us. S'pose
he is, but no need to rub it in, is there?'
'There isn't,' Grace agreed.
By the time they left the vicarage, they'd heard the life
stories of most of Kelton's residents.
'Don't tell me,' Grace said, as they got in the car, 'we're
going to see this Hutchinson chap.'
'May as well,' Max replied.
Tony Hutchinson had already been questioned and his
story about being at the school when Alice Trueman was
murdered checked out. Max was curious, though. No one
had bothered Jill for a year. Now, just when she moves to
Kelton Bridge, someone starts paying interest. Some creep
was trying to frighten her, and it had to be connected with
her move to Kelton Bridge. As far as he could discover, the
only person who'd mentioned her work had been Tony
Hutchinson when chatting to Molly Turnbull.
Max would have liked to talk to the man at home, he
always preferred speaking to people on their own ground,
but he didn't want to hang around Kelton Bridge all afternoon
so he drove them up to the school.
Dozens of kids were chasing each other round the playground
when they arrived yet, at the sound of a bell
droning out, they formed two orderly lines and walked
back into the building. Max was impressed. He was also
surprised at how many kids attended the village school.
Kelton Bridge was bigger than it looked, though. Two large
estates had been built within the last ten years, which must
have doubled the village's population.
After a quick word with the school secretary, they were
immediately shown into the headmaster's office. The
school building was old, and the office, with its modern
desk, state-of-the-art computer, and executive leather chair
came as a surprise.
"I assume you've come about poor Alice,' Tony Hutchinson
said when they'd shaken hands. 'A terrible thing.
I don't think anyone has come to terms with it yet.'
'I'm sure everyone wants the culprit found as much as
we do,' Max agreed. 'It's difficult to move on until then.
Now, I know you've spoken to us before, but I'd be grateful
if you could tell me all you can about Alice. At the
moment, we're hoping that someone can think of something
and put us on the right track.'
The office window overlooked a large field with a rugby
pitch and hockey pitch marked out. No children were
making use of the facilities on this damp, grey day.
'Does Jim Brody look after this?' Max asked, nodding at
the pitches.
'No. Our groundsman is ex-Man United,' the headmaster
informed him with a touch of pride. 'Here, take
a seat.'
Max and Grace pulled lightweight blue chairs close to
his desk and sat.
'I've thought and thought about Alice,' Tony Hutchinson
said, 'and yet there's nothing - well, nothing of importance.
She was a very popular woman, the sort any husband
could be proud of, the sort that got on well with the
other women in the village. Always willing to help. A very
unselfish person.'
'What about friends? Or enemies?'
"I can't think of a single enemy' Tony fiddled with his
pencil. 'Do you know, I've never heard anyone say a bad
word about her.' He smiled. 'And that's rare in a village
like this.'
'Yes, I'm sure it is.'
'But friends - she didn't really have close friends. Or
none that I knew of. She wasn't the type to go on girls'
nights out or anything like that. She seemed happy enough
with her family. I always believed that was enough for
her.' He put his pencil down on the desk. 'I'm sorry I can't
be of more help, but there's nothing else I can say.'
Molly had called Alice Trueman a saint, and Max was
beginning to believe it. No one's life was this squeaky
clean.
'When was the last time you saw her?' Grace asked.
'Ah, that's easy. Mary and Gordon Lee-Smith live at the
manor and they'd invited us to a bonfire party. Alice was
there with Jon and young Michael.'
'I've heard about the party,' Max said. 'A friend of mine
was there. Jill Kennedy. Did you meet her?'
'Oh, yes.' Hutchinson's face lit up. 'We had a lovely long
chat. Of course, you'll have worked with her when she did
that profile for the serial killer?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Fascinating work - hers and yours.'
The last thing Max would call his work right now was
fascinating. Soul-destroying was more accurate. All it consisted
of was talking to hundreds of people, one of whom
might have something of interest to say, and wading
through endless paperwork. He was dog tired and getting
nowhere.
'My wife thought I made a nuisance of myself,' Hutchinson
added. 'She didn't think I should have sounded so
enthusiastic about Jill's work. After all, she must have felt
bad when that chap hanged himself. You all must.'
Felt bad? He wouldn't be surprised if Jill still had nightmares.
Not that she'd admit it.
'There was evidence linking the man to the murders,'
Max said carefully.
'And he matched Jill's profile. Fascinating stuff.'
That word again - fascinating. Few people found it
fascinating. Most were appalled that the killer was still on
the loose. Many drew comparisons with the Yorkshire
Ripper and the force's inability to catch him, too.
'This party at the Lee-Smiths' place,' Max said, changing
the subject. 'How did Alice appear?'
'Her normal self,' Hutchinson said. 'She looked happy
enough, didn't seem to have a care in the world.'
'She was with her husband, yes?'
'Yes, and Michael. They all seemed happy. But why not?
They were just a normal family'
Life in a normal family didn't involve having your
throat cut from ear to ear. Well, not in Max's experience.
'What colour car do you drive, Mr Hutchinson?'
'What?' He laughed at what he considered the absurdity
of the question. 'Grey. A dark grey BMW. Why?'
'Just curious. Do you know anyone who drives a red
van?'
"I do,' Hutchinson replied, still laughing. 'The postman!'
More serious, he went on, 'Drives like a maniac, too.
Always in a hurry, that lad.'
'So I believe.'
That lad was Carl Astley. He was twenty-six years old
and enjoyed the challenge of delivering mail in record
time. When Alice Trueman was murdered, however, he'd
been on a fortnight's holiday in Cyprus with his girlfriend.
'Dead
cheap at this time of the year,' he'd told Max, 'and
still lots happening.'
His replacement was Will who was coming up to retirement.
On the day Alice was murdered, he'd finished his
round early and had been on his allotment, with witnesses,
when Jonathan Trueman saw the red vehicle.
'Can you think of anyone else who drives a red van or
a red car?' Max asked.
'How long have you got?'
'I'd be grateful for some names,' Max told him, ignoring
his sarcasm.
Hutchinson wrote down half a dozen names and
handed the slip of paper to Max. However, there was
nothing else to be learned and they left soon afterwards.
'That was a waste of time, guv,' Grace complained.
Not entirely, Max thought. At least he'd found someone
who, to him at any rate, had an unhealthy interest in Jill's
work. A fascination even.


Chapter Fifteen

Jill couldn't sleep. She'd put the radio on quietly, hoping
that would take her mind off things, but the inane chat
between the presenter and his female guest was so irritating
that she'd switched it off. She tossed and turned,
thumping her pillow into shape, but it was no use. Her
mind was too full.
She still hadn't visited her parents and the guilt was
really kicking in now. Perhaps next weekend. She owed
them. Given different parents, she could have turned out
like Anne Levington, a sixteen-year-old prostitute.
The River View estate had bred more than enough
wastrels. It brought a whole new meaning to that old joke,
What do you call a scally in a suit? Answer: The accused.
If you came from River View, it was too close to the truth
to be funny.
Without her mum pushing her at school and constantly
reminding her that education was the only path out of
River View, things would have been very different for Jill.
Mum had worked at every job going - cleaning at various
places during the day and pulling pints at night. At the
time, Jill had been closer to her dad. It was to him she'd
gone for fun and laughter. It was he who'd shown her the
thrill of doubling or, more often, losing her pocket money
on racehorses. Dad she had idolized, yet Mum was
responsible for the person she was today. Her education,
her qualifications, her work, her cottage - without her
mum, she'd have none of that.
Sadly for Anne Levington, she hadn't had a mum like
Jill's. She'd had an absent drunk for a father, and a mother
who'd kicked her out. She was sixteen! Just a kid. But
perhaps that was in her favour. Valentine's victims had all
been in their early thirties. Jill thought he was fond of
children. If he'd been abused as a child, or if his siblings
had, either physically or mentally, it was likely he'd have
an affinity with them. Perhaps she was wrong about
that, too.
What exactly drove Valentine? God, how many times
had she asked herself that?
He was strong, they knew that much, and the victims
never had long to fight for their lives. Other than the
marks of strangulation, and the hearts cut from their skin,
there were no bruises or lacerations. He treated their dead
bodies with a degree of respect. It was as if, once he killed
them, they were no longer prostitutes and therefore objects
of hatred to him, but decent human beings again. He was
cleaning up the world single-handed.
Oh, she hoped young Anne was safe. The thought of
Valentine attacking her, a child, made her sick to her
stomach. The photo given to the media had shown Anne in
school uniform. There weren't any more recent photos.
None had been taken in the last two years.
'Her hair's red now,' her mother had said in an emotionless
TV interview. 'Or it were the last time I saw it.'
Jill switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the
clock. It was nearly midnight. She picked up the phone
and hit the button for Max's mobile. It was answered
almost immediately.
'Hiya.'
'Sorry, did I wake you?'
'No, I've only just got in. What has you awake at this
time of night?'
'Anne Levington.' She got straight to the point.
'Ah.'
'What do you know about her?'
She could hear the chink of a bottle hitting a glass, and
then liquid being poured.
'She has three sisters, aged eight, nine and eleven,' Max
told her, 'and they're all at home. I gather it was left to
Anne to look after them all - the mother was pretty much
out of it. However, the father seemed to hold the family
together until he was made redundant, lost his own father
and discovered his wife had had an affair - all in the same
week. He went on a drunken binge and left the lot of them.
He's been living in Ireland, but he's on his way back to
England. The mother's a nasty piece of work, and threw
Anne out. Told her it was time she fended for herself and
stopped relying on handouts. Anne started begging, then
turned to prostitution.'
Jill shuddered. How on earth was a sixteen-year-old
expected to cope on the streets? Apart from anything else,
it was the middle of November and bitterly cold. Her heart
wept for the girl.
'It's not like Valentine to choose such a young victim,'
she pointed out.
"I know,' he agreed, 'but sixteen-year-olds look a lot
older these days. Her eleven-year-old sister could pass
for sixteen.'
Jill heard him take a swallow of what she suspected
was whisky.
'She is young, and that's in her favour,' he went on, 'but
I don't like it.'
Jill didn't either. So long as Valentine was on the loose,
and God, he was proving difficult to find, there would be
more missing girls to worry about, more lives snuffed out.
'What do you know about Tony Hutchinson?' he asked,
and the change of subject took her completely by surprise.
'The headmaster? Not a lot. He's not a person I could
warm to. I gather his wife has the same problem,' she said,
'as I sensed some bitterness and resentment between them.
Mind you, I've only seen them together once, at the party
at the manor, so they might have had a tiff or something
that night.'
"I wasn't too keen, either. He seems interested in you,
though.'
'How do you mean?'
"I don't know,' Max admitted. 'He just seemed to have
an unhealthy interest in you and your work.'
'Oh, that. He's just a general pain in the arse. He started
a psychology course apparently. He's harmless enough.'
'Sure?'
Now she came to think of it, Jill didn't know what to
make of Tony. That evening at The Weaver's Retreat, she'd
felt distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. Could he be
the crank sending her photos and cards? If it was him, it
would be a relief in a way. Better Tony Hutchinson than
Valentine. But why would he do such a thing? Because he
was jealous of psychologists and the glamorous way they
were portrayed in newspapers and TV dramas? Did a
headmaster's lot seem dull by comparison? Did he feel he
was twice as clever and could have caught Valentine
single-handed by now?
'I'm sure he's harmless,' she said slowly, 'but you're
right, he is very interested in my work. He's another Silence of the Lambs fan,' she added with a sigh.
'He's a cocky sod.'
'Yes, he is.'
'So,' Max said slowly, 'what's keeping Anne Levington
on your mind? Are you thinking of taking Meredith up on
his offer?'
She didn't know. All she knew was that there was no
hiding from Valentine. Until he was caught, there would
be no peace for any of them.
"I keep feeling I should help if I can. Meredith's right.
I've got good qualifications and a lot of experience
behind me.'
'Exactly!' Max sounded pleased.
'Hopefully, Anne Levington will turn up safe and
sound,' she said.
'Hopefully,' he agreed. 'But until Valentine's caught,
there will be others who don't.'
On that chilling note, Jill said goodnight.


Chapter Sixteen

Jill had been sitting with her laptop on her knees, typing
up all she could remember of Valentine. Amazingly,
despite trying her damnedest to forget, she knew the case
by heart.
When she answered her door to find Michael Trueman
standing there, she couldn't have been more pleased.
'A visitor! Wonderful. Just the excuse I need. Come in,
Michael.' Again, she was going to do most of the talking and hope that, by doing so, she could coax him to relax
with her.
She switched off her computer, put it back on the desk,
and took him into the kitchen.
'If I've come at a bad time, just say so,' he murmured
shyly.
'You couldn't have chosen a better time. It's lovely to see
you, and to have some company. Some days, I get so
involved in my writing that I don't speak to a soul all day.
I'll be getting cabin fever if I don't watch out.'
He was already stooping to stroke a cat.
'That's Tojo, the one who adopted me,' she explained.
'She doesn't look so sorry for herself these days, the fat
thing. When I got her, she'd already been spayed, but
she often looks as if she's about to give birth to half a
dozen kittens.'
'She's lovely,' he said, and he sounded wistful.
Perhaps no pets had been allowed at the vicarage.
'Sam's upstairs, asleep on my bed,' she went on, 'but
he'll amble down to see you in a minute. And Rabble, the
old one, is eyeing up birds in the garden. She's far too old
and stiff to catch them now, thank heavens, but she still
likes to sit and scowl at them.'
He smiled at that, then stooped to pick up Tojo. The cat,
always delighted to be the centre of attention, sat happily
in his arms, purring loudly. Tojo loved rough and tumble,
and enjoyed nothing more than a boxing match with
Sam, but Michael was infinitely gentle with her and she
responded by giving his fingers a touchingly light lick.
The scene reminded her of the story Tony Hutchinson
had told her, of the way Michael had worried about the
injured bird he'd found.
Michael was a gentle, sensitive person who needed a lot
of love. He needed to feel secure, yet he looked very frail
and vulnerable right now. More than that, he looked ill. He
had a green, washed-out look about him, like someone
who'd spent the last eight hours being seasick.
'Do you have any pets?' she asked.
'No. Mum always wanted a cat, and we had one for a
while, a stray kitten that used to call for food, but my
father doesn't like them.'
An only child with no pets must have a lonely existence.
'What about friends? Do you see any of their pets?'
'Not really.'
He was more interested in Tojo than anything else and,
probably without thinking, wandered into the sitting room
and sat in the armchair. Tojo was more than happy to sit on
his lap.
'Tell me about this girlfriend of yours then,' Jill suggested
lightly, sitting on the floor facing him. 'When do
you manage to see her? Does she work?' She saw his
hesitation. 'Don't worry, my lips are sealed. Not even Olive
Prendergast manages to wheedle gossip out of me.'
His smiles when they came were worth waiting for.
They changed his whole demeanour, making him look like
a young man who would enjoy fun - if only he were given
the chance.
'Her name's Becky' He spoke in little more than a whisper.
'She works in the baker's, on the counter.'
Not a job that would go down well with his father.
'In the village? The shop with all the scrummy cream
cakes in the window?'
'Yes. Green's.'
Jill, always a sucker for freshly baked bread, often
shopped there. Whenever she'd been inside, there had
been two women serving behind the counter. One had to
be in her fifties. Joan, was she? The other was probably
about thirty.
The shop's van was often parked outside. A red van.
Coincidence? It was a red van with 'Green's, Bakers of
Distinction' and a phone number printed on the sides.
'Did you meet her at the shop?' she asked.
'Yes. Well, almost. She has a cigarette break and stands
outside to smoke. We got talking one day' He looked
embarrassed.
'That's nice.' Nice probably wasn't how Jonathan True
man would describe it. 'Does she live in Kelton?'
'No, she lives in Bacup. Her uncle owns the baker's in
Kelton, and she's helping him out while she looks for
another job.'
'Oh? And what does she want to do?'
'She hasn't decided yet.'
Jill pictured the two women in the baker's. Both seemed
highly unlikely candidates for Michael's affections, but he
had to be talking about the younger one.
'She's very attractive, isn't she? Tall, too. And I really
envy her long blonde hair'
He blushed. 'Yes, she is pretty.'
One thing was clear at least, Alice Trueman would have
disapproved of the relationship almost as much as the
Reverend Jonathan Trueman. Almost.
Jill hadn't spoken to Becky, it was always the other
woman who served her, but young Becky looked as if she
ought to be taming Eminem. She'd swallow and spit out
the likes of Michael without even noticing. Of course, she
could be doing the girl a grave injustice. Perhaps she was
just as sensitive and gentle as Michael. Jill doubted it.
'She's, erm, quite a bit older than me,' he admitted.
About twelve years, Jill guessed.
'She's thirty'
Spot on.
'Really? Well, that seems a lot now, but the gap always
appears smaller as you get older. Some friends of mine
have been happily married for more than ten years now
and they share the same age gap. Karen is twelve years
older than Peter.'
'We're only friends,' Michael said and, again, he
sounded wistful.
'Does she get out and about? Do the deliveries? I think
I've seen the van about.'
'No.' His expression was guarded. 'She just serves in
the shop.'
Rabble chose that moment to wander inside and while
Michael leaned out of his chair to make a fuss of her, Jill
wondered if he'd got as far as kissing Becky. She doubted
it. Perhaps that was no bad thing, but he desperately
needed a friend.
Predictably, as Rabble was being fussed, Tojo jumped off
Michael's lap and wandered off to the kitchen.
'She's very fickle,' Jill explained.

Michael was stroking Rabble with a hand that was shaking
violently. Had talk of a red van brought that on?
"I don't know what to do,' he burst out. He looked to Jill
as if she might have all the answers.
No hope of that. She didn't have the questions let alone
the answers.
'You talk,' Jill said urgently. 'If you know anything
about your mother's murder, and I believe you do, you
have to talk.'
'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'So sorry'
'Don't be hard on yourself, Michael. You've lost your
mother and I'm sure you were very close. Everyone
expects you to grieve; everybody knows the pain you're
in. You don't have to wear a brave face all the time,
you know.'
"I don't know what to do,' he said again, his voice thick
with anguish.
She knelt on the floor in front of him.
'Talk, Michael,' she urged him. 'You have to talk - for
your sake and everyone else's. You've enough to deal with
without bottling that up. You can talk to anyone - another
vicar, the police, your GP, your father, me - but you need
to talk.'
He seemed to recoil when she suggested talking to his
father, but perhaps it was the idea of talking to anyone. For
the moment, he was choosing to keep things to himself.
'Can't you talk to Becky?'
He shook his head. 'I'll have to go.' He got to his feet,
rubbed his handkerchief around his eyes, blew his nose on
it, and returned it to his pocket. 'Thank you for - Thanks,
Jill. I'll see you again.'
Damn.
'Make sure you do.' She had to rush to the door to get
there before he was gone. 'And if you need to talk, I'm
here. Day or night,' she called out.
He turned to wave as he walked down her path.


Chapter Seventeen

Jill had given in and accepted Andy's invitation to lunch.
It was a means of escaping Michael's problems, and a
chance to forget about Valentine for a while.
She had arranged to meet Andy at The Ram, midway
between Todmorden and Burnley. Jill had been there
before. It had the relaxed atmosphere of a pub coupled
with the welcome addition of a varied menu and delicious
food.
'Have you had a chance to speak to Bob yet?' Andy
asked when they'd ordered.
"I have and he's coming out tomorrow afternoon to look
the place over and give me a quote.'
'He won't let you down. It'll be a fair price and he'll do
a good job.' He laughed suddenly. 'I'll bet he's glad to be
doing the work, too. Mrs Blackman was forever getting
him to price up the work, and she never got as far as
having it done.'
'She was getting on a bit, though,' Jill pointed out.
"I expect it was too much hassle.'
'Yes, that's one reason she moved down to Devon,
I think. She wanted to be nearer her family - two of her
daughters live down there now. There's the money
involved, too,' he added with an amused shake of his
head. 'She and her late husband bought your cottage for
eighteen hundred pounds and '
Jill laughed at that.
'It's true,' Andy went on. 'She couldn't believe it when
I told her what it was worth. The thought of spending
more than that on getting the roof fixed was too much
for her.'
Jill remembered being told much the same thing when
Daisy and Len had given her and Bob a lift home from
the church.
Jill wanted the work done as soon as possible. Then,
when she didn't have to worry about loose tiles being torn
off in the gales, or old windows falling out, she might be
able to sit back and enjoy life in the village.
Their food was put in front of them.
'This looks delicious. I'm starving.' Jill immediately
began tucking in.
"I have to eat out regularly or I'd starve,' Andy admitted
with amusement. "I expect I could cook if I put my mind
to it, but I can never see the point. It's a lot of fuss when
there's only one to cook for. Do you find that?'
"I certainly do. I hate cooking and exist on stuff out of
packets. If I can't take something out of the freezer and
slam it in the microwave, I'm not interested.' She grinned
at him. 'You need a wife. Why haven't you married?'
'Why haven't you?' he retorted.
"I have.'
The laugh died on his face to be replaced by embarrassment
and shock. "I had no idea. So you're divorced?'
'Widowed.'
"I am so sorry.'
'It was a while ago.' She couldn't deal with sympathy. If
Chris hadn't got himself shot, they would have been
divorced by now. Sympathy seemed out of place given the
circumstances. 'Why haven't you married?'
'I've never met the right woman,' he said at last. 'It's as
simple as that.'
'Ever come close?' she asked.
'Nope.'
'Hey, this is delicious.' It was a long time since she'd had
a traditional roast on a Sunday.
'Isn't it? It almost makes me wish I was still living
with my mother,' he said with a smile. 'She always made
a big thing of Sunday lunch - roast beef with all the
trimmings followed by a mouth-watering apple pie and
thick custard.'
'Couldn't you visit her on Sundays?'
'Not really. Besides, now she lives on her own, she
doesn't bother.'
'Your father?'
'He died.'
'I'm sorry.'
He didn't elaborate and Jill didn't want to pry. This was
supposed to be a relaxing lunch with a friend. She was still
wary of getting too involved yet she did want to settle in
the village and make friends.
'I would like to,' he said, confusing her.
'To what?'
'Meet the right person,' he said softly.
Jill's fork, with a tender piece of beef on it, hovered midway
between her plate and her mouth as she tried to figure
out if she was being chatted up. What would her sister
make of him? Married with kids, and beginning to believe
there was something wrong with Jill, Prue would probably
suggest she snap him up before someone else did.
He was certainly husband material. Good-looking, a
steady job that gave him a decent lifestyle . . . Perhaps, like
her, he was 'too picky' as Prue was always saying.
'Then I'm sure you will,' she said briskly.
'Marriage is a funny business, though,' he went on. 'You
only have to look round Kelton to see that. There's Tony
and Liz for a start. I'm sure they're madly in love but they
spend half their time quarrelling.'
'Do they? What about?'
'I've no idea,' he said, 'but I suspect Liz's drinking
doesn't help.'
'Does she have a real problem?'
'I've heard she has a bottle of vodka most days, and
that's before she goes out in the evening.'
Jill grimaced.

'And, of course, Tony's into this keep fit lark,' Andy
went on.
'It doesn't seem to be doing him much harm,' Jill
replied. 
"I see him running past my cottage most days.
He's in great shape for his age.'
'Yes, he is.'
Jill gained the impression he wasn't too keen on Tony,
either.
'What about Jonathan and Alice Trueman? They had a
good marriage, didn't they?'
"I imagine so, yes. Who knows what goes on behind
closed doors, though?'
'True.'
'Jon said you were there - with the police, I mean when
Michael was being questioned. Are you working
with them again?'
'No. Well, not yet.' But she would be. She had no choice.
"I was visiting friends there/ she explained.
'Will you help them catch the serial killer? They're still
no closer to catching him, are they?'
'Not that I've heard.'
'Will you work on that again?'
'Oh, I don't know.' There was no need to discuss it
with him.
'Liz - Tony's wife - was saying that she was getting too
scared to go out at night. I told her she's safe enough. His
victims have only been prostitutes, haven't they?'
'Are far as I know, yes.'
'That's what I told her. Silly for someone like her to
worry'
He didn't say so, not in so many words, but he seemed
to have the 'only prostitutes so it didn't matter' attitude
and Jill realized, sadly, that he'd just slipped in her estimation.
Anne Levington, the sixteen-year-old who'd had such
a terrible start in life, was more than 'only a prostitute'.
'Every woman should be on her guard,' Jill said, putting
down her knife and fork, her plate empty.
There was no saying that his next victim would be a
prostitute. People assumed that Valentine was mentally
unstable, 'a nutter' as one police officer had described him,
but in his own way, Valentine was clever. The murders
were all planned to the last detail. He wasn't careless or
sloppy. Each murder was carried out with precision. And
a killer, like anyone else in a different profession, developed
and grew. Just as an office clerk would seek promotion,
so a killer would get more and more ambitious.
'Then we'll have to hope they soon catch him.' Andy
smiled at her. 'God, this is gloomy talk for a Sunday. Tell
me about yourself. Where do you come from originally?
I mean, I know you moved from Preston, but you don't
come from that area, do you?'
'Liverpool,' she told him, glad of the change of subject.
'My parents and my sister and her family still live there.'
'Older or younger sister?'
'Younger. And married with kids, as my mum never fails
to point out. What about you?'
'There's only my mother. She lives in Manchester and
I don't see much of her. Dessert?' he asked and, laughing,
she shook her head.
"I couldn't eat another thing. Coffee would be good,
though.'
Over coffee they talked of books, films and music they
enjoyed and Jill was amazed to discover their tastes were
similar.
"I love the old black and white films,' she told him.
"Me, too. What about Casablanca? That's probably my all
time favourite.'
'Mine, too. Oh, I weep every time. I only have to hear

the music'
Andy laughed. "I remember watching it with my mother.
She used to cry long before they got to the end. What
about more modern films?'
Jill thought for a moment. 'Sliding Doors, I just love. And The Fisher King.'
'Ah, The Fisher King brings the odd tear to my eye,
I must confess.'
He went back up in Jill's estimation. He loved The Fisher
King, he must be OK.
'Another coffee?' he asked.
"I can't,' she said, somewhat reluctantly she was surprised
to discover. 'I've got a stack of work that I really
must do.'
'OK. Perhaps we can do this again sometime?'
'I'd like that. Thanks, Andy'
As they walked outside to their cars, Andy's hand rested
in the small of her back. There was something almost possessive
in the gesture, but it wasn't altogether unpleasant.
'I'll call you,' he said.
'OK,' she said, non-committal as she unlocked her car.
She sat there for a few moments, watching as he slid
behind the wheel of a gleaming red Lotus. She'd spent a
pleasant couple of hours with him, she thought he found
her attractive - so why couldn't she be more enthusiastic
about seeing him again?
Pushing the question aside, she fired the engine and
drove off. She thought of the work she needed to do, but
she wasn't in the mood. Ever since moving in, she'd been
promising to unpack all her books and find homes for
them. She'd bought another small bookcase in the week,
one that just fitted on the landing, so perhaps she'd fill that
up instead.
When she pulled up at the cottage, she was in time to
see Kate hurrying down her path to her car.
'Kate!' Jill jumped out of her car and ran to hug her.
'What a lovely surprise. Why didn't you call me?'
"I should have,' Kate said, laughing. "I wasn't sure if
your doorbell worked so I've been hammering on your
door. I have the bruises to prove it.'
'Yes, the doorbell works. I've been out to lunch with a
friend.' Jill dashed back to lock her car.
'Male or female?' Kate asked.
'Male,' Jill told her, 'but he's only a friend.'
'Things must be looking up then,' Kate said, but she
couldn't quite hide the quick flash of disappointment.
Jill knew that Kate still hoped she and Max would get
back together, no matter how many times Jill told her it
wouldn't happen.
"I overdid the baking - again,' Kate explained, changing
the subject, 'so I thought I'd have a ride out here and see
if your freezer had any space. It was a bit impulsive and
I didn't stop to think about your being out. I should have
phoned.'
'It doesn't matter. Come in.'
Jill unlocked the front door, pushed it open and froze at
the sight of the small white envelope lying on the mat.


Chapter Eighteen

'That'll be the milkman's bill,' Jill said quickly, picking
up the envelope and putting it on the table. No point
worrying Kate by telling her that some maniac was stalking
her.
'You have a milkman? How civilized. Now then, let me
bring these things inside. There are a couple of cherry pies,
and a fruit cake for the freezer and a sponge.'
'You're a gem,' Jill told her, managing a smile.
They chatted about Jill's cottage, the weather and a
dozen other things as they unloaded Kate's car and filled
up Jill's freezer.
'So how are the boys?' Jill asked at last. She missed them
so much.
'Badgering Max to let them have a dog,' Kate replied
with amusement. 'They're making his life hell. Serves him
right.' She sighed. 'He's working too many hours, as usual,
so they don't see nearly enough of him.'

'It's difficult,' Jill agreed.
"I think I'll have to get on their side,' Kate said with a
wry smile. 'I'm not keen on dogs - too much hair and dirt
about.' She sighed as Rabble jumped into the cardboard
box that had been emptied of pies. 'I'm not keen on cats
either,' she said with a laugh, 'but I think a dog might do
Ben good. He's not as outgoing as Harry. He still misses
his mum. He misses you, too, Jill.'
Not as much as she missed him, Jill suspected. He was
one of those kids who was permanently sticky. You could
scrub his hands twenty times a day, but he'd still be sticky.
How she'd loved his sticky hugs, though.
'You'll end up taking the dog for walks,' she pointed
out, preferring not to comment on Ben's problems.
"I know.' Kate was resigned to that. 'But yes, the boys are
fine. Harry's fed up with school, although he's happy
enough on the sports field so no change there. He's in the
school football team, which is good going for a thirteenyear-old.
Mind you, I expect that'll involve me freezing to
death on the sidelines.'
Jill had to laugh. Despite Kate's comments, she knew
just how much she loved the two boys. If Max didn't
know what he would have done without Kate, Jill shuddered
to think how Kate would cope without Harry and
Ben. Divorced, and with her only daughter dead, and her
only son living in America, life for Kate revolved around
the boys.
She sat down at Jill's table. 'So tell me all about this male
friend of yours.'
'There's nothing to tell,' Jill replied with amusement.
'He's the estate agent who sold me this place. Nice
enough. He's good-looking, very good-looking in fact,
charming and thoughtful. But he doesn't set my heart
beating any quicker.'
"I wonder why,' Kate mused, voice heavy with sarcasm.
'No idea,' Jill said airily. It had nothing to do with Kate's
son-in-law.
'Max said he'd seen you,' Kate went on, 'and he thought
you might be back at work soon.'
Now it was Jill's turn to sigh. 'It looks that way. I can't
seem to say no.'
'Call me a bluff old cynic, but that could be because you
love the work so much. It wasn't your fault that chap
hanged himself, Jill.'
"I know that.'
She did; it was absurd to think anything else. A profile
could be spot on, yet the police still needed at least a shred
of evidence before arresting a suspect. There had been
plenty of evidence too. What Rodney Hill did was not her
fault . . .
'Call in sometime,' Kate said as she was leaving. 'The
boys haven't seen you for ages. It wouldn't hurt just to call
and say hello, would it?'
'It wouldn't, no. Yes, I will. Maybe next weekend.'
Except next weekend, she really would have to visit her
parents.
'I'll expect you on Saturday morning. Max is sure to
be working so you can help me entertain those boys of
his . . .'

As soon as Kate's car was out of sight, Jill walked over to
the table and looked at the white envelope.
How many times had she seen her father go through this
pointless exercise? He would stare at a letter, turn it over,
inspect the postmark and hold it up to the light while wondering
aloud who could have sent it. Jill, her mother or her
sister would cry, 'Just open the damn thing!' Inside would
be a bank statement or an offer of cheap insurance.
Somehow, Jill doubted if her own envelope was as
innocent.
'Shit!' She jumped a foot when her phone rang out.
'Hello?' Nerves made her sound wary.
'Jill, it's me, Ella Gardner. We met at Gordon and Mary's
party'
'Yes, of course. Hello, Ella. How are you?'
'Feeling fat. I'm just about to go and walk off my lunch.
But that's not why I'm calling. The history group has
invited a lecturer from Liverpool University to speak to us
next Wednesday evening and I wondered if you'd like to
come along.'
'Wednesday evening? Is it in the hall?'
'That's it. It should be interesting. He's bringing old
photos showing an early Kelton Bridge and surrounding
area.' She laughed softly. 'Interesting or not, it's my job to
try and drum up business. Usually, there are only six at
most at our meetings and that's embarrassing if we manage
to get a speaker. Do try and come if you can.'
"I will. Thanks, Ella.'
'So how are things with you?' she asked.
'Fine, thanks. I've had a big lunch myself, and ought to
be walking that off, but I need to get on with some work.
Shame really.'
'I'm surprised Tony Hutchinson hasn't persuaded you to
go out running with him,' Ella said, chuckling. 'He's developed
a bit of a thing for you, my dear.'
"Me? What on earth do you mean?'
'Since meeting you, he's changed his running route. He
always used to run up towards the moor, but now he runs
along the lane, past your cottage, and out towards the
Rochdale road. I can't see any reason for that other than
seeing you, can you?'
She laughed at Jill's surprised silence.
'Don't worry. Our Tony's a terrible ladies' man, and
I don't know how Liz puts up with him, but he's harmless
enough.'
'Perhaps he'd like to deliver my paper on his way past,'
Jill said lightly.
While Ella chatted about the unreliability of the paper
boys and girls, Jill's heart raced. Was Tony responsible for
sending those silly photos and cards? She glanced over at
the envelope still sitting on the table. If he ran past when
she was out, it would be easy enough to put an envelope
through the letterbox without being seen. Neither her short
driveway nor her front door was overlooked.
Perhaps she'd have to drive her car into the village,
leave it there, walk back via the fields, get in the house
through the back door and lie in wait for him. Then, when
he put an envelope through the door, she could confront
him . . .
'Anyway, must dash, Jill. Hope to see you on Wednesday
night. Seven o'clock.'
'Yes, OK, Ella. Thanks for that. Bye.'

Jill put down the phone and picked up the envelope. If
it was a note from the milkman, and she was sure it
wasn't, it wouldn't matter about fingerprints. If it was
from the crank taking great delight in hounding her, then
the envelope would be clean.
Heart racing, she opened the envelope - and nearly
dropped it when she saw the contents.
For a moment, she thought she would vomit, and she
had to pace around her sitting room, taking deep, calming
breaths. She still wanted to scream.
Anger had her hands shaking as she picked up the
phone again.
She hit the button for Max's mobile and was relieved
when he answered it immediately.
'I've had another envelope pushed through the letterbox,'
she said breathlessly, 'and this one - oh, God, Max!'
'What? Calm down, love. What is it?'
'There's a lock of hair inside.' Sharp, angry tears stung
her eyes and she had to blink them back. 'A lock of red
hair!'


Chapter Nineteen

It was a weird sensation, switching on the television and seeing
that prostitute's face staring back at him. He only caught the end
of the report, '. . . and said that hopes of finding the girl alive are
fading.' She looked different on the screen, mainly because she
was wearing a school uniform and her hair was a mousy brown
colour. For all that, she was easily recognizable.
The newsreader went on to speak about the appalling weather,
and the floods that had hit the north-west. He switched off, not
interested.
That was it then. The lock of hair must have convinced them
she was dead. He'd checked it carefully; there was no follicle,
nothing from which they could obtain a DNA sample.
They hadn't found the body, though. Sometimes, he thought he
ought to put up signposts and give them a helping hand. God,
they were stupid.
He wished he could have watched Jill Kennedy open that
envelope to find the lock of hair.
Was she wondering what Valentine had in store for her? Oh,
he hoped so.
He still wasn't sure what to do with her. It was so very
tempting to kill her now, and send that Detective Chief Inspector
Trentham a lock of her hair, but then half the fun would be over.
Eventually he'd kill her, of course, but meanwhile he was enjoying
playing with her. With the police so slow and dim, it helped
to pass the time.
He would visit her cottage this evening.
She was dim, too. Despite the fact that her cottage was being
watched - that is, a patrol car drove past slowly two or three
times a night - he delivered his little surprises to her in broad
daylight and she was none the wiser.
Valentine was too clever for her, for all of them. He was a
perfectionist.

Chapter Twenty

'Well?'
Jill looked up from the computer's screen, rubbed her
tired eyes to bring Don Cornwall into focus, and stretched
her neck and shoulder muscles. It was late and she was
tired. She'd spent over nine hours in front of this computer
in the windowless office, and she was ready to go home.
'Well what?' She wasn't Cornwall's number one fan. He
was ambitious, insensitive, abrupt and would sell his soul
for an arrest. Or perhaps he simply wasn't Max. He wasn't
on her wavelength.
'What are you doing?'
'Starting over,' she said. 'I'm going back to the beginning
and plotting Valentine's crimes in chronological order on
the map - again. I'm seeing where the girls went missing
and where their bodies were found.' He came to look over
her shoulder at the various coloured dots on the screen.
'He gets about a bit, though,' she said thoughtfully. 'The
murders all take place at night. Either he works during the
day or there are more prostitutes on the streets at night.
Not much help,' she admitted, seeing his scornful expression.
'The thing is, though, a criminal will commit crimes
in an area in which he feels safe. He's used to the towns in
Lancashire - could be a salesman who covers Lancashire,
a delivery man, something like that. Yet the bodies are
always found in remote places. So he drives them away to
the open countryside. And that's another thing. There are
no signs of a struggle so they go willingly. And they're in
his car for one hell of a long time.'
'So he pays them well?'
'It's more than that,' Jill replied. 'He'll be well spoken,
smartly dressed and driving a decent car.'
'Like Brad Pitt in that film?'
Jill had no idea what he was talking about.
'Millionaire, hooker, Ferrari,' Cornwall said impatiently.
Perhaps their star signs were incompatible. Whatever,
she wasn't happy working with him. As usual, his dark
suit was immaculate and, today, was teamed with a crisp
white shirt and dark blue and grey silk tie. His aftershave
was over the top, though. He was younger than Max,
probably eight or ten years younger.
'It was Richard Gere, not Brad Pitt. Richard Gere and
Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. And yes, it's a bit like that
in that the girl will believe he's a cut above her usual
customer. He won't drive a Ferrari or anything showy,
though. That would draw too much attention. He'll drive
a high end of the market saloon - a model that's smart yet
popular. A year, two years old at most.'
She thought for a moment. 'So he's well spoken, high IQ,
smartly dressed, good car. He offers them a good sum of
money for a full night.'
'That's easy enough. They can even hold the cash while
he drives.'
'Exactly. Hold the cash and dream of other nights maybe
days and weeks with him.'
'What's with the open countryside?' he asked. 'Why
drive them miles away?'
'He needs to feel safe. The fact that he's killing them
away from the towns makes me think he's used to open
spaces and feels happier in them. You're looking for someone
who lives, or at least was brought up in the country. A
farmer perhaps. A farmer's son.' She rubbed her eyes
again. 'God knows,' she said on a long sigh. 'I'm going
round in circles again.'
'He's a clever bastard,' Cornwall muttered.
'He is. The fact that he's leaving no trace makes me think
he's clued up on forensic procedures. Another thing, he
chooses his victims in busy towns yet nothing has ever
been caught on CCTV. He thinks of everything. So, forensic procedures '
'We could be looking for someone who works on the
force,' Cornwall said wryly, 'if we could find anyone who
knows what a night off is.'
'Or someone who's been arrested before, perhaps served
time. Not murder - and I don't think it would be a sexual
crime - but I think he could have a police record, and
I think it might have something to do with prostitutes.
Perhaps he roughed one up. I don't know, but he's certainly
ridding the world of them now. Perhaps he fell in
love with one and couldn't get her to give up her work.
Perhaps his mother, sister, wife was one. No, not his wife.
He's not married. He's not in a long-term, stable relationship.
I'd stake money on his mother being a prostitute and
his being starved of love as a child. It's not the men
visiting them he hates, it's the women themselves. The
men are nothing to him. Yet, although he resents prostitutes,
he spends time cutting hearts from their skin.'
'A real romantic,' Cornwall muttered, eyebrows raised.
'It must take a lot of time and care, though. He cares
for women. He probably has a great deal of respect for
them when they're dead. To him, they'll be clean and
pure again.'
She stared at the screen. 'A map is all very well, but I'm
working on the geographical and our killer will be working
from his mental map.'
'Uh?'
'The two are very different,' she explained. 'If I were
asked to draw a map of Preston, say, and you were asked
to, our maps would be very different. Because I've lived in
Preston, the centre of my map would be more or less
where I'd lived. You've worked there so yours would have
a place of work as its centre. A city like London, which is
clearly divided by the Thames, is a better example. Some
people in London live north of the Thames and haven't
been south. Their map would show just a tiny part of
London as being south of the Thames. We draw our own
mental maps.'
He didn't comment on that. 'Meredith told me you were
good,' he said instead.
"I am!'
'You'll need to be if you aim to get one over on Valentine.
The man's a genius.'
'The man's a killer,' Jill corrected him.
He's also sending me presents, she added silently, but
Cornwall hadn't seemed unduly bothered by that.
'That lock of hair -' she began.
'What about it? There's nothing to say Valentine sent it.'
'No, but '
'More likely to be someone reminding you that you
cocked up - that the whole force cocked up.'
'Maybe, but '
'We're looking into it,' he promised, dismissing it. 'We're
also searching open fields within a five-mile radius of
Burnley. That's an awful lot of fields. If there is a body out
there, and it looks likely there is, we'll find it.'

Jill knew it was an impossibly large area to search,
especially when they could be way off the mark. Valentine
might have taken his victim six miles away.
'That's another thing,' she said. 'When he takes his
victim to the place of death, he'll take them in the direction
of his base - where he lives. So that's what I'm working
on, the place of death.' She looked at him. 'It's definite
the victims haven't been killed and then moved to these
places, isn't it?'
'Yup.' With that, he walked out of the office leaving her
to it.
'Ignorant so and so,' Jill muttered.
Another hour, and then she'd go home.
Max had done his best to get her to leave her cottage,
but she refused to do that. All the same, she felt uneasy
when she was inside and hated opening the door when she
got home. She'd had extra locks installed on the doors and
windows, a couple of officers were keeping an eye on the
place, and getting access to Fort Knox would be easier, but
she still felt on edge.
Right, back to work.
Looking for the clues a criminal left was so much easier
when going through crimes that had already been solved.
That was fascinating work, deducing clues from known
facts. Now, she felt as if she were working completely in
the dark, like a watchmaker trying to mend a watch up a
chimney.

Chapter Twenty-One



His church was cold, but Jonathan didn't mind. It wasn't
as cold as the look in his son's eyes as he'd left the vicarage
earlier. Jonathan had no idea where Michael had gone. 'For
a walk,' was all he'd said.
Jonathan loved everything about his church, including
the temperature that had always made Alice shiver, and
the smell of the place, a mixture of musty prayer books,
polish and wax that had made her wrinkle her nose and
pull a face.
The lights were on, yet he'd felt compelled to light a few
candles.
Built in 1644, St Lawrence's wasn't a particularly old
church, and Jonathan could still recall his first sight of
the building and the disappointment he'd felt then. That,
however, was perhaps mainly due to the fact that he'd
hoped for a larger parish. Eleven years had passed since
then, and now this felt like home. He wouldn't want
another parish.
The main body of the church was built of red brick, with
darker, almost black bricks laid to make crosses. The west
tower, stone-faced and topped by small but impressive
battlements, had been added in 1720. On the south face
was the large clock that told the people of Kelton Bridge
the time of day.
The inside, in Jonathan's view, was far more impressive.
Over the years, Jonathan had seen many visitors to the
church stand in awe beneath the stained-glass window
near the font that celebrated the baptism of Jesus. The
nave, with its single aisle leading to the chancel, was broad
and majestic, and the pulpit was one of the largest Jonathan
had seen. Standing in that pulpit, gazing down on his
flock, it was possible to believe he was God and not merely
passing on the Word.
This evening, however, he paid scant attention to his
surroundings. He sat in the front pew for a while, then
knelt. His eyes were open, his hands clasped tightly
beneath his chin.
'Father, forgive me,' he whispered.
He stared at the window high above him, where Jesus,
carrying his weighty cross, stared straight back at him. His
eyes were a deep blue and as pure as the open sky.
Jonathan shivered.
The Lord had given his only son to save the world;
Jonathan had almost given his only son to save his own
skin . . .
'What else could I do?' he whispered.
The silence was awesome and it would have been possible
to hear the scurrying of the proverbial church mouse.
'Alice, you understand, don't you?'
He wanted - needed - some sign of forgiveness. If only
Alice was here to pat him on the shoulder and say, 'It'll be
all right, Jon. Your God will understand.'
Always his God. Never hers.
He had never heard her say so, but he knew her faith
had not been strong. Only last year, before the Christmas
service, she'd said, 'They'll be there in their droves - the
one service of the year that people attend.'
'Once a year is better than nothing,' he'd said feebly.
'Is it, Jon? Or are those who don't come, those who are
too busy doing things for others less fortunate, the better
people?'
Of course they were.
What would she say if she could see him now? What
would she have said if she could have seen Michael being
interrogated by the police? Would she have found it in her
heart to forgive him?
Somehow, Jonathan doubted it.
She had loved that boy with every breath in her body, as Jonathan did, and she would have given her life willingly
to spare him an hour's sadness.
Jonathan hadn't been able to meet his son's gaze since.
Every time he looked at the boy, he saw accusation in his
eyes. It was justified. How could he have left Michael
alone to face all those questions?
What would his parishioners say if they knew he'd let
his own son be suspected of murdering his mother, when
all he'd had to do was tell the truth? He was supposed to
take care of his flock, to guide them, to lead by example,
and he had let them down.
'Oh, Lord, I am so unworthy'
He had come here this evening to be quiet with God.
Instead, his mind was filled with Alice. He had loved her
more than anything, more than God even, from the
moment he first saw her, and he would still love her
more than anything when he drew his final breath. It was
her forgiveness he needed. It was her voice he needed
to hear.
But Alice was gone and, somehow, Jonathan had to
make a life for himself without her. He had to. For his own
sake, and for Michael's, he had to carry on without Alice
by his side.
He must talk to Michael, too. They would discuss the
subject of Michael's future and Jonathan vowed to make
that future bright. It was what Alice would have wanted.
If Michael didn't want to go to university, and Jonathan
strongly suspected he didn't, and that he was only contemplating
it to make his father proud, then together they
would think of alternatives. What did it matter whether he
went to university or not?
The silence was broken. Someone had slammed the
outer porch door. Or perhaps the wind had increased.
Jonathan got to his feet. He turned to face the door,
expecting to see Olive Prendergast or perhaps Mary Lee
Smith with fresh flowers for the church, but no one came.
It must have been the wind.
That's what he would do next, he decided suddenly.
While the people of the parish were united in their grief,
he would start a fundraising campaign so the roof could
be repaired. He would do it for Alice. Mary Lee-Smith
had plenty of contacts and she loved fundraising. He
would enlist her help. For his own part, he would work
tirelessly.
There was another noise, one he couldn't identify.
'Who's there?' he called out.
There was no answer. It must have been the wind.
He walked towards the sound of the noise, and swung
back the large oak door that opened on to the porch.
'You? What are you doing here?'


Chapter Twenty-Two

Pennine View was unlit and it was reassuring to drive
along it with Max's headlights behind her.
As soon as Jill pulled on to her drive, the front security
light came on and that, too, offered reassurance. There
were shadows created by a couple of bushes, but it was as
well lit as it could be. Max had to park on the lane, and she
waited for him to catch her up before getting out of her car
and locking it.
'You OK?' he asked.
'Fine,' she replied automatically, but she was glad he
was there.
She unlocked her front door, pushed it open and
groaned at the amount of mail lying on the mat. They
stepped over it, and Jill closed the door before picking it
up and flicking through it. It was mostly junk mail.
'Nothing of interest,' she told him.
'Good. A coffee would be welcome,' he said hopefully,
already striding off.
He checked downstairs first, then went upstairs. She
heard him in the bathroom, then opening and closing
wardrobe doors. She even heard him check the attic.
'Just you and three cats,' he said, coming back to the
kitchen.
She hadn't expected him to find anything else. To say
she was relaxed would be a lie, though.
It was difficult now to assume that some crank was
playing games with her. Valentine must have delivered
that lock of hair. Jill had thought they could get it tested,
and was surprised to learn that there was no DNA on cut
hair. 'You need a follicle,' she'd been told. Nevertheless,
she was convinced it was a lock of Anne Levington's hair.
She was also convinced Valentine had sent it.
The kettle had boiled and she spooned two generous
helpings of coffee into each mug. Instant would have to
do. Let's face it, after the sludge that came out of the
machine at the station, anything would taste good.
Neither took milk or sugar so, after giving it a quick stir,
she handed him a mug. He must have noticed the way her
hands shook.
"I wish you'd get out of here, Jill. If you don't want to
stay at my place, stay with Kate. Or stay in a hotel.'
'We've been through this before, Max, and my answer's
still the same. I refuse to be driven out of my own home by
this creep. I have the cats to think about and '

'Sod the bloody cats!' Max exploded.
'Even if it is Valentine,' she said, 'and even if he did
get to me, which is highly unlikely, I don't think he'd
harm me.'
"I expect other girls have had that same thought. A pity
they ended up in the morgue.' He took a deep calming
breath. 'Unless you've got a new sideline I know nothing
about, you're not his usual type,' he admitted.
'Exactly.'
'So how are you getting on with Cornwall?' he asked.
'Badly' But perhaps that was her fault, not his. 'He's too
ambitious for my liking, and he doesn't listen. I'm sure he
thinks I'm a waste of space.' She gave him a wry smile.
'Other than that, we're getting along just dandy.'
There was a knock on her door and even that had her
heartbeat going at an alarming rate. She had to calm
down.
Michael Trueman was standing on her doorstep, his
usual shy expression on his face.
'Hey, what a lovely surprise.' She grabbed his arm and
dragged him into the kitchen. 'This is Max. I expect you
remember him.'
'Yes.' Michael shook hands with Max. 'Good to see you
again, sir.'
Max would be the last person he wanted to see, but that
was typical of Michael. He was polite to a fault, and it was
never forced. He respected good manners.
'Sorry, I didn't realize you had company, Jill,' he said.
'I'll come back another time.'
'Nonsense,' she said briskly. 'Max is just leaving.'
Jill gave Max a pointed look and was relieved to see him
drink his coffee. If Michael had things on his mind, he was
far more likely to offload them to Jill if she could keep his
trust. He'd clam up with Max around.
'Yes, I'm off,' Max said. 'Be seeing you, Jill. Night,
Michael.'
Jill closed and locked the door behind him, then
returned to the kitchen where Michael was stroking
Rabble.
'Fancy a drink?' she asked. "I don't know about you, but
I'm going to have a Scotch. Fancy one with me?'
'Whisky? I've never tried it,' he admitted.
'Then try it. Have a Scotch and ginger ale with me.
I think you'll like it.'
She poured small measures into two glasses and added
ginger ale.
'I'm also starving,' she told him, as she handed him a
glass. 'Will you eat with me?'
'Oh, no, really. I don't want to put you to any trouble.
I only called in to say hello.'
Left to his own devices, that's all he would say.
'How about an omelette?' She checked the fridge. 'I've
got plenty of eggs, but it'll have to be cheese or mushroom.
Fancy either of those?'
'Cheese?' he asked.
'OK. You grate the cheese, and I'll whip up the eggs.'
They moved around the kitchen companionably and
then sat at the table to eat. Michael looked less edgy as
time went on and it was good to see him relax a little. Or
perhaps that was the whisky. He'd almost emptied his
glass before the omelettes were even cooked. She hoped
she didn't get him into trouble with his father. Would
Jonathan Trueman approve of her plying his son with
alcohol? She doubted it.
When they'd cleared away the plates, Jill walked into the
sitting room, giving Michael little option but to follow.
'So how are things?' she asked, sitting on the floor next
to the fireplace. 'How's your dad?'
'OK.' He sat down, and Jill could sense the inner debate
he was having. There was something he wanted to say, she
was sure of it.
'Do you want to talk?' she asked. 'I've told you before,
I'm a good listener.'
"I don't know what do.' That was becoming Michael's
stock phrase.
He was immature, and more vulnerable than other lads
of his age. No way could he cope without someone to talk
to. What in hell's name did the streetwise Becky make of
him? Perhaps his vulnerability was part of his appeal.
'What about your girlfriend? Surely you've talked things
over with Becky?'
'No. She's not - I mean - well, I expect I read too much
into that. I haven't seen much of her lately'
Which probably put Becky in the clear.
'Try telling me and I'll see if I can help. You know what
they say, two heads are better than one.'
He was silent for what, to Jill, seemed an age, but she
was reluctant to disturb him.
'When Mum was killed . . .'he said at last.
Again, this long silence. Jill wasn't that patient. 'Yes?' she
prompted.
'It didn't happen like that - like my father said it did.'
He referred to 'Mum', yet it was always the more formal
'my father'.
'Oh?'
"I got home just after two o'clock that day because the
school closed. They'd had trouble for days with the fire
alarms and sprinklers. That day, the classrooms and everyone
in them were getting soaked so they sent us home.
I had a lift with Jack's mother. Jack's in the same class as
me.' He took a quick swallow of his drink. 'My father
was already there and Mum was already dead. It was my
father who was standing over her with the knife in his
hand. Not me.'
Jill's mind raced with questions, but she kept her voice
calm. 'What did your father say?'
'His first words were "You're early."' Michael shook his
head, as if, even now, he couldn't believe that. 'Erm, then
he said he had to ring the police and the ambulance. He
threw the knife down - it landed on Mum - and then he
called 999.'
'What did you do while he did that?' Jill asked.
"I knelt down by Mum to see if I could find a pulse.
I thought she must still be alive.'
There had been two sets of fingerprints on the knife,
Michael's and his father's.
'There was a lot of blood,' he said, eyes closing as he
relived the memory. "I was covered in it. Then people
started arriving, and the police wouldn't let us move her.
I was still holding her. I didn't want to let her go. My
father was trying to resuscitate her and the ambulance
men had to drag him away from her. People were talking
to my father and he said he'd arrived home and found her
- and me - like that.'
He opened his eyes; they were filled with panic.
'Why?' Jill asked calmly. 'Why do you think he said
that?'
Samuel wandered in and, despite not being a lap cat,
promptly jumped on to Michael's lap for some fuss.
"I was too shocked to ask him at the time.' Michael
absently stroked the cat. 'Afterwards, when the police let
me go, he acted as if that was what happened. He gets
angry, furiously angry if I talk about it, so I don't mention
it now. It's as if he believes it really happened that way'
His eyes suddenly filled with moisture. 'She didn't have
any clothes on.' A huge sob shook his body.
"I know,' Jill said quietly.
All was silent except for the kitchen clock ticking loudly.
Jill had never noticed it before.
"I don't know what to do,' Michael said yet again. 'At
first I said nothing, and that was wrong. Then, when
I thought it would be easier if I told them it had happened
just like that and that I'd killed Mum, it was even worse.
They keep asking questions, day in, day out, and I can't
say anything right.'
'Michael, do you think your father killed your mother?'
He was a long time answering. "I don't know.'
'OK,' she said briskly, 'you have to tell the truth.'
'Who would believe me?' he demanded.
"I do.'
'Yes, but you're different.'
'Michael, the police knew you hadn't killed her.' Some of
them had known it. 'They can gather all sorts of information
from the scene of the crime and your story didn't fit.
The only story that will fit is the correct one. You have to
talk to the police and tell them exactly what happened.'
He shook his head and Jill couldn't blame him. The
police had hounded him, and he'd had enough.
'Detective Chief Inspector Trentham didn't believe you
killed her,' Jill said gently. 'Right from the start - well,
almost the start, he didn't believe it. He's a good man,
Michael. You can trust him. You must talk to him.'
He hesitated.
'I'll give him a call,' Jill said. "I can ask him to come here
and you can talk to him here. You'll need to make a formal
statement, but it will be fine.'
"I can't. My father will -' He broke off, not knowing
what his father would do. 'It's my word against his. Who's
going to believe me? He's a bloody vicar, for God's sake.
Thou shalt not lie and all that.'
If the situation hadn't been so serious, Jill would have
smiled at that. It was the first time she'd heard him swear,
and the context amused her.
'Why did he lie, Jill? Why did he tell them I did it?'
The poor, poor boy.
"I don't know,' she replied, 'but it's not your word
against his. It's the truth and the evidence against his.'
As far as Jill could see, Jonathan Trueman had lied to
protect the killer. And that killer was himself. She could be
wrong, but she'd bet her cottage that Jonathan had killed
his wife.
"I can't tell the police,' Michael said flatly.
'You have to.' Jill reached for her mobile. 'I'm going
to phone Chief Inspector Trentham and ask him to come
over.
Michael slumped back in the chair, resigned. And scared.
It was forty minutes later when Max arrived.
'It will be better coming from you, Michael,' she
said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 'He won't
bite. Truly'
Michael looked doubtful but, very slowly and hesitantly,
he told Max exactly what he'd told Jill. And to give Max
credit, he managed to listen without interrupting and
without losing his calm.
'Michael's worried that no one will believe his story,'
Jill said.
"I believe you,' Max told him.
'Thank you, sir,' Michael said quietly.
'Right.' Max was on his feet. 'I'm going to visit your
father, Michael. I want you to stay here. OK?'
Michael looked at Jill. 'Is that all right?'
'Of course it is.'
When Max had gone, they could settle to nothing.
Jill had another drink, and Michael made himself a cup
of tea.
'Max will phone as soon as he's spoken to your father,'
she told him.
At least, she hoped he would. It would be typical of
Max to haul the man off for questioning and forget all
about them.
Jill made up the spare bed, and they sat watching television
for a while. She had just decided they might as well
go to bed when Max phoned.
'Has Michael been out of your sight this evening?'
he asked.
'No, of course not. Why? What's his father said?'
'Nothing,' Max said grimly. 'Jonathan Trueman is dead.'

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Pennines looked dark and menacing as Jill drove to
the post office. She normally walked, but the sky was
heavy with rain. She'd lived in the shadow of the Pennines
long enough to know that when the rain came, it tended to
be heavy and horizontal, making umbrellas more of a
hindrance than a help.
There was a queue at the counter and she was tempted
to call back later. She only needed postage stamps, and she
guessed Olive would be gossiping. Given the shocked
state of the village, there was plenty to keep her tongue
busy.
The post office, like most of those to survive the village
cutbacks, sold everything from groceries and cigarettes to
a motley collection of fading birthday cards.
Jill was on the point of leaving when Ella walked in.
'Jill, I was going to phone you,' she said. 'Tonight's
meeting has been cancelled.' She pulled a face and
dropped her voice to a whisper. 'In view of what's happened,
it seemed the only thing to do.'
Jill had forgotten all about the meeting.
'No doubt Olive will supply all the gory murder details,'
Ella went on, her voice so low that Jill struggled to catch
the words. "I would have given her and her tongue a wide
berth, but I need to get this parcel off today. It's for my
niece in the States and it'll struggle to get there for her
birthday as it is.'
"I was about to walk out, too,' Jill said, her voice low,
'but now I'm here, I may as well wait for my stamps.'
'How's young Michael?' Ella asked. 'Have you heard?'
'His aunt's at the vicarage with him.' Jill liked Ella, and
instinctively recognized her as someone to be trusted. Her
quiet acceptance of things was enviable, and her genuine
concern for Michael was touching. People often forgot
Michael in all this.
'That's a good thing. That will be Alice's sister, Eve. I've
met her a couple of times. She's a lovely lady.'
'That's her.'
It was still difficult to believe what had happened. Max
had told her that the vicarage had been deserted so he'd
wandered across to the church to see if Jonathan Trueman
was there. Max had found his body in the porch. Someone
had shot him five times.
It was Jill's turn at the counter.
'A dozen first class stamps, please, Olive.'
"I was just saying,' Olive remarked, her voice a dramatic
whisper for all to hear, 'that I'd always thought Jonathan
Trueman a strange one. Someone else must have thought
the same thing.'
'People don't get killed for being strange, Olive,' Jill
pointed out.
'Who knows? I'll tell you this, though, Jim Brody is
another strange one.' Her fingers hovered above the postage
stamps. "I wouldn't have bothered giving him the time
of day if I'd known I'd get my head bitten off for my
trouble.'
Jill suspected Jim Brody had been fully justified.
"I expect he's miffed because he's lost his job,' Olive
went on, 'unless the next vicar wants his garden doing the
same, but there's no need for him to take it out on me.'
'Indeed. Sorry, Olive, but I'm in a bit of a hurry.'
Olive sucked in her breath at what she interpreted as a
snub, gave Jill her postage stamps and took the ten-pound
note Jill gave her.
Her change was slapped down in the metal tray. Jill
grabbed at it.
'Thanks, Olive. Bye.'
Olive didn't respond, which caused Ella to chuckle.
'I'm in a hurry, too,' Jill heard her tell Olive as she left
the post office . . .
It wasn't raining yet, so Jill popped into the baker's next
door. She needed some bread, and she wanted to see if
Michael's girlfriend was about. However, there was no
sign of the girl. Molly, the Truemans' cleaner, was there,
being served by Joan. It was clear that Molly had been
crying, poor woman.
"I can't stop thinking about it,' she was saying as Joan
put a couple of custard tarts in a paper bag.
'That's what happens when strangers come to a village,'
Joan said. 'All these holiday homes - you can't get to know
people so you can't trust them.'
Molly turned, saw Jill, and asked, 'What harm did they
do anyone, eh? First poor Alice and now . . . What's the
world coming to, that's what I wonder?'
Before Jill or Joan could respond, Jim Brody walked
into the shop and everyone fell silent. Confidences were
being shared among women and Jim Brody had broken
the circle.
'Hello, Jim.' Molly was first to speak. 'This is a rum do
and no mistake.'
'It is, Molly'
'Of course, you were never that keen on him, were you?
You were friendly with Alice, not Jonathan.'
Jim Brody shrugged. "I never rated church, so rarely had
cause to see the man. There are enough problems in the
world without adding religion to 'em. And he left the
garden to Alice.'
'You saw him the other night,' Molly reminded him.
"I heard the two of you arguing.'
'Dear God,' Jim snapped. 'You can't breathe in this damn
place without everyone needing to know about it. D'you
know what I had for my breakfast an' all, Molly? If
you don't, Olive Prendergast is sure to be able to tell you!'
With that, Jim turned on his heel and slammed out of
the shop.
'What did I say?' Molly asked in astonishment.
'In light of what's happened, I expect he's regretting his
disagreement with Jonathan,' Jill suggested. 'In the heat of
the moment, we all say things we regret.'

"I didn't think of that.' Molly looked suitably contrite for
a moment. 'He's a funny one, Jim, but he soon forgets. The
next time I see him, he'll be as nice as pie, as if nothing
happened.' Cheered by this knowledge, Molly turned back
to Joan. 'And a small cottage loaf if you've got one, Joan.'

As Nice as Pie? That was running at Haydock Park this
afternoon. It didn't have a hope of winning. The distance
was against it, as was the going. Added to that, this would
be the horse's first outing after recovering from a virus.
No, it didn't stand a chance.
All the same . . .
'The village is changing,' Molly was saying, 'and not for
the better. These young kids - they hang around outside
the old library drinking and think nothing of throwing the
cans on the ground. You can't tell 'em. They'll mug you as
soon as look at you.'
'It's the driving that gets me,' Joan confided. 'You can't
sleep for young men racing cars through the streets. I was
walking past the church and -' She broke off and grimaced.
'Ooh, that'll have been around the time Jon was being killed.
Thank God I didn't know that at the time.'
'What happened?' Jill asked.
'Some idiot in a van nearly knocked me down, that's
what happened. I thought at first it were Nigel as drives
our van, but it weren't. Don't know who it were, but if
I catches 'im '
'A red van?' Jill butted in and Joan nodded.
'Going hell for leather, it were.'


Chapter Twenty-Four

Andy hated Christmases and birthdays. His own birthdays
had always been joyless affairs, but he hated his mother's
birthdays far more. So many hints were dropped that he
always felt honour bound to take her out for a 'nice meal'
and buy her something extravagant and frivolous. This
year, he'd bought her a silk dressing gown, flowers and
chocolates and, amazingly, Melanie Collins had approved.
She always sent a card and enclosed a book token on his
own birthday. When he phoned to thank her, she always
said the same thing: 'It's no use me buying you a proper
present when I don't see you for months at a time.'
She saw him a lot more often than Andy liked. His life
wouldn't be worth living if he didn't see her on Mother's
Day, at Easter, today for her birthday and then, three
weeks later, for Christmas. Given the choice, he'd never
see her again.
'This soup could be warmer,' she said now.
'Mine's fine,' he replied.
'Mind you, the restaurant could be warmer. Looking at
the prices they charge, you'd think they could provide
some heat for the customers.'
She'd probably only looked at the prices to make sure he
was treating her right.
'Put your cardigan on if you're cold,' he suggested, teeth
gritted.
God, she was hard work, and they had another two
courses and coffee to get through yet. She would be on a
diet, she was always on a diet, but it wouldn't stop her
ordering a sweet.
She was wearing a maroon, floral-patterned dress and,
after a moment's consideration, must have decided the
cardigan wouldn't show it off to its best. Give her her due,
she was still an attractive woman. She kept herself in
shape, and always spent whatever it took to keep her hair
looking good. Naturally dark, you'd never catch her
looking anything but blonde. Andy sometimes thought
she would rather die than let anyone see her with dark
roots showing.
"I might in a minute,' she said.
The restaurant was plenty warm enough, thanks to several
radiators and two roaring fires, one at either end of the
large dining area.
She was staring at him. 'Your father used to do that,' she
said, and the criticism was there for all to hear.
'Do what?' He was eating soup.
'Frown,' she explained. 'Wore a permanent frown, that
man did.'
Andy couldn't blame him for that. He'd never known
him; the mystery man had made an escape several months
before Andy was born. He was never entirely convinced
his mother knew who his father was, either.
'Sorry,' he said, giving her a broad smile. 'So what have
you been up to, Mum? Still doing your dancing?'
'What would I have if I didn't do that?' she demanded.
'I'm not like some people who always have family popping
round.'
'At least you have plenty of friends.'
'It's not the same as family. Maud - you know Maud
who I go dancing with - she has six to lunch every Sunday
without fail. At least six.'
Andy let her talk about the lucky Maud. Compared to
her, everyone was 'lucky'. His neck was feeling tense
already. He could feel the muscles tightening up. Soon the
conversation would progress to his single status.
'Are you listening?'
'Of course,' he assured her, but he hadn't a clue what she
was talking about.
'Anyway, she's got another baby on the way,' she went
on. 'Funny that. She spent six years with you and couldn't
decide if she wanted to get married or not, and then within
a year of meeting that Frank, she's married with a kid.'
So she'd managed to work the conversation round to
Tanya already. Usually, she waited until they reached the
dessert stage of this ordeal to give voice to her disapproval.
It wasn't Tanya who caused the disapproval, it was
what she saw as his failure to be like her friends' children.
Without exception, they were married with the obligatory
two point four children.
He and Tanya had been together for six years but, for the
first three years, it had been a very casual relationship.
They'd gone to the cinema or out for a meal once a month
or so. Neither of them had wanted marriage, despite occasionally
mentioning it as something they might do in the
future, yet Andy's mother always insisted on laying the
blame for their break-up squarely on Andy's shoulders.
In reality, Tanya had arranged to meet him for lunch
unexpectedly one day, and told him she'd met someone
else.
'His name's Frank,' she'd said, 'and I love him.'
At the time, Andy had felt something akin to relief.
'When I was at the hairdresser's the other day,' Melanie
Collins said, dabbing a napkin to her lips, "I read an article
in one of these trendy magazines, Cosmopolitan or one of
those, and it reckoned that most women leave their men
because the sex isn't much cop.'
'Mother!'
'I'm only telling you what I read.'
'I'd rather not know,' he snapped.
'I'm sure you wouldn't.' She smiled slyly. 'Course, we
both know that you like to treat your women a bit rough.'
"I do not!' Confound the bloody woman. 'Now, have you
finished with that? The girl's been across to the table twice
to try and clear away our plates.'
'I've finished.'
He kept talking until they were tucking into their main
course - her a lemon chicken and him a good-sized rare
steak.
'Don't know how you can eat that,' she muttered. 'You
get all sorts of problems from eating food that's not cooked
properly.'
'It is cooked properly.' His neck was even more tense
now and his jaw ached from gritting his teeth. He took a
couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax.
'Your Tanya,' she persisted.
'She was never my Tanya.'
'Whatever. Did she know about your police record?'
'Mother, the charges were dropped.' He took a swallow
of his wine. If he had enough, perhaps he'd drive them
both into a ditch. 'Besides,' he added tightly, 'that was
years ago, when I was at university'
'Yes, at least you had the good sense to do it away from
home. Well? Did she?'
'Did she what?'
'Did Tanya know about it?'
'Yes,' he lied. 'Why shouldn't she? It was all a silly
mistake.'
'Anyway, she's happy now. Another baby on the way'
'So you said.'
'People talk, you know. If I tell people you're thirty-five
and still not married, they think there's something wrong
with you. Most reckon you must be gay. That's all the rage
these days.'
She clearly expected some comment from him, but he
refused to give her the satisfaction.
'That chap you lived with '
"I shared a flat with other men after uni,' he said heavily.
'People do. It doesn't mean they're gay'
'Oh, we know you're not that.'

Andy refused to rise to her bait.
'You're not, are you?'
'No, Mother, I'm not gay. I'm busy, I have lots of good
friends, some male and some female. I simply haven't yet
met a woman I'd want to spend the rest of my days
with.'
He was tempted to invent a girlfriend. He could tell her
about Jill Kennedy, and how he'd taken her out to lunch,
but it wasn't worth it. Far better to eat as quickly as
possible and then drive her home.
Christmas was only three weeks away, and he'd have to
suffer this agony again then, but after that, with any luck,
he wouldn't need to endure her company until Mother's
Day in March.


Chapter Twenty-Five

Bob Murphy arrived on the dot of ten o'clock on Saturday
morning, just as he'd said he would, and Jill couldn't have
been more pleased to see him. Last night, her bedroom
window had been rattling in the wind again. In the end,
she'd given up and slept in the spare room. Not that she'd
slept much. Her mind had been too full.
Michael's aunt, his late mother's sister, had come to the
vicarage as soon as she'd heard the news, to take care of
Michael.
Eve was a lovely woman with five children of her own.
All were older than Michael, though, and all had left
home, and Jill thought she saw Michael as someone to
mother. She forgot he was eighteen and an adult. For all
that, she was a delightful, kind, warm-hearted person. As
executor of her sister's will, written many years earlier
when Michael was still a child, it was, she'd said, her duty
to take care of Michael. Jill had assured Michael he was
welcome at the cottage any time he liked, and he'd chosen
to spend most of his spare time with her until the future
was more settled. He'd done that without hurting Eve's
feelings, too.
This morning, he had a friendly word with Bob, and
then went back inside to his music and his solitude.
'How's he doing?' Bob asked.
'Amazingly well,' Jill said truthfully. 'He has his
moments, of course, but he's coping.'
'It's a dreadful thing. Bad enough to lose your parents in
an accident or something, but this must be even worse.
I mean, to have both parents - murdered.'
"I know.'
'It doesn't sink in, does it?'
That was the essence of it; the horror simply didn't sink
in. It was one reason Michael was coping so well, it hadn't
sunk in, and one reason the local residents were managing
to go about their daily business.
'They say trouble comes in threes,' Bob murmured. 'It
makes you wonder what's coming next.'
Funnily enough, exactly the same thought had occurred
to Jill. Perhaps that was simply because they were all on
edge, all trying to make sense of life.
'Still,' he went on grimly, 'we should be safe enough.
There are more police than residents in Kelton at the
moment.' He stepped back to look up at the cottage's roof.
'Now then, what are you needing here? Ridge tiles replacing?
Guttering renewed?'
'Yes.'
'There are a few slipped tiles and a couple of cracked
ones that need sorting out. What's the back like?'
They walked round to the back of the cottage and the list
of priority jobs grew alarmingly.
'I'd like all the windows replaced as soon as possible,'
Jill told him, 'but one, that one there -' She pointed to her
bedroom window. 'It's driving me mad. It rattles in the
wind and keeps me awake.'
'I'll have a look at that while I'm here, if you like. I might
be able to do a temporary job.'
'Would you? I'd be grateful.' She looked at the other windows.
'They all need replacing soon, though, don't they?'
'They do, yes. Don't look like that,' Bob added with a
rare smile. 'I'll work out the cost before we start work.'
'I'll probably need a lottery win. I'm having some plans
drawn up for the extension,' she went on, 'but there's no
hurry for that. I would like the roof making good as soon
as possible, though.'
'No problem.'
'Come inside, Bob,' she suggested, 'and I'll show you the
sort of new front door I want.'
They discussed the options for Jill's cottage, and Bob
almost made her faint by telling her how much her front
door would cost.
'How long have you been in business?' she asked.
He smiled. 'Long enough to know what I'm doing.'
'Oh, I didn't mean '
"I know you didn't. Only joking. It'll be ten years now.
I did my apprenticeship as a bricklayer, and then started
out on my own. It was just me and a van. I like to keep it
small, and I still only employ four others. They're all good,
hard-working chaps. You've met Len, my roofing man.
He'll do your roof.'
They could hear the sound of Michael's music coming
from upstairs.
'Len did the roof at the vicarage last year,' Bob
remarked, as if Michael's music had reminded him of more
unpleasant things.
'That must have been a big job. It's a huge house.'
'It is, but I like plenty of space.'
'So do I until it comes to cleaning.'
Rabble wandered into the kitchen and immediately went
to investigate their visitor.
'How old is she?'
'Sixteen,' Jill told him, 'and revelling in all the fuss she
gets from Michael. I've got three about the place. You'll see
them, or Len will, when you start work, but I don't think
they'll be a nuisance.'
'Don't worry about that. Len's got a zoo. Two dogs, a cat
and a cockatiel at the last count.'
'What a combination!'
'A nightmare on a narrowboat.'
Jill still hadn't visited Len and Daisy's narrowboat.
She must.
'There's a stray cat keeps coming round to my place,'
Bob said. 'Quite a young thing. She calls by, has some food,
and then goes off for a couple of days. I've had cats before
and I'd quite like another. We'll have to see if she moves in
on a more permanent basis.'
This was probably the longest conversation Jill had had
with Bob. He really was a man of few words.
'Right, I'll have a look at that window for you.'
'Thanks.'
She took him upstairs and showed him the problem.
'The frame's loose, but it'll be OK for a bit,' he told her.
'The opening light is causing all the problems, and
I should be able to tighten up the catch and the hinges.
Hang on a minute, and I'll get a screwdriver . . .'
Ten minutes later, her window had been fixed
temporarily.
'It's not perfect,' Bob warned her, 'but you should notice
an improvement.'
'Thanks.'
'No trouble. I'll have a look at this lot, and drop in some
prices so you can see what you think. If they're OK, give
me a ring and we'll get round to starting work.'
He noticed her newspaper opened at the racing pages
and his eyebrows rose as he spotted horses' names ringed.
'Don't tell me you like a flutter on the horses.'
'Occasionally,' she admitted. 'You?'
'I've been known to dabble,' he replied, grinning. He
frowned at a horse she'd circled. 'Nemesis? I'd thought of
backing that, but '
"I know, the going will be too heavy'
'Yeah, that's what I thought. Are you going to back it?'
"I might.'
'Mm. It might be worth an each-way bet. Don't put too
much on it, or you'll never afford to pay me. Right, I'd
better be off . . .'
Jill watched him drive away, and felt vaguely cheered. It
would be good to get the cottage sorted out. Then, hopefully,
she could settle down and enjoy her new life in
Kelton Bridge. She couldn't settle to anything now, though.
What with worries about Anne Levington, Valentine's persona
to try and unravel, the shocking death of Jonathan
Trueman to come to terms with .
And just as Bob had said, the village held its breath as
it waited for something else to happen.
Bob hadn't exaggerated too much when he'd said there
were more police than residents in the village, but they
hadn't found the murder weapon. They were still searching
the locality for it, as well as carrying out house-to
house enquiries. It was a long, painstaking job.
Jill had thought Jonathan must have killed Alice. Now,
she wasn't so sure. But why would anyone want to kill
Alice and Jonathan? Two more harmless people it would be
impossible to meet.
Had Jonathan killed his wife? Had the same man or
woman murdered husband and wife? Was it possible that
Kelton Bridge had seen two killers? Surely not. It was odd
to kill one person with a knife, and kill them very cleanly,
and then kill another with a gun. The two murders had
been completely different. Alice had suffered one swift cut
to the throat and would have died almost immediately.
Jonathan, on the other hand, before receiving the fatal
shots to his head, had been shot twice in the leg. The killer
had wanted him to suffer. Why?
Perhaps she'd try to forget it all for a while. Michael
might fancy a walk in the fresh air. Probably not, though.
He was as comfortable seeing people as they were seeing
him. No one knew what to say to him and, if they did say
something, he didn't know how to respond.
Time might be a good healer, but it was a painfully
slow one.
She sat down with her newspaper and studied the day's
runners. Brixnmortar appealed to her. She smiled to
herself. What was the point of studying form when she
behaved like a complete ignoramus and backed a horse
with a name that appealed? On the other hand, Nice as Pie
had fought off the opposition and romped home with
energy to spare.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Later that afternoon, Jill had a phone call from her sister.
'Steve's away this weekend and his mum's volunteered
to have the kids so I thought I'd come and have a night
with you.'
'Really? Oh, that's fantastic!' Jill felt the sudden unexpected
sting of tears. A visit from her sister was exactly
what she needed right now.
'Can you cope with a girls' night in?' Prue asked
"I can think of nothing I'd like better.' And it was true.
Jill loved her sister dearly, even if they did have nothing
in common. Prue was mother to Charlotte, Zoe and
Bethany - and that was it. Life revolved around her kids.
Jill spent the next two hours cleaning and generally
setting the cottage to rights. It was amazing, she thought,
how one person could get a place in such a mess.
At just after seven that evening, Prue entered the cottage
like a whirlwind. Bottles of wine clanked as she put
carrier bags on the floor and Jill glimpsed a huge box of
Thornton's chocolates. Oh, yes, this was going to be a real
girls' night in.
'This place is the back of beyond,' Prue said, giving her
a hug. "I got lost twice.'
Prue had only visited the cottage once before, and she'd
got lost then.
'But isn't it gorgeous?' Jill said.
'Well, yes, but what happened to civilization?'
'This is civilized enough for me.' Jill had never understood
how Prue could live on River View, how she'd never
longed for escape. She hadn't, though. Despite their
mother's pushing, Prue had left school at sixteen, walked
straight into the local salon to train as a hairdresser, set her
eyes on Steve, a lorry driver, married him and started
breeding.
'Civilized? Two people have been murdered here within
the last month. That's one a fortnight.' Prue pulled a face.
"I know you reckon River View's rough, but better that
than a village like this. All the residents are inbred in these
back-of-beyond places. You take a look at their feet, and I'll
bet they've got six toes.'
Jill burst out laughing. 'It is so good to see you, Prue.
You talk complete rubbish, and I love it. Right - glass of
wine after your journey? How's Steve and those gorgeous
nieces of mine?'
'They're fine, thanks, and yes, a glass of wine would be
welcome.' Prue picked up the carrier bags and followed
her into the kitchen. 'Steve's working all the hours God
sent so no change there, and the kids couldn't wait to be
rid of me. It's a treat to get away, though. I'll just go and
freshen up . . .'
Smiling to herself, Jill took their wine into the sitting
room. It was wonderful to see her sister, but she guessed
it would be just as good to wave goodbye to her.
'Nothing interesting in your bathroom, I see,' Prue complained
as she joined her.
'Such as?'
'Oh, aftershave, razor, that sort of thing.'
Jill rolled her eyes.
'You're not turning into a hermit, are you, Jill? Ever
since you and Max split - well, you're like one of these
frumpy old '
'Thanks very much!'
'You know what I mean. How's that estate agent chap,
by the way?'
"I assume Andy's very well. We had lunch a couple of
weeks ago and he was fine then.'
'Lunch?' Prue's interest was grabbed. 'And?'
'And nothing.' Jill knew that a vivid description of an
afternoon's wanton, abandoned passion would earn her a
few Brownie points, but she resisted. 'He does nothing
for me.'
'But you said he was nice. Good job, and good-looking,
you said.'
'Yes, he has a good job and he's pleasing on the eye.
There's more to life than that, though.'
Prue, clearly unable to think of anything more, shook
her head in a despairing way. 'What about Max? I assume
you're still giving him the cold shoulder?'
They'd been through this before, too. The way Prue
spoke, it was obligatory for a man to have an affair. Jill would like to see her face if Steve had one. Second
thoughts, she wouldn't. It was too painful to wish on her
worst enemy.
'Actually, I've seen quite a bit of him lately,' she said.
'I'm back at work, temporarily, on the serial killer case.'
'Oh, no.' Prue threw herself down in the armchair, and
groaned. 'So you discuss murder and mayhem together?
That must be so romantic/
Even Jill had to smile at that.
'Seriously, love,' Prue went on, 'all these murders in
Kelton Bridge '
'Two,' Jill pointed out quietly.
'That's about two per cent of the population.'
It wasn't, there were over four thousand people in Kelton
Bridge now, but she did take Prue's point.
'And when you're not living in a place where people are
getting murdered on a daily basis, you're working in a job
where people would be out of work if all the killers were
locked up.' She sighed her frustration. 'It's unhealthy!'
'I'm happy enough.'
Prue gave her that all-seeing gaze of hers. 'Are you?'
Jill rarely thought about it. People might complain about
being depressed or fed up, but it was rare that someone
decided they were happy. Thinking about it, though, she
thought she was as happy as could be expected, considering
the man she'd once loved had betrayed her and
considering that some crank, possibly a serial killer, was
making use of her letterbox . . .

'Yes, I am,' she said firmly. "I enjoy my work, I love my cottage, I love this village and the people in it, I love the
cats - yes, I am happy.'
'You're not getting any younger, Jill '
'Oh, God.' Laughing, Jill got to her feet. 'I'd better bring
the bottle in. You're right, Prue,' she called from the
kitchen, 'I'm not getting any younger, but the British
Museum isn't interested in me just yet.'
"I was thinking of children,' Prue said when she
returned.
"I know what you were thinking. We've had this conversation
before. Perhaps I don't want children.'
'Of course you do,' Prue scoffed.
She was right; Jill did want children. The trouble was,
whenever she imagined those children, they were all miniatures
of Max.
A sudden thought struck her. 'Why is Steve's mum
having the kids? How did she beat off Mum?'
The expression on her sister's face had Jill's stomach
churning. 'Prue?'
'It's probably nothing,' Prue began.
'Oh, my God! What is it?'
'She hasn't been feeling well,' Prue explained, eyes
firmly fixed on the rim of her wine glass as if she were
having to concentrate on a well-rehearsed speech. 'You
know she can't shake off that cough? Well, now she's got
a pain in her shoulder.'
'Oh, no. Those bloody fags of hers!'
'It might be nothing,' Prue insisted.
'And it might be -' But she couldn't say the c-word.
Couldn't even think it. Certainly couldn't think of life
without their mum.
'It might be a muscular thing,' Prue said firmly.
Jill guessed that, like her, Prue was too frightened to
think otherwise.
'She went to the doctor's yesterday,' Prue told her.
'Lord, she must be ill.'
'He's sending her for an X-ray. I was impressed. She's
having that on Monday'
Jill wasn't impressed; she was terrified. To move so
quickly, the doctor obviously thought it important.
"I keep meaning to visit,' Jill murmured.
'She knows how busy you are.'
'I'm not that busy' How could she be too busy for her
own mother? The thought disgusted her.
'Let's talk about something else,' Prue said firmly. 'Zoe's
got a boyfriend, did I tell you? He's four years old and he
gave her a birthday kiss.'
They talked about the children, even managed to laugh,
but Jill knew they were both thinking of X-rays and the
overflowing ashtrays that had been a part of their
childhood.
The phone rang and Jill got up to answer it.
'Hi, it's Bob. Bob Murphy. Just wondered if you'd
backed Nemesis?'
Jill laughed. "I didn't.'
'Phew. That's OK then. I still stand a chance of getting
paid.'
'You do,' she told him easily. "I backed Brixnmortar.'
'Never! The outsider? 25-1, wasn't it?'
'Yep. I just wish I'd put a couple of grand on it.'
"I wish I'd put my business on it,' Bob said, 'but as it
was, I backed - let me see - Blue Mountain '
'Oh, dear.'
'Flame Thrower '
'Oh, dear, oh, dear.' She spluttered with laughter.
'And a couple of others who should reach the finishing
post before midnight.'
'I'd better be careful then or you'll be upping your
estimate.'
"I might at that,' he said with amusement. 'Perhaps I'll
have better luck next week. I'll be in touch anyway. Night.'
'Night, Bob.'
She was still smiling as she replaced the receiver.
'Bob? Who was that then?' Prue asked curiously.
'Bob Murphy - the builder who'll be doing this place.'
Before she could go into detail, someone rang her doorbell
and then hammered on her door.
On her way to answer it, Jill wondered if Prue had
noticed the way she'd jumped in shock at the sound.
Probably. Prue didn't miss much.
'Oh, hi, Andy.' Had her sister's willpower brought him
to the cottage?
"I thought I'd drop by with the brochure you wanted,' he
explained.
Jill had forgotten all about it. A nearby farm was being
sold and the farm's contents were being auctioned separately.
According to Ella, there were some lovely pieces
going under the hammer. 'The Wrights are giving up farming
and retiring to Spain,' Ella had told her, 'and most of
their furniture is being sold. They've some lovely knickknacks
. . .'
'Thanks, Andy'
She would have to ask him in, yet he looked exceptionally
handsome this evening in a dark suit, pale blue shirt
and silk tie. Prue would probably eat him.
'Come in. My sister's here - we were having a natter
over a glass of wine.'
She'd hoped he would refuse the invitation, but he
didn't. On the other hand, it would at least show Prue that
there were a few decent men in Kelton Bridge. Well, one
at any rate, and even Prue wouldn't think of counting
Andy's toes.
'This is Andy,' she introduced him. 'He's the wonderful
chap who found this lovely cottage for me.'
Prue, she could see, was mentally calculating the cost of
his suit and shoes and eyeing up his broad shoulders. He
passed the test quickly, and Prue soon had him sitting on
the sofa next to her, a glass of wine in his hands. She then
proceeded to fire questions at him.
"I couldn't live anywhere else,' Andy said in answer to
one of them. 'It's a great place. Everyone's very neighbourly,
people look out for each other.'
'If someone had looked out for the vicar and his wife,'
Prue pointed out quietly, 'Kelton Bridge wouldn't be mentioned
on every news report.'
"I can't argue with that,' Andy replied. 'A terribly sad
business all round. In all the years I've lived here '
'How many is that?' Prue wanted to know.
"I lived here for a year when I was a kid - my mother
liked to move around a bit - and I came back here when
I was twenty-five. So that's eleven years in total. In all that
time, we've never had so much as a Mars bar stolen.'
'What did your mother do, apart from move around
a lot?'
Heavens, Prue was nosy.
'Oh, this and that. Any job that took her fancy really.'
'Lovely,' Prue said. 'A friend of ours was like that. You
remember Diane, don't you, Jill? She picked grapes in
France, waited on tables in Spain, and became a lifeguard in Australia. So romantic'
Smiling, Andy nodded.
'You're not married then?' Prue pushed on, knowing full
well he wasn't.
'Take no notice of her, Andy,' Jill told him. 'Before you
arrived, I was on the receiving end of the high time you
settled down and had kids lecture. Personally, I think she's
just jealous of our freedom.'
They chatted for another hour or more. Andy was driving
so he stuck to one glass of wine, but Jill and Prue made
up for it.
Eventually, Andy glanced at his watch. 'It's time I was
off. Lovely to meet you, Prue, and I hope we meet again.
I'll look forward to seeing you at the auction, Jill, and
thanks for the wine.'
As soon as he'd gone, Prue threw her arms wide in a
dramatic, and slightly tipsy, gesture. "I have died and gone
to heaven. He is drop dead gorgeous, Jill. Dear God, girl,
get a doctor to check you out. You must be dead from the
neck down. He's '
She broke off as Jill's mobile phone rang.
Jill welcomed the distraction until she saw who was
calling.
'It's me,' Max said. "I think we've found Anne
Levington.'
'Alive?' But she knew the answer to that from Max's
voice.
'No.'
'Where?'
'An old ruin of a farmhouse on the Burnley to Todmorden
road. Cornwall's out there, but it's on my patch so
I'm on my way there now.'



Chapter Twenty-Seven

On Monday morning, Jill was at work in the small,
windowless office. The traffic noise was constant, and
welcome. At least it hinted at signs of life outside.
Cornwall strode in. 'Well?'
He always greeted her with that 'Well?' Never 'Good
morning' or 'How are you?', always 'Well?'
'I'm writing up a brief report,' she told him. 'According
to my reckoning, our man lives on this side of Lancashire,
either Todmorden, Rochdale or Rossendale.' He might
even live in Kelton Bridge, she thought, and the knowledge brought an involuntary shudder. 'The most likely
area, according to this, is Rossendale. I also reckon he'll
live out in the wilds. He won't live on an estate, but on
the edge of a village or a town. He'll be close to open
countryside.'
'Or he could live in a tower block in Manchester,' he
scoffed.
Jill leaned back in her chair. 'Does being this grouchy
come naturally or do you have to work at it?'
He looked up, surprised, and then, amazingly, gave her
a small smile. It was the first time she'd seen him smile.
'Sorry Bad weekend.'
'Oh?'
'My car wouldn't start so I had to call out the AA, the
wind blew a ridge tile off the roof that missed the car by
inches, the washing machine flooded the kitchen, and my
lottery numbers came up and I've lost the damn ticket.'
Jill gasped at the latter.
'Only a tenner,' he said, 'but it's not the point.'
'Could have been a lot worse then,' Jill said, grinning. 'The ridge tile might have missed your car and hit you
instead, and your numbers might have come up for
the jackpot.'
'True.' He didn't look cheered. 'Let me see your report
asap. By the way, we found a piece of chewing gum at
the scene.'
'What? From Valentine?'
'Who knows? I'll keep you posted,' he said, closing the
door after him.
No, you won't, she thought grimly.

Jill didn't get too excited. Valentine wouldn't leave
chewing gum around. He was far too careful. She concentrated
on the changing areas of Lancashire that were
coming up on her display. Valentine could live in Kelton
Bridge.
That begged another question, one she hardly dared ask
herself. Was he responsible for the deaths of Alice and
Jonathan Trueman?
Valentine was a killer - fact. He killed working prostitutes.
As he'd killed Anne Levington, they had to assume
he was responsible for the lock of Anne's hair that was
delivered to Jill's cottage.
Anne's father had formally identified her body. She'd
been left in a crumbling old farmhouse in the middle of
nowhere that hadn't been occupied for many years. True to
form, she'd been left naked with only a couple of strangulation
marks on her neck and the usual hearts, twelve in
all, cut away from her young, pale skin.
As yet, no clues had been found at the scene - other than
that piece of chewing gum. Officers were still carrying out
a fingertip search, but no one was hopeful. It was uncanny
how Valentine left no clues.
So - Alice and Jonathan Trueman. The killings weren't
Valentine's style. The first had involved a knife, and
although Valentine was skilled with a scalpel, he liked to
strangle his victims first. Alice had been naked, but she

165

wasn't a prostitute. For Jonathan's murder, the killer had
chosen a gun and that certainly wasn't Valentine's style. It
was too messy, and too risky. Valentine didn't prolong
death; it was always over quickly.
Had Alice ever been a prostitute? Surely not. She had
been a dancer and - what had Tony called her? - a real
little raver? What if she'd used the casting couch method
to gain a place in the dance group? They needed to delve
very deeply into Alice's past.
But perhaps the killings weren't linked.
Jill stood up to stretch her legs, then decided to get
herself a coffee.
It was good to get out of that cramped, airless room and
see people rushing along corridors. Stuck in her office, the
world could end without Jill being any the wiser. Here,
there was constant noise - people running, shouting and
talking, and phones ringing.
She was at the machine, waiting for it to pour some
sludge into a white plastic cup, when Max came striding
along.
'Any news?' he asked her.
'How would I know? Cornwall doesn't confide in me.
Although he did say something about finding chewing
gum out there.'
Max's eyes lit for a brief second but then he shook his
head. 'Valentine's not that daft.'
'That's what I thought. I know it's nothing to do with
you, Max, and Cornwall would have me flogged at dawn
if he knew I was discussing it with you, but I think
Valentine's most probable dwelling is in Rossendale.'
His eyebrows rose at that.
'It could even be Kelton,' she said, suppressing a shudder.
'Now, do you think he's responsible for Alice and
Jonathan Trueman's deaths?'
'No!'
'But if '
'Never in a million years, Jill. There's nothing whatsoever
to connect them. They're totally different.'
'Yes,' Jill agreed, knowing all too well that Max wouldn't
want the crimes connected, 'but they just might be linked.
I was thinking about Alice. She was a dancer, and I heard
her described as a real little raver in her youth. Who's to
say she didn't sleep with the odd director to get on TV?'
'That was years ago.'
"I know.' At least she had his attention. 'But it's possible.'
'No. Jonathan Trueman killed his wife, I'm sure of it.
Whoever killed him was out for revenge.' He put some
coins in the machine and gave it a thump. 'Let me see this
report you're doing on Valentine, will you?'
"I will.' Sod Cornwall.
Back in her office, a plastic cup of sludge in her hand, Jill
thought about Valentine. Several times she'd wondered if
the envelopes had been delivered to her cottage because
Valentine wanted to be caught. He was famous now, yet he
couldn't reap the benefits of that fame. Was he eager to
grab his glory?
If she was right about him living in the Rossendale area,
that would narrow it down to, oh, a mere twenty thousand
people. Even if they got lucky and that chewing gum did
belong to Valentine, a blood test of twenty thousand men
didn't bear thinking about. And, of course, Valentine
would make sure someone else went along in his place.
Meanwhile, he would kill again. And again.
The computer had analysed everything and Jill was as
certain as it was possible to be that their man lived in the
Rossendale area - Rawtenstall, Haslingden, Waterfoot,
Stacksteads, Bacup, Irwell. It was a big area, but they had narrowed it down. He would also live on the edge of a
community so they could forget the centre of Rawtenstall
or Haslingden, and the main road running through the
valley.
The dates of the attacks. She needed to compare the
dates and times the victims were first reported missing, the
dates and times the pathologist believed the victims were
killed and the dates and times the bodies were found. The
latter wouldn't tell her much, but you never knew. It was
just possible that the computer might find some link.
Every millimetre of CCTV footage was being checked,
but that was a long, slow process, especially when they
had no idea what they were looking for. A glimpse of Anne
Levington's last movements would be good. According to
the pathologist, Anne had died around three hours after
eating that burger with her friend. If only they could see
her on CCTV at some point during those three hours. Even
better if Valentine slipped up for once and they saw her
getting into his car. And how unlikely was that?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

There were four faces waiting to greet Max when he
arrived home that evening. Two faces looked wary, one
looked exceedingly sheepish and the fourth . . .
Words failed him.
"I can explain, Max,' Kate offered, still wearing her
exceedingly sheepish expression.
"I don't need an explanation,' Max told his mother-in
law, scowling at the four-legged creature that was staring
back at him. 'All I need to know is when it's going back to
wherever it came from.'
'Well '
Before Kate could proffer this information, the four
legged creature wandered over to Max, had a quick sniff
and promptly lifted his leg and urinated on Max's trousers.
'Oh, Lord! Boys, get your dad a drink - half an inch of
whisky. I'll, er, get the disinfectant.' Kate looked at Max.
'Why don't you change? Give me your suit and I'll deal
with it. I can pop it into the cleaner's in the morning.'
The boys headed off, whispering.
'Make that an inch,' Max called after them. 'A big inch.'
Max went upstairs, vowing with every step that he
would not get talked into this. He loved his kids more than
life itself, and he knew how much they wanted a dog, but
it wasn't practical. He had no idea how this creature had
found its way into the house, but it would leave by the
same route. And fast.
It was huge, too. Big, yellow and boisterous, it was half
Labrador and half collie, Max suspected, which would
make it neurotic, greedy and stupid.
What the devil was Kate thinking of?
He switched on the bedroom light and pulled the curtains
across to shut out the dark, damp evening. Perhaps
Jill was doing the same. The difference was that Max's
house was set back from a busy road where streetlights
illuminated the shadows. Jill's cottage was remote. Anyone
could lurk along that unlit lane.
Why wasn't Cornwall taking her stalker seriously?
Because he was confident it wasn't Valentine? Because he
thought some small-time crank was responsible, one
whose arrest wouldn't further his career?
Perhaps he was right.
Then again, perhaps he wasn't.
Max pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and went
downstairs.
'Right,' he said, as he walked back into the lounge. 'Let's
hear this explanation. And if that damn dog wants a pee,
he can use someone else's leg.'
Harry handed him a glass, in which was a good inch
of Scotch.
'Thank you. But don't think this will win you any
favours. He can't stay here - not even for a night.'
'Max '
'I'm serious, Kate. The boys and I have discussed this a
dozen times, and we all know that a dog is out of the
question.'
'Will you let me explain?'
He stood by the mantelpiece, trying to be patient. 'I'm
all ears.'
While Ben hugged the dog in a way that said he would
die rather than be parted from the creature, Kate sat on the
edge of an armchair.
'A couple of weeks ago,' she began, 'we called at the
rescue centre. I thought it would be a good idea for the
boys to see that a dog was a huge commitment, and to see
exactly what changes would be needed before they could
have one. I guessed the staff at the centre would have
plenty of good advice.'
'What? All they want to do is offload the dogs.'
'Rubbish,' she scoffed. 'They check out potential homes.
They won't allow them to go anywhere, you know.'
'Right, so having garnered all this wonderful advice ...?'
'We met poor Fly,' she explained.
'Fly? This creature is called Fly?' Apparently, it was. At
the mention of his name, a huge tail swept half a dozen
unread newspapers off the coffee table and on to the floor.
'And why poor Fly? Oh, don't tell me, let me guess. He was
unloved, unwanted, uncared for, probably abandoned on
the motorway '
'The RSPCA found him. He'd been neglected and tied
up near a disused railway line.'
'My heart bleeds,' Max said, 'but he's not staying. We
can't have a dog, and that's that. They're too much of a
commitment.'
'Ben, Harry, take Fly upstairs,' Kate said firmly. 'If you're
careful, you can throw his ball across the landing.'
Ben's bottom lip was trembling as they left the room,
Max noticed.
Kate rose to her feet and walked over to Max. She stood
for a moment, running her fingers over a glass paperweight
that sat on the mantelpiece between various framed
photographs.
"I have always tried not to interfere, Max,' she said at
last, her voice like steel. 'I've tried to stand back and say
nothing as you've made a complete mess of your life.
Sometimes, I've even gone along with the nonsense you
dish out. When you first introduced me to Jill, I went along
with your story about only having met her recently - yet
I knew damn well that you'd known her a long time.'
Max couldn't hide his shock.
'Oh yes, I knew there was someone else in your life,
Max. I haven't blamed you for that. These things happen
and, thankfully, Linda was too wrapped up in the boys
to notice.'
Max felt himself redden. Even the tips of his ears were
hot with shame.
"I can't say I approve of your life,' Kate went on. 'You
live in a nasty world, you still drink too much, and you can
be arrogant, selfish and downright stupid.' A sudden,
reluctant smile softened her words. 'But I do love you,
Max, and I know how much you love the boys.'
Max paced the length of the room, her words making
him uncomfortable. He'd had no idea she'd known about
Jill. In his naivety, he thought she'd always seen him as the
model son-in-law.
'Harry and Ben don't live in your nasty world, Max.
They live in the same fun world that most people do. They
don't know about killers, and I'm damned if I'm going to
sit back and watch them find out. They'll learn about the
darker side of life in good time. Meanwhile, they need fun,
laughter and happiness.' She paused. 'Ben still misses
Linda, you know.'
'Yes, I know that.'
'He misses Jill, too. The boy was ready to accept Jill as a
replacement mum.'
"I know that, too,' Max said grimly.
'I'm not suggesting for a moment that you attempt the
impossible and find him a mother,' Kate said lightly. "I do
think he would benefit greatly from a dog, though. He
needs someone or something to love, someone or something
that is always there for him.'
Max knew that. As soon as Ben had left the room, with
his bottom lip trembling, Max had known he would have
moved mountains for the boy if it would put a smile back
on his face.
Of course, there was another reason he was so against
having a dog in the house. Despite all evidence to the
contrary, he still harboured the faint hope that Jill would
come back to them. She wouldn't leave her cats, and no
way could anyone survive in a house that contained three
cats and a dog. It was as if Max had to say goodbye to that
hope . . .
'OK, Kate, you win.'
Kate slipped her arm around him, and he felt her gentle
sigh as she rested her head on his chest.
'You're doing a great job with the kids,' she said softly,
'you know you are. Harry's fine, he's like you, but Ben sometimes
my heart breaks for that boy'
'You know something, Kate? Sometimes mine does, too.'
'Yes, I know that.'
They could hear the sound of the boys' laughter drifting
down from Harry's bedroom. Heavy paws pounded across
the landing.
'And sometimes,' Kate added quietly, 'my heart breaks
for you, Max.'


Chapter Twenty-Nine

Liz Hutchinson had a glass in her hand as she showed
Max and Grace into her lounge. It might have contained
water, but Max doubted it. Her husband, Tony, was sitting
reading a newspaper, but he happily put it aside and got
to his feet as soon as they entered. Max suspected he
would dine out for weeks on stories of how the police had
come to him for help. What a character he was. Nothing
fazed him. Even the knowledge that his missing shotgun
might have been used to kill Jonathan Trueman hadn't
shaken him. Although what they had to say to him today
might wipe the smile from his face.
'Hello, there, what can we do for you? I've already '
"I know,' Max cut him off, 'but I have a few more
questions, if you don't mind. Could we have a word?' He
looked at Mrs Hutchinson and gave her a smile. 'Alone?'
'There's nothing Liz can't hear,' Tony declared.
'This could be a little delicate, sir.'
'Nonsense. We've no secrets, have we, Liz?'
She pulled a face, as if even the sight of his cajoling smile
was distasteful to her.
Fair enough, Max thought.
'So,' he began, 'will you tell us again when you discovered
your gun was missing?'
'Sit down/ Liz offered. 'Can I get you both a drink?'
Max and Grace sat.
'Thanks,' Max said, 'but I'll save the drink for another
time if I may.'
'Not for me, either.' Grace had a quick sympathetic smile
for Liz Hutchinson.
Liz stood at the window, facing them. She looked tense,
Max thought. Tense, angry and ready to snap in two. Tony
Hutchinson looked his usual confident self.
'Mr Hutchinson?' he prompted.
'As I've already told your chaps, I hadn't noticed it was
missing until they came looking for it. I used to be a
member of a club, you see. The licence is in order, though,'
he added hurriedly.
'Yes, we've checked that.'

'Let me see - Jon was killed on the Monday. On the
Tuesday afternoon, when I returned from the school, your
people were waiting to talk to me. I told them I owned a
gun, and when I went to the cabinet, I found it had been
stolen.'
'You're sure nothing else was taken?'
'We've checked and yes, we're sure.'
'And you've no idea when the gun was stolen?'
'None. I remember cleaning it just after the summer
break. Late September, I'd say. Since then -' He shook his
head. "I haven't even opened the cabinet since then.'
'How many people know you own a gun?' Grace asked,
and Tony Hutchinson smiled at that.
'Most people. Anyone who comes here.' He rose to his
feet. 'Come with me.'
Max and Grace followed him to the dining room where
several trophies were displayed on beech wood shelves.
'Everyone is curious about these.' Tony was bursting
with pride. "I was a pretty good shot, even if I say so
myself.'
Smug bastard.
'So most people around here would know you had a
gun?' Max asked. 'And would they know where it was
kept?'
'Oh, yes. People liked to see my guns. At one time, I had
four, but I sold the others. It's a great sport, although sadly
I don't have time for it these days.'
They returned to the lounge. Liz was still standing with
her back to the window but, during their absence, she'd
refilled her glass with what Max assumed was vodka.
'How about knives?' Max asked, preferring to stand
now.
'Hey, I don't go in for knives.' Tony looked appalled by
the suggestion. 'Listen, you don't think I had anything to
do with this, do you? Jon and Alice were my friends - our
friends. They used to come to dinner parties.'
'I'm just trying to get a clear picture in my mind,' Max
told him. And I don't like you, he added silently. He didn't
warm to the man at all. He was too smooth, too showy and
too damn cocky for his own good.
Liz suddenly let out a cackle of laughter. 'Him? Kill
Alice? More likely to kill himself trying to get into her
knickers.'
'Liz, for God's sake.' Tony cringed. 'Take no notice of
her, Chief Inspector. She's apt to get a little jealous when
she's had a drink.'
With due cause, Max thought grimly.
'Did you have an affair with Alice?' he asked casually.
'Of course I didn't. I told you, they were our friends.'
'On the night Jonathan Trueman was murdered '
'Monday/ Tony said, as if Max needed reminding.
'Where were you?'

"I was at the school.' Tony was getting agitated, as well
he might. There was a thin line of perspiration on his
upper lip. 'I've already told your chaps that.'
'And what time did you arrive?'
'I've told you. I was there all day. It didn't seem worth
coming home when the school day ended only to go back
in the evening.'
"I see,' Max said, frowning. 'The thing is, we've done a
little checking of our own. You haven't lost your credit
card as well as your gun, have you?'
'My -? Er, no.'
'What does his credit card have to do with anything?'
Liz asked curiously.
'Well, now,' Max explained cordially, 'it seems that either
your husband, or someone using his credit card, checked
into a hotel in Manchester just after 2 p.m. on Monday
afternoon.' He turned his smiling face to Tony. 'Would that
have been you, sir?'
Before Tony could respond, Liz marched across the room
and threw her vodka in his face. She then stormed from the
room, slamming at least four doors on her way upstairs.
'And the lady you checked in with,' Max went on, as if
nothing had happened. 'Would you give us her name and
address, please? We'll need to speak to her.'
'Is this necessary?' Tony demanded, no longer smiling.
'God, I'll own up to being in the blasted hotel. There's my
alibi. What more do you need?'
'To speak to the lady in question,' Max replied. 'If you'd
give us her address, sir, I'd be very grateful.'
Tony Hutchinson gave them the necessary contact
details for Mrs Pamela Struthers. Max remembered the
name; she was the school secretary. Very cosy.
'Thank you. Right, hopefully we won't need to bother
you again. As soon as we find your gun, we'll let you
know. Oh, and in the unlikely event of it turning up,
perhaps you'd be good enough to give me a call.'
"I will,' Tony snapped, his voice angry and sarcastic.
'Thank you. We'll show ourselves out.' Max paused in
the doorway. 'I'm sorry your wife's upset. Perhaps you
should go and talk to her.'
"I think I'm best qualified on how to deal with my wife,
don't you?'
'Of course. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.'
Max and Grace let themselves out.
'We'd better have a word with the lucky Pamela, boss,'
Grace said.
Lucky?
'Do you like him?' Max asked curiously.
'He's OK, yes. Nice-looking in a way. Too old for me, of
course, but yeah, he's OK.'
It must be a gender thing, Max decided. He detested
the man.

Chapter Thirty

Seeing Max's car pull up outside was getting to be a habit.
On this particular Saturday morning, however, Jill saw two
young boys jump out. That wasn't fair.
She opened the door, and Ben raced into her arms, his
legs still moving when he reached her. He felt warm, and
sticky, and she loved him. Harry came more slowly, but he
was still young enough to be hugged. She stood at the
door, an arm around each of the boys, and couldn't speak
for the huge lump wedged in her throat.
'Dad said we could show you our dog,' Harry
explained, and still Jill could only nod.
'He's in the car,' Ben said, 'in case he chases the cats.
Where are they?'
'Erm . . .' Jill cleared her painful throat. 'They're about,
but I'm sure the dog will be OK. Go and fetch him, eh?'
Max was standing to one side.
'They bring tears to my eyes, too/ he said softly as they
ran back to the car for the dog.
'Bastard!' she muttered.
'Tsk! And my dad always speaks so highly of you.'
The cats raced off at the first sight of the tail-wagging
bundle of energy that invaded the cottage, and Jill was
tempted to join them. Then Rabble, recalling days from her
youth perhaps, suddenly turned and delivered a swift
right hook strong enough to make the dog's nose bleed.
'He won't chase cats for a while,' Max said with
amusement.
They took Fly into the garden, and spent a hectic time
throwing a stick for him.
'Right, you two,' Max said, 'keep that dog amused.
I need to talk to Jill.'
'He needs training,' Jill remarked breathlessly.

'He needs a lot of things,' Max retorted. 'Tranquillizers,
concrete boots, humane killer.'
Fly was a lovely dog, though. His only fault, as far as Jill
could see, was his enthusiasm for life. That could hardly be
deemed a fault.
Jill followed Max inside and, without conscious thought,
they stood in the lounge at the window overlooking the
garden where they could watch the boys.
'No more envelopes?' Max asked, and Jill shook her
head. 'Seen anyone? Anything?'
'Nothing. As far as I know, only Ella Gardner has
walked up the lane this morning. She called to tell me
about a history group meeting. Oh, and Tony Hutchinson
ran past early. He does that most days because he's getting
in training for walking the Pennine Way.'
'It always comes back to him, doesn't it?'
'How do you mean?' she asked curiously.
"I don't know, but he keeps cropping up. His gun has
been stolen '
"I didn't even know he had one!' Jill was amazed.
'A shotgun. He used to be a keen member of a shooting
club.'
Yes, that would appeal to him. A competitive man, Tony
would have to be the best.
'We checked out licences,' Max explained, 'and when we
went to see this gun, he realized it had been stolen any
time between the end of September and now. It may or
may not have been used to kill Jonathan Trueman.'
'You're joking!'
'Er, no,' Max said drily, never one to joke about murder.
'He has an alibi for the night Jonathan Trueman was shot.
Having spent the afternoon in bed with his mistress, he
attended a meeting at the school.'
'God, poor Liz. Does she know?'
'She does now. And she said something telling. She
reckoned he was more likely to want to sleep with Alice
Trueman than kill her. Do you think he and Alice ever had
an affair?'
"I wouldn't know,' Jill said thoughtfully, 'but I'd doubt it.
I can't see him being Alice's type.' Not that she had known
Alice. 'And surely, he wouldn't sleep with anyone in the
village. As Jim Brody said, you can't breathe in this place
without everyone knowing about it.'
On the other hand, Tony was an attractive man and an
incorrigible flirt. A woman like Alice, living her quiet life
at the vicarage, might have been taken in by his charm.
She'd spent a long time being treated as a wife. Even Jonathan had admitted to stifling her. Wasn't it likely that
she'd enjoy being treated as an attractive woman?
"I don't know/ she said again, 'but it's possible, I suppose.
He's not your killer, though. For one thing, he has
damn good alibis.'
'Mmm. He also has reasonably strong alibis for a couple
of the nights Valentine struck.'
'Oh, come on, Max. He might be a pain in the arse, but
he's not out there killing prostitutes. And anyway,' she
reminded him, 'you were pulled off Valentine's case,
remember?'
'Mm. It doesn't hurt to check people out, though. Anyway,
on the night Anne Levington was murdered, he was
at a conference in Birmingham. The local paper took a
photo of them all at dinner, and his face is easily
recognizable.'
'That's more than a reasonably strong alibi,' Jill
pointed out.
'It depends how long it would take him to get from
Birmingham to Burnley. Two hours at a push late at night.
He was there the next morning to check out of the hotel,
but he could have got to Burnley and back easily enough.
Whether he'd have enough time to kill her, and then cut
those sodding hearts from her skin, I don't know.'
'He's not a killer. He doesn't -' She was about to say
Hutchinson didn't fit her profile, but changed his mind.
They both knew what had happened to the man who had
fitted that profile. 'He's not a killer,' she said again.
Max shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and Jill
could almost hear his brain working.
'What do you know about Andrew Collins?' he asked
suddenly.
'Andy? He's the estate agent who sold me this place.
Nice enough. Seems popular with people.' She remembered
Prue's description: drop dead gorgeous. 'You need
to speak to Prue/ she told him. 'He called in when she was
visiting and you know what Prue's like. She mentally
calculated the cost of his suit, shoes and watch and
decided I ought to marry him.'
'What did he call here for?'
'God, Max, I do have friends, you know. As it happens,
he brought me a sale brochure for an auction being held at
a local farm, but I often see him. We've been out for
lunch.'
She enjoyed that. It was confirmation that, like Max, she
could attract good-looking partners. Confirmation that
she could enjoy life without him.
'Did he tell you he'd been accused of rape?' Max asked.
Jill's head flew up. 'Rape? Never!'
'He was twenty, and the charges were dropped,' Max
allowed, 'but there's no smoke without fire.'
'When he was twenty?' she scoffed. 'So some girl fancied
him, and he's a very good-looking bloke, and decides
she'll accuse him of rape? That hardly makes him a murder
suspect.'
Thinking about it, though, she realized she knew very
little about him.
'He is a bit cagey about his past,' she admitted. 'This is
Prue again. She was trying to get his life story from him,
and she failed miserably. His father's dead. He and his
mother lived here in Kelton for a year when he was a kid,
but moved around the country a lot. He's lived here for
about the last ten years.'
Max looked at her long and hard.
'If you're planning any more cosy lunches with him,' he
said at last, 'be on your guard.'
'In case he tries to rape me? Or in case he tries to
murder me?'
Max ignored the sarcasm. 'Watch Tony Hutchinson as
well,' he went on. "I don't like him.'
Jill didn't either.
'I'm planning an off-the-record chat with his wife on
Monday when he's at school,' he added.
'That shouldn't be too difficult. I don't think Liz is that
keen on him.'
'She isn't now she knows he's been playing away.'
'No, it does tend to put women off. Funny that.' She
gave him a sweet smile that didn't even begin to hint at
the rush of pain, anger and hurt she felt. "I expect the boys
are getting hungry. I'll go and see if they want something
to eat.'


Chapter Thirty-One

Max and Grace were at Tony and Liz Hutchinson's house
soon after nine o'clock on Monday morning.
Liz Hutchinson opened the door to them, and she looked
how Max felt - tired, hungover and not quite sure what day
it was. She was wearing dark blue satin pyjamas.
'Tony's at work,' she told them. 'Or is it me you've come
to arrest?' she added with a smile.
'We're not here to arrest anyone,' Max told her, returning
her smile, 'but I'm curious about this stolen gun of your
husband's. I was wondering if we might have a chat with
you and see if you can remember anything.' He'd love to
have a good look round this house, and find something
to pin on Hutchinson, but a chat with his wife would do
for now.
"I can't, but you're welcome to ask questions.'
'We can come back later if you like,' he offered, but she
was already showing them inside.
'No need. I doubt I'll be sober later. Would you like
a drink?'
It struck Max that she was lonely. She was even glad of
their company.
'Yes, that would be good, thanks. What are you having?'
'Vodka.'
Even if Max touched the stuff, which he didn't, it was
too early for vodka.
'If I wasn't working I'd have one with you,' he said, 'but
as I am, is there any chance of a coffee?'
'My culinary skills aren't great but, yes, I can manage
that.' She looked questioningly at Grace.
'Coffee for me, too, please. Can I help you with it, Mrs
Hutchinson?'
'If you like,' Liz answered vaguely. She motioned
towards the dining room. 'Your people have already
decided there's no sign of a break-in but you're free to
look. You know where it was kept.'
'Thanks. I'll take another look, if I may,' Max said.
Grace, who reckoned Max was wasting his time and
hers, followed Liz into the kitchen, leaving Max free to
poke around.
It was rare Max came across anyone so obliging. If
people had something to hide, it was obvious they weren't
going to welcome him with open arms, but even the most
innocent tended to follow them around. Not Liz Hutchinson.
She had more or less given them free reign to delve
wherever they chose.
The dining room wasn't of much interest to him. A door
off that room led into a study and that showed far more
promise. It was crammed with books and the modern desk
in the centre of the room had six drawers, three either side.
He listened, heard Grace talking to Liz Hutchinson in the
kitchen, and tried the drawers. One side was locked, but
the other three were filled with paperwork that had been
thrown in rather than filed neatly. There were bank statements,
credit card statements, and mortgage statements.
He'd thought this house came with the job, but no, it had
a hefty mortgage on it.
There was nothing of interest on the bank statements or
the credit card statements. The latter were paid off in full
each month. There were a couple of hotel bookings, a fairly
large amount to a jeweller's, but nothing of great interest.
They already knew he had a mistress.
"I thought we'd lost you,' Liz said, coming into the study
just as he was browsing the books on the shelves. 'Coffee,'
she said, handing him a mug.
'Thanks.'
Still wearing her pyjamas, she leaned against the edge of
the desk. 'Have you found anything?'
'I'm not sure what I'm looking for.' That at least was
true. What he'd like to find was some damning piece of
evidence that would put Tony Hutchinson behind bars.
Why? Because he didn't like the man? No, there was more
to it than that. Tony Hutchinson was raising far too many
questions for Max's liking.
'Tony isn't a killer,' Liz said, 'if that's what you're
thinking.'
'That's good/ Grace said with a smile.
Liz Hutchinson would make a good prison visitor, Max
thought. Despite the hungover look, she was attractive.
She'd liven up any prison. If she had any sense, though,
she wouldn't bother visiting her husband.
'And no,' she added, 'there's not much love lost between
us. God knows why we stay together. I suppose he stays
with me because he'd find divorce distasteful - a man in
his position and all that. He's very fond of what he calls his
position.'
'Why do you stay with him?' Grace asked.
'He keeps the drinks cabinet stocked,' she answered
simply.
Max pointed at the glass in her hand. 'You drink too
much. And I'm allowed to say that because I drink
too much, too.'
'One dipso to another?' She laughed, and he thought
that in a happier relationship, she'd be a special sort of
woman.
'Something like that.'
'It passes the time,' she told him, 'and after a bottle of
vodka, even Tony looks appealing.'
Max could sympathize. Most things would look better
after a bottle of vodka.
As he spoke, he'd been idly glancing at the books on the
shelves. There were dozens of thrillers and murder mysteries
- PD. James, Ruth Rendell, James Patterson, Agatha
Christie and what looked to be a complete set by Arthur
Conan Doyle. There were also a couple of books on Jack
the Ripper.
'Good bedtime reading,' he said with a wry smile.
'He used to be a member of the Jack the Ripper Society
or whatever they call themselves,' Liz told him. 'Perhaps
he still is. I remember him dragging me round London
once. That was years ago. You can go on the guided tour
and see the murder spots. He loves stuff like that.'
'Really? God, he knows how to show a girl a good time.'
She laughed again, a light-hearted tinkling sound that
made Max smile.
'He doesn't have the balls to kill anyone though,' she said.
'If he had, I'd have been pushing up daisies for years.'
Max pointed at the desk. 'Does he do a lot of work from
home? I suppose he does. They reckon teaching is all
paperwork these days. A bit like my job.'
'He works late quite often, but he doesn't bring stuff
home. Well, he says he works late,' she corrected herself,
her tone bitter, 'but who knows what he's doing?' She
attempted to open the drawers, and seemed surprised to
discover that one side was locked. 'That'll be to keep the
cleaner out,' she explained. 'Molly Turnbull cleans here a
couple of afternoons a week. You'll have seen her up at
the vicarage.'
'Nosy, is she?'
'No more than most,' Liz said, 'but Tony likes to keep
things from her. The trouble is, he's always too lazy to
fetch the key so he ends up shoving stuff in the unlocked
side. It's just crap - bank statements and stuff like that. I'll
get the key for you. Not,' she added with a grin, 'that
you'll find his shotgun in there.'
While she was gone, Max studied the books more
closely. As well as the fiction, there were a couple on
forensic psychology.

It might not be the lightest reading material, but youcouldn't arrest a bloke for that. They already knew he'd
started a course in psychology and they knew he was a fan
of Jill's work and films like The Silence of the Lambs. All the
same, it didn't sit comfortably with Max.
'Here you are,' Liz Hutchinson said, dangling a small
key from her fingers.
Grace took the key from her and unlocked the drawers.
'I'll go and put some clothes on,' Liz said, leaving them
to it.
It was almost as if she wanted them to find some incriminating
piece of evidence. In fact, if she'd known they were
coming, she might even have planted something. She
hadn't known they were coming, though. He was being
fanciful.
Max looked in the drawers and, this time, all the financial
statements were stored neatly in folders in the top
drawer. There was a lot more paperwork but none of it
interesting - TV licence, house and contents insurance
policies, receipts for a DVD player and an electric fire.
In the bottom drawer was what at first glance looked to
be unused school notebooks. On closer inspection, Max
saw that newspaper clippings had been stuck in.
'Good God, look at this, boss!' Grace jabbed a finger at
one of the clippings, a grainy photograph.
It was poor quality, but Jill was easily recognizable. A
good quality copy of the same photograph had been hand
delivered to her cottage.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ella was relieved to see Tom in his chair in front of the TV.
She hated leaving him for long, but he was sound asleep,
looking relaxed and comfortable.
This morning, she had caught the train for Manchester
to meet up with Gemma Thornbury. They'd had a long
chat over afternoon tea at the Lowry Hotel. Sitting grandly
alongside the banks of the River Irwell, the five-star hotel
was dubbed Manchester's most fashionable venue. Ella
didn't doubt it.
It would have been a thoroughly enjoyable day if not for
worries about Tom, and frustration when her train was
delayed. She'd toyed with the idea of taking the car, but
she hated driving in Manchester these days. Traffic often
had the place at a standstill and Ella swore they changed
the one-way system on a daily basis.
Still, she was home now and Tom was with her. He was
snoring softly. Smiling, Ella sat back in the armchair,
slipped off her shoes, stretched her legs and closed her
eyes. She was shattered.
It was funny, she thought, how a mental picture of
someone could be so far off the mark. She and Gemma had
corresponded several times by email and she'd imagined
Gemma almost the same age as herself. It had come as a
surprise to meet a young woman in her thirties. Also, in
her emails, Gemma had appeared a brisk, businesslike
type. She had been lovely and Ella could have chatted to
her all day.
Gemma was researching her family tree and had wanted
to pick Ella's brain. It had been exciting to share her
knowledge of Rossendale with Gemma, and to be able to
give Gemma a photograph of the girl's great-greatgrandfather,
a local mill worker . . .
Ella was nodding off herself when Tom woke.
'How have you been, love?' she asked, determined to
keep her tone light and unconcerned.
'Fine.' He smiled that gentle smile of his. 'How was
your day?'
'Interesting.'
She told him of her day, about chatting with Gemma
over tea and cakes in the hotel.
'And you'll never guess who was on the train,' she
added.
'Charles and Camilla?'
'Tony Hutchinson and some girl.' Ella thought back to
the disturbing encounter. 'I've no idea who she was. The
type my mum would have said was no better than she
ought to be, whatever that means. Early twenties, I suppose.
A brassy-looking girl. Showing too much cleavage
and wearing a skirt that should have been sold as a belt.'
Tom laughed. 'Your powers of description never fail to
amaze me.'
"I wonder who she was.'
'Heavens, Ella, it was probably a friend or relative of his
and Liz's.'
'Never. If that were the case, he would have introduced
me. When he saw me, he went so red in the face I thought
he was going to explode there and then. He was up to no
good, you mark my words. If looks could kill, I wouldn't
be sitting here now.'
'You and your imagination.'
'Before he knew I was there, he handed her an envelope.
They looked close,' Ella said thoughtfully, 'but not happy
to be with each other if that makes sense.'
'None whatsoever.'
Ella laughed. Perhaps Tom was right, and she was reading
something into nothing. With so much on her mind
lately . . .
There was only one thing on her mind, losing her
beloved Tom. Somehow, and she had no idea how, she had
to face up to the fact that soon he would be taken from her.
She wouldn't think about it now, though. He was here
with her, and that was all that mattered. They would take
things a day at a time.
'Gemma showed me her family tree,' she rushed on,
changing the subject, 'and it was fascinating. She's a
proper detective, that girl. But what did fascinate me - of
course, Gemma wasn't interested in this - but what fascinated
me was that her aunt fosters children. Have you
heard Bob Murphy mention his Aunt Jenny? His foster
mother? Lives in Stockport? Well, this Jenny is Gemma's
aunt. What a small world we live in.'
"I knew he'd moved here from Stockport, but no, I don't
know of Aunt Jenny'
'Oh, I knew he'd been fostered. According to Gemma,
his mother died in a house fire. Anyway, I must remember
to tell Bob about young Gemma.'
'He's done well for himself has Bob,' Tom said. 'A
cracking little business he's got there and plenty of
friends.'
'No real family, though,' Ella said, 'and a good business
can't take the place of family.'
'That reminds me,' Tom said suddenly, 'we'll have a
word with him and see if he'll do that front wall. I don't
know why we didn't get him to do that when he did the
work on the kitchen.'
'I'll give him a call in the week,' Ella promised, amazed
that Tom could worry about garden walls when his life
was ebbing from him.
Her mind drifted back to her meeting on the train with
Tony Hutchinson. Even allowing for an over-active imagination,
there had been something odd about that. The
way he'd handed over that envelope had been shifty. He'd
looked about him and then, just as he was handing it over,
spotted Ella.
His face had quickly broken into a smile. It had been a
cold, forced smile that had stopped a long way short of
his eyes.
Ella wondered about Liz and, not for the first time, her
heart filled with sympathy. No wonder Liz had a drink
problem. Everyone in the village knew that Tony was an
incorrigible flirt. Ella guessed it went deeper than flirting,
too. It was none of her business, but she suspected Liz had
a lonely existence.
That woman he'd been with was too young to be his
mistress. What nonsense, she scoffed. No one would be
more thrilled than Tony to discover he could still attract
someone so young.
She could have been one of those escorts, she supposed.
Ella had no idea how the system worked, but didn't men
pay to have young women accompanying them? That
would explain the envelope he'd handed over. And didn't
those women often perform sexual favours?
Ella smiled to herself. She had no idea; and she wasn't
sorry about that.
'What's amused you?' Tom asked curiously.
'That woman with Tony Hutchinson,' she told him. 'I'd
just mentally booked her as one of those escorts. The sort
that are paid to go out with men. I then wondered if these
men had their wicked ways with them.'
'And do they?'
'I've no idea what they do/ Ella chuckled, 'and I'm way
too old to find out.'

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was the Sunday before Christmas, a bright, crisp, clear
day. It was getting chilly now, but the sun had made it
pleasantly warm during the day.
Jill had bought a book giving details of easy, moderate
and difficult walks in the area and today she'd chosen a
moderate one. Unfortunately, the author's idea of moderate
wasn't quite the same as Jill's. Her legs were protesting
and she still had quite a trek home. Perhaps she couldn't
blame the author for that; she'd spent too much time in
front of a computer lately and was out of condition.
There was another reason she couldn't blame the author;
she had a feeling she'd strayed from his route. She'd had a
vague idea of where she was, though, and when she came to
New Line reservoir, she knew exactly where she was, about
to head out on to the Bacup to Rochdale road.
She walked by the side of the lake and smiled at the way
the ducks and geese spotted her and rushed over.
'If I had any bread,' she told them, 'I'd be eating it
myself. I'm starving - duck with orange sauce sounds
good to me.'
With disgruntled quacks and squawks, they swam or
flew off.
Jill wished she'd brought her camera. The sun was sinking
fast, leaving everything bathed in warm light, and the
scenery was stunning. The hills rose behind the lake, the
steep fields separated by old stone walls. Sheep were white
spots on the hillside.
She'd visited her parents yesterday and had been
shocked by her mother's appearance. Since her last visit,
three or four months ago, Mum had aged. Yesterday, she'd
looked grey, tired and old. Her X-ray had revealed something
on her lung and, although Mum was reluctant to
discuss it, that constant cough had spoken for itself. She
was having an exploratory operation in the morning.
Jill refused to think about it. The whole purpose of this
walk had been to take her mind off it.
She was about to continue on her walk when she spotted
someone heading for one of the benches. Again, the ducks
and geese gave this person a noisy welcome. This time,
they were rewarded.
She watched the person throw bread on to the water for
a full minute before she realized it was Ella Gardner. She
walked across to join her.
'Jill! What are you doing out here?'

"I could ask the same of you. I'm out for a walk and think
I probably took the wrong turning. What about you?'
'I've been doing some last-minute Christmas shopping,'
Ella explained, 'and I often stop here on the way home.
Today, I even remembered to bring the stale bread.'
Ella looked tired. She also looked as if she had the
problems of the world on her shoulders.
'You OK, Ella?'
'Mmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine.' She smiled, but it looked a
little forced to Jill.
'Isn't it lovely here?'
'A gorgeous spot, isn't it?' Ella agreed. 'Did you see that
film - Whistle Down the Wind?'
'That's one of my all-time favourites. Alan Bates is the
escaped convict and Hayley Mills one of the children who
believes he's Jesus.'
Smiling, Ella nodded. "I love it, too. Some of it was
filmed round here, you know. One of the tunnels was used.
Of course, the tunnels are either blocked up now or used
for storage. And there's a good view of the old mill's
chimney . . .'
They chatted about other films they'd both enjoyed but
Jill still thought Ella had things on her mind.
'You sure you're OK, Ella?'
'Yes. It's just that - well, you'll know the police have
been questioning Tony Hutchinson?'
Jill inclined her head slightly, not sure she could discuss
the matter with Ella. 'They're bound to.'
'Because his gun was stolen, yes.' Ella was thoughtful.
"I saw him on the Manchester train the day before yesterday.
He was with a young girl. I didn't recognize her, but
he looked shifty, Jill. He handed her a well-stuffed envelope
and then he spotted me. The way he looked at me '
Ella shuddered. "I told Tom all about it and made light of
it for his benefit, but it made me quite nervous. It was
more than anger, somehow.'
Jill was intrigued. She guessed it would take a lot to
unnerve Ella.
Ella recounted the incident and gave Jill a good description
of the girl involved.
'Are you telling me this in confidence, Ella, or can I pass
it on to someone who might be interested?'
Ella thought for a few moments. 'Pass it on, Jill. It's
probably nothing at all, but you never know. Right/ she
went on briskly, 'you'd better have a lift home with me.
We've chatted so long, we'll be in the dark in a minute.'
'The exercise would do me far more good, but hey, I'd
love a lift, thanks.'
They left their bench and walked back to the picnic
area's car park. Only Ella's car was there, a small yellow
one, and Jill had to laugh as she got in.
'Are you prepared for every known emergency, Ella?'
'Pretty much,' Ella replied with a chuckle. 'I've maps,
water, sweets, a change of clothes, tissues, at least three
umbrellas, a first aid kit, a couple of books in case I get
stuck in a jam, binoculars in case I see some rare bird, a
flask - empty, sadly . . .'
Ella was a slow, careful and very courteous driver. No
one could have felt less than safe with her.
"I hear on the grapevine that you've been out with Bob
Murphy,' Ella remarked.
'Out? I have not. Oh, I called at The Weaver's Retreat for
a drink at the same time Bob called in. We didn't arrive or
leave together,' Jill replied, amazed at how effective the
grapevine was.
'Nice chap,' Ella said.
'Yes.' They'd spent a pleasant hour talking about horses.
Ella was right; as she pulled up outside Lilac Cottage it
was quite dark.
'Will you come in for a tea or coffee, Ella?' Jill hated
going inside on her own when it was dark. She dreaded
seeing another envelope lying on her doormat. Who was
she kidding? She was dreading far worse than that. Envelopes
she could cope with.
'Thanks, but I'd better make it another time. I need to
get home and see how Tom is.'
'Oh? Isn't he well?'
Ella hesitated. 'He's been a bit under the weather, that's
all, love. We'll save that cuppa for another time.'
Jill left the warm car and shivered. The temperature had
dropped during the short drive. She took her keys from
her pocket as she walked up the driveway - then dropped
them when a shadow suddenly moved.
'Bloody hell, Don! What in God's name are you doing
creeping around? You nearly gave me a heart attack.'
'Sorry, sorry'
Don Cornwall, wearing a smart suit as always, stood
beneath the security light looking very sheepish indeed.
"I was driving past and thought I saw someone lurking
around. I left my car at the end of the lane and walked back
to have a look.' He put his hand on her arm. 'Sorry.'

'And did you see anyone?' Jill's heart was pounding.
'No.'
She unlocked her door and pushed it open, pausing only
to straighten the holly wreath. There was nothing lying on
her doormat.
'Do you fancy a coffee now you're here?' she asked.
'Well, yes, that would be good if it's no trouble. And I'm
really sorry I scared you.'
'Forget it. I'm a bit jumpy at the moment, that's all.'
A bit jumpy was putting it mildly.
'Hey, this looks good - very tasteful.' Cornwall admired
the festive decorations. 'You've been busy'
She had. Determined to make her first Christmas in
Kelton Bridge a good one, she'd bought new decorations,
all in a red and green theme, and decked the place in holly
sprigs and fir cones . . .
Jill hadn't even had time to put the kettle on when there
was a hammering on her door that set her heartbeat off
even faster.
Cornwall looked at her, and must have seen how she'd
jumped at the sound. 'Do you want me to get it?' he asked
curiously.
'No.' She smiled at her own stupidity. 'I'm a little paranoid
at the moment. You'll have to bear with me.'
When she opened the door, it was Bob Murphy who was
bathed in the orange glow given off by her security light.
"I thought I'd drop these prices in for you/ he said.
'Gosh, that was quick. Thanks, Bob. Are you coming in?'
'Thanks, but I'm in a rush. Another time perhaps. Have
a look through those.' He gestured at the large white
envelope in her hand. 'Give me a ring sometime.'
"I will, and thanks again.'
He was halfway along her drive, heading back to his
white van, when he suddenly turned. 'What do you think
of Sundown's chances? He's running at Wolverhampton
tomorrow.'
"I know he is. Not a hope in hell.'
'You're probably right,' he agreed with a laugh, giving
her a wave as he carried on his way.
Feeling all kinds of an idiot, Jill returned to the kitchen
to make coffee for herself and Don Cornwall.

Chapter Thirty-Four

He hit the button and the car's window purred open.
'How much?' he asked, when she leaned on the roof and peered
inside.
'Depends what you want.'
This one looked uninterested, as if it were her choice and
not his.
He took his wallet from his top shirt pocket, flicked it open so
she'd see the wad of notes, then returned it to his pocket. "I want
the best.'
She was interested now. Bitches. They'd do anything for
money. They would even die for it.
"I can give you an hour you'll never forget,' she promised.
Likewise, sweetheart, he thought, suppressing the urge to
laugh.
'Get in then.'
She opened the door, threw a well-worn brown handbag in the
passenger footwell and was about to get in when she suddenly
changed her mind.
"I need a pee,' she gasped, pulling a face. 'Give me two
minutes. "I'll nip round the corner there. No one will see me.'
Before he could argue, she dashed off towards a block of flats
where the walls were covered in graffiti and the doorways probably
stank of urine.
'Don't drive off she yelled after her. 'You've got my handbag.'
Bitch. Stupid fucking bitch!
He couldn't hang around here like a sitting target.
The seconds ticked away. What was she doing?
'Tuck! Tuck! Tuck!' He wasn't taking this shit. He slammed
the car into first gear and drove off fast.
'Don't panic,' he told himself as he drove. 'Don't panic'
He slowed the car and drove at a steady thirty miles per hour.
There was nothing to worry about. The silly bitch would be
standing on the pavement wondering where he - and her handbag - had gone. She'd be thinking about the cash she'd missed
out on. The thought made him smile.
He was still smiling when he saw the police car in his rearview
mirror.

Chapter Thirty-Five





The incident room was like something from the forthcoming
Burnley versus Blackburn Rovers cup-tie. Everyone
was shouting at everyone else and Max swore that
violence was only a breath away. He should have calmed
things down, but he felt far from calm himself and was
having to shout to stand even a slim chance of being
heard.
'If Hutchinson so much as looks at a double yellow,' he
shouted, "I want him hauled in. OK?'
'But, boss, we've got enough to do without wasting our
time on him,' someone argued.
'We've got nothing on him/ someone else complained.
'Stop arguing,' he yelled at them. "I don't like the
fucking creep, and that's reason enough. You want more
reasons? His gun's been stolen, he's already lied to us Jesus!
How much more do you want? You're supposed to
be detectives. Now get out there and fucking detect.'
The door opened and Jill stood there, reeling slightly at
the din that met her.
'I'll be with you in a minute,' Max snapped at her.
She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
'Right, you lot,' Max went on, 'we've got dead bodies
turning up like Reader's Digest prize draws, we're getting
bollocked left, right and centre from above, and the press
are making us look like Miss Marple on Valium. We need
a soddin' result.'
Before they could argue any more, Max marched out of
the room, gave the door a satisfactory slam, and left them
to call him unspeakable things at their leisure.
He had a million things to do, including yet another
bollocking from the powers that sat behind executive
desks all day, but he went off to find Jill first.
When he eventually spotted her, she was outside in
the car park, and he ran to catch up with her. 'Did you
want me?'
She nodded at the second floor of the building. 'What
was all that about?'
'Tempers are running high. We're getting nowhere with
anything and frustration is beginning to show.'
"I only wanted a quick word, Max, and it's probably
nothing.' She told him of her meeting with Ella, and Ella's
description of Tony Hutchinson's behaviour on the train.
'The thing is,' she warned him, 'it's a bit tricky. He spotted
Ella so if you go questioning him about it, he'll know
where it's come from. She doesn't strike me as the type to
be easily scared but she admitted it made her nervous.'
'Don't worry, we'll tread carefully.' She was right; it was
probably nothing. All the same, it was still coming back to
Hutchinson. 'Could the woman in question have been a
prostitute?'
'That's what I wondered,' Jill said with a sigh. 'The way
Ella described her, she could have been. She said she wore
lots of make-up, had plenty of cleavage, and was showing
off her assets. Yes, she might have been.'
God, he'd nail Hutchinson for something, even if it were
only driving without due care and attention.
'I'm glad I caught you,' he said. 'I'm just off to see a
working girl, and I wish you'd come along.'
'Oh?'
'She lives in Burnley with her husband and a couple of
kids and, apparently, works the streets of Preston.'
'Uh? That's a long way to go.'
'It is. Her husband knows nothing about it. She's told
him she's got an overnight job at one of the supermarkets.
She reckons selling her body pays better than stacking

shelves. Anyway, on Monday night, she was about to get
in a bloke's car when she spotted what she thought was a
silk scarf in his jacket pocket. His jacket was lying on the
back seat. It gave her a funny feeling and she ran off.'
Jill's eyes widened. 'And you think it was Valentine?'
"I don't know. Probably not/ he admitted.
'But you're not '
"I know, I know, but Cornwall reckons it's nothing.
They've spoken to her and dismissed her. I want to talk to
her - unofficial. I don't know, Jill, call it a hunch.'
She nodded. 'OK.'

'So what exactly spooked her?' Jill asked as Max drove
them to Janie Fisher's address.
'Just a scarf she saw. If it was a scarf. She said it gave
her a funny feeling. Oh, and she's as mad as hell at us
apparently because she ran off and left her handbag in
his car.'
'You what?'
'Our fault, she reckons. We should make the streets
safer.'
'Ah, right.' Jill shook her head, bemused.
Janie Fisher lived on a sprawling estate that was mainly
local authority housing. Jill had seen better places to live,
but she'd also seen a lot worse. In fact, the houses were
almost identical to the one Jill had been brought up in.
Some of the cars parked outside the houses looked roadworthy.
Most didn't.
They got out of the car and Max was about to open the
gate to number 27 - even the house number was the same
as the one from Jill's childhood - when an angry-looking
German shepherd appeared from nowhere. It was barking
and snapping with teeth bared.
'Shit!' Jill backed away in fright.
'OK, Lennox,' Max muttered, 'you win. We'll stand here
and look like a pair of prats for a minute.'
After what seemed an age, with Jill convinced her eardrums
would never recover, a woman appeared at the
front door.
'Yes?' Her snap was as intimidating as the dog's.
'Janie Fisher?' Max had to yell to make himself heard
over the dog's noise.
'Who's asking?'
'Detective Chief Inspector '
'I've already seen you lot/ she cut him off, coming to
the gate.
This wasn't going to be easy, Jill realized.
'Yes, I know, but we wanted to ask you a couple of
questions.' He looked at the dog, then looked at her.
'Can we come in for a minute, please?' She hesitated.
'Look,' he said, 'if we piss you off, you can set the dog on
us. Right?'
There was a moment's hesitation. 'Tyson, get in the
back,' she said, resigned.
Tyson didn't budge. He did quieten down though, content
now to make the odd deep-throated growl, and they
managed to get to the front door and then inside the hall
with their limbs intact.
'You'd better come in,' Janie Fisher muttered, pushing
open the door to the sitting room.
She looked as if she'd just got out of bed. Perhaps she
had. Long blonde hair was tied back in a blue band. She
wore shapeless black leggings, a dark blue sweatshirt
and worn suede slippers.
The room looked like Santa's grotto, but it was clean and
tidy. Kids' toys had been put neatly in a corner. A huge
television set dominated most of one wall. It must have
cost more than the rest of the furniture put together. Paper
chains criss-crossed the ceiling, a huge tree was covered in
baubles and flashing lights, and Christmas cards had been
stuck to the walls.
'What do you want to know?' Janie Fisher demanded
impatiently.
Tyson had wandered off into the kitchen and Jill began
to breathe more easily.
'I'm Jill Kennedy' Well, Max hadn't bothered to introduce
her. 'And we'd like to hear anything you can tell us.
Anything at all - no matter how insignificant it sounds.
The man you saw might have been responsible for a
number of murders.' Janie Fisher shuddered at that. 'The
truth is,' Jill went on, 'we haven't got a lot to go on. We
want him caught and quick. So do you. If it was him,
you're the first person to get away alive.'
Jill waited for that to sink in.
'If things had been different, we could have been calling
here to tell your kids that their mum was dead,' she
pointed out. 'Not the Christmas present you'd want for
them, I'm sure.'
She waited for that to sink in, too, and watched her mull
over it.
'We believe,' Max explained, 'that our man lures prostitutes
into his car, drives them off to some deserted spot
and strangles them. We know nothing else about him. So
anything you can tell us will be a step forward.'
'If it was him,' Janie Fisher pointed out. "I feel a bit daft
about it now. It was probably nothing. The thing was, a
couple of us had been talking about this killer, even having
a laugh about it, and we'd spooked ourselves. Daft really.
But when I saw that bleeding scarf '
'What sort of scarf was it?' Jill asked.

Janie Fisher sat down and, without waiting to be invited,
Max and Jill followed her example.
Jill could see she was shaken and doing her best to
remember everything.
'It was a dark maroon scarf. Looked like silk to me. Of
course, it might have been a flashy handkerchief or
something.'
'Did he look the type to have silk handkerchiefs?' Jill
asked.
Janie Fisher shook her head.
'And the scarf or handkerchief, whatever it was, was in
his jacket pocket? Right?' Max asked.
'Yes, his jacket was lying on the back seat of the car. A
brown corduroy casual jacket.' She thought for a moment.
'He was wearing a shirt, brushed cotton probably. It was a
pale colour - yellow perhaps. And he was wearing a
baseball cap that kept his face in shadow. I don't know, it
was dark and I could only go by the car's interior light.'
'Tell us about the man himself. What did he look like?'
Jill asked.
"I don't know because I couldn't see much. He was big,
though. Big shoulders.'
Jill knew the description wouldn't be too reliable. If
people were frightened, the person responsible was always
described as being big, powerful and threatening.
'What about the car?' Max asked. 'You said it was a big
car, either dark blue or black. Is that right?'
'Yes, but it was dark and, to be honest, with Christmas
round the corner, I was more interested in the cash he
showed me. Must have had at least a grand in his wallet.
But as soon as I saw that scarf, I lost my nerve and
scarpered. Lost my bleedin' handbag, too.'
'This car, though, was it a big saloon or an estate?'
"I don't know. It might have been the same as yours.'
Jill and Max both turned to look out at his car, reassuring
themselves that it was still there. They didn't have a good
view, though; the wheels could easily be missing.
'He had big hands,' Janie said vaguely.
'Big hands?' Jill queried. 'What sort of hands? Did they
look soft and well cared for? Or were they work
roughened? Do you think he worked at a desk or something
more manual?'
"I don't know.'
'What about the inside of the car?' Max asked. 'What
was that like?'
'Dark upholstery. That coat lying on the back seat.' She
sighed. "I can't remember anything else.'
'Could he have had grey hair?' Max asked. 'Tall, early
fifties, grey hair, fit-looking?'
Jill scowled at him. He'd just described Tony
Hutchinson.
"I didn't see his hair. It was under that baseball cap,'
she explained. 'He was younger than that, though. He
sounded younger anyway.'
'Any sort of accent?' Jill put in.
'Nothing I noticed.'
'OK, humour me, will you?' Max asked, giving her one of
his coaxing smiles. 'Tell us again exactly what happened,
where you were, and where you went afterwards.'
'Are you lot fucking thick or what?'
Gritting her teeth, Janie told them exactly what had
happened from start to finish. They'd hoped her story
might have changed, or that something else might have
come to mind, but she told them nothing they didn't
already know.
"I found my mate quickly which was just as well because
I had to borrow the taxi fare off her. She lives in Burnley,
too. We both work out in Preston.'
'And your husband thinks you have a job in a supermarket?'
Jill asked.
'Yes, and I don't want him knowing any different. OK?'
'Of course.' Max got to his feet. 'Thanks for that. We'll be
off now. One more thing, though. Will you come out to my
car and see if you can spot any differences?'
She frowned, puzzled.
'You reckon he might have been driving a blue Ford
Mondeo like mine. If I sit in it, and we pretend I'm him, it
might jog your memory'
'Sure.' She wanted to be rid of them.
They got as far as the hall and then the dog was there,
breathing on Jill's hand and growling menacingly.
'It's OK, Lennox/ Max said. 'We're leaving now.'
'What did you call him?' Janie asked.
'Ah, sorry, he's Tyson, isn't he? He looks more like a
Lennox to me.'
Janie Fisher looked at him as if he were mad. Jill knew
how she felt.
'You're sure you can't remember even one letter or number
from the registration plate?' Jill asked as they walked
outside.
"I didn't even look at it.'
Max flicked the remote to unlock the car. At least the
wheels were still attached.
'OK, I'll sit inside,' he said. 'This chap wound the window
down to talk to you, right?'
'Yeah.'
Max sat inside the car, started the engine and hit the
button for the window.
Janie peered inside. 'His car was cleaner and tidier.'
Jill also peered in and saw the passenger footwell. There
were at least four empty plastic cups. The rest of the car
was no better. Pens and loose change were scattered
around, CDs were waiting to be put back in cases, and
there was more dog hair than Tyson could boast. Jill hadn't
thought anything of it when he'd driven her out here, but
it was a mess.
'Other than that/ Janie said, 'it might have been a car
like this.'

'What about the man himself?' Max pushed on. 'What
was the difference between him and me?'
'You're better looking.' For the first time, Jill saw a hint
of a smile on her face.
'Why, thank you/ Max said, taken aback.
'Mind you, he was probably better looking in daylight.
You do smell better, though.' She frowned. 'There was a
funny smell to his car. It was a mixture of dampness,
something musty, and orange air freshener. Yeah, his car
smelt damp.'
'Damp?' Jill queried.
'Yeah.' Janie straightened up. 'Sorry, that's all I can tell
you.'
'OK, Janie. Thanks for that. If we need to talk to you '
'Don't come at the weekend or in the evenings,' she
warned. "I don't want my old man knowing about it.'
'Don't worry. But if you think of anything else, anything
at all, give me a call, OK?' Max took a card from his pocket.
'That number will get straight through to me.'
She took the card from him.
'And be careful,' he warned as he pushed opened the car
door for Jill.
Jill suspected Max was relieved to be driving out of the
estate with a full set of wheels.
"I reckon you were well in there,' she quipped. 'With a
bit of luck, you'd probably get a discount.'
'Oh, very droll. So what did you think?'
"I think,' Jill said carefully, 'that Janie Fisher's one
lucky lady'
He looked at her as he slowed for a corner.
"I think she's the first witness,' Jill said.
'You really think it was Valentine?'
'Yes, I do. Who else would carry around a grand in cash?
With that sort of loose change, you don't have to waste
your time kerb-crawling. Now, why in hell's name would
his car smell damp?' she murmured, puzzled. 'Because it's
not used often,' she answered her own question. 'It spends
most of its time locked away in a garage - a damp garage.
So he has two cars.'
'You'd better mention all this to your mate Cornwall,'
Max told her.
'Oh, great. And how do I explain how I came to be out
here with you?'
He laughed. 'You'll think of something.'

Chapter Thirty-Six

With Christmas and the New Year celebrations over, the
office was returning to normal, and Max wasn't sorry
about that. He preferred normal.
Christmas was great for the kids, but there was nothing
else to recommend it. Max hated the waste. Instead of
buying presents no one wanted, he wished people would
donate the money to charity. It would be far simpler. It
would cut down on the number of burglaries, too.
But Christmas was over, thank God.
"I sometimes think,' he said to no one in particular, 'that
if people in this country stopped owning dogs, we'd never
solve a crime.'
'You what, guv?' Grace looked up from the computer on
her desk.
'We've had a call from a woman out walking her dog,'
Max told her. 'The dog found a shotgun.'
'Great stuff.'
'Indeed. It was at the bottom of a bonfire that had been
built for a New Year party they were having in Kelton. The
party was cancelled because of the bad weather.' He
looked at his watch. 'Alan and Fletch were near Kelton so
they should have it by now.'
No sooner had he spoken than Atkinson put his head
round the door. 'That gun, guv?'
'Yes?' Max knew from the smile that Atkinson was failing
to hide that he didn't want to hear this. 'It's not a
sodding toy one, is it?'
'The dog thinks so,' Atkinson said, grinning. 'They can't
get it off her. Thinks it's a stick, they reckon.' His grin grew
broader. 'They've called in for back-up.'
'Bloody hell!'
'We've got a vet and the local dog warden on their way.
And a couple of uniforms are out there.'
'Oh, for fuck's sake!' Max muttered.
'The dog's owner is getting hysterical. I suppose that's
understandable if the gun's loaded. The dog could shoot
itself. Or Fletch/ he added with a guffaw of laughter. 'Now
that'd be a first. Has a copper ever been shot by a dog?'
'God knows. But if Fido's a good shot, he can come
round here for some bloody target practice.'
'It's Tilly, guv. A Labrador cross puppy, by all accounts.
I thought it might have been a Rottweiler at the very least,
but no, it's an Andrex puppy.'
Unable to control his mirth any longer, Atkinson left
the room.
Max was glad someone was finding something to smile
about. He wasn't. As each day passed, any clues left by the
killer or killers of Alice and Jonathan Trueman were being
lost. They were getting nowhere.
This shotgun had been found at the bottom of a pile
of wood less than a quarter of a mile from the church.
Surely to God it had to be the one used to kill Jonathan
Trueman, the same gun that had been stolen from Tony
Hutchinson.
As soon as that damned Andrex puppy had finished
playing with it and they could confirm it was Hutchinson's
gun, he was going to lean on that man. Heavily.
It was almost two hours later when Alan and Fletch
returned.
'Woof, woof,' someone growled.
'Fuck off!' Fletch snapped back, but this merely brought
forth gales of laughter.

When they had Hutchinson in the interview room, Max
wondered where to start. Hutchinson was already pissing
him off, simply because he was delighted to be asked to
help them. The cocky bastard enjoyed being the centre of
attention.
"I suppose,' Hutchinson said as soon as they'd switched
on the tape and identified themselves, 'that now you've
found my gun, I'm chief suspect?'
'You are. So tell me again where you were on the evening
of November twenty-ninth, the night Jonathan True
man was murdered.'
"I arrived at the school at 7 p.m.,' he explained patiently.
'And your mistress?' Max asked. 'Where was she? Still
in the hotel room in Manchester?'
"I dropped her off at her house,' he said, reddening
slightly. 'We didn't think we should arrive at the school
together. You know how tongues wag.'
They didn't wag as much as Max would have liked.
'So I dropped her off and drove straight to the school.
That would have been seven o'clock. No, it was a few
minutes before that actually. I remember wanting to hear
the seven o'clock news on the radio and I was planning to
sit in the car until it came on. However, a lad's mother, Mrs
Tooney - I can give you her address - arrived and parked
alongside me. I thought it would look rude to ignore her so
I walked into the building with her.'
Mrs Tooney had already confirmed that.
'Have you ever slept with Mrs Tooney?'
'Have you seen her?'
Max hadn't, but Fletch had said that given the choice of
a night with Mrs Tooney or a night with a dozen rats, he'd
choose the latter. Not that there would have been much
difference, Fletch reckoned.
'Perhaps she'd like you to,' Max said with a shrug.
'Perhaps she'd cover for you.'
'Perhaps she would,' Hutchinson answered, eyes narrowed,
'but even if she did, there were plenty of other
people there who spoke to me. All those present were
named in the minutes and I gave you a copy of the
minutes.'
Yes, they'd seen the minutes.
'The minutes typed by your mistress,' Max pointed out.
'The minutes typed by my secretary,' Hutchinson corrected
him.
'What time did the meeting finish?' Max asked.
'Eight thirty-two according to the minutes/ Hutchinson
said crisply. 'As soon as it closed, we had tea and biscuits.
A few left straight after the meeting, but I was there until
the bitter end.'
'And you drove straight home?'
'No, I gave Pam Struthers a lift home. That only took me
about ten minutes out of my way'
'So you gave your mistress a lift '
'She was with me in her secretarial role.'
'What time did you get home?'
'Just after nine thirty'
Jonathan Trueman had been killed when Hutchinson
was at his meeting conveniently surrounded by witnesses.
Max had begged and nagged, insisted everything was
double-checked, but the pathologist was adamant that
death couldn't have occurred any later. Besides, Max had
been there not long after nine thirty.
Whether Max liked it or not, and he didn't, Hutchinson
had watertight alibis for the afternoon Alice Trueman's
throat had been cut, and the night Jonathan Trueman had been shot in the legs before being killed at point blank
range with a 12-bore shotgun.
"I had a chat with your wife,' Max remarked.
'So she told me. Fine. I have nothing to hide.'
"I came across a scrapbook you've been keeping,' Max
said casually. 'You're very interested in murder, aren't
you?'
'So are you. That doesn't make either of us killers.'
'All I want is a safer place for my kids to grow up. I'd
be delighted if no more murders were committed.'
'I'm interested in anything that happens locally/ Hutchinson
said, 'and this serial killer makes a good story'
'What are your views?'
Hutchinson frowned. 'On what?'
'This killer. The victims. The police involvement.
Anything.'
'Well, the killer's obviously a complete maniac. That's
obvious, isn't it? The victims are prostitutes and that's
always been a dangerous job. The police, I'm prepared
to believe, know a lot more about it than Joe Public is
being told.'
Max let his last comment go. If Joe Public believed that,
at least they were getting something right.
'Is that it?' he asked, feigning disappointment. 'You're
fascinated - your word, I believe - by forensic psychology.
Don't you have any theories?'
'Ah, but I don't have the background info you have.'
'Do you like prostitutes?'
Hutchinson laughed. He was a cocky one. "I neither like
nor dislike them. I don't know any personally. I'm sure
they're like every other group. Some good, and some bad.'
"I suppose you're right. Let's get back to this gun of
yours. Have you any idea at all as to who might have
stolen it?'
'None. There's been no sign of a break-in, as you know.'
'You don't seem too concerned about it,' Max commented.
'If my home had been broken into, I'd be
extremely upset.'
'I'm sure you know how many burglaries - unsolved
burglaries - take place these days, even in a place like
Kelton/ Hutchinson replied smoothly. "I consider myself
lucky in that (a) neither my wife nor I were home at the
time to come face to face with the culprit and (b) nothing
else was taken.'
'You said that only you and your wife have keys?'
'Of course. Who else would have one?' He raised his
eyebrows at the stupidity of the question.
'Who knows? My mother-in-law has a key to my house.
So does a neighbour.'
'No one has a key to ours.'
'Except Molly Turnbull, your cleaner.'
Hutchinson looked surprised. 'Does she have one?'
'According to your wife, there's a key left under a tub on
the patio for her.'
'There doesn't seem much point because Liz is always
there when she arrives but - well, if Liz says there's a key
left there, then obviously there is. Damn silly thing to do,
though. I'll have words with Liz about that.'

'Good idea,' Max said. 'So does anyone else have access
to your home?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Your mistress perhaps?'
Hutchinson smirked. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

Max rose, signalled to Fletch to keep at him in the hope
that he'd get somewhere, and left the room.
He grabbed a coffee and sat down in front of the camera
to see Fletch asking Hutchinson about Chloe Barratt, the
woman Ella Gardner had seen him with on the train.
'Why did you arrange to meet her that particular day?'
Fletch asked.
Hutchinson rolled his eyes, then laughed with feigned
exasperation. 'How many times do I have to tell you?
I didn't arrange to meet her. We both happened to be
travelling on the same train.'
That's exactly what Chloe Barratt had said, and Max
didn't believe either of them. Something was going on, and
Max would love to know exactly what. Ella Gardner had
said he hadn't been pleased to be spotted, and she swore
he'd handed over an envelope.
'An ex-pupil of yours, I gather/ Fletch said.
'Until the age of eleven, yes. She left secondary school at
sixteen to become a hairdresser. That's five years ago now.'
'Does your wife dress up in a school uniform for you?'
Fletch's question took Hutchinson completely by surprise.
It had a similar effect on Max. 'Of course not. What
do you think I am, for God's sake?'

Fletch, wisely Max thought, chose not to answer that.
'But you did have an affair with Chloe Barratt?'
'We had a fling a couple of years ago,' Hutchinson told
him. 'She was nineteen then and I imagine she'd outgrown
her uniform.'
'A fling. An affair. It's the same thing, isn't it?'
'If you like.'
Max turned away from the screen and went back to
his office.

Chapter Thirty-Seven







Jill didn't know why she had agreed to this day out with
Max and the boys. Kate had been persuasive, no doubt
about that.
'It'll do you good,' Kate had said, 'and it'll do Harry and
Ben good.'
'Max said he wants to pick my brain,' Jill had pointed
out, 'so we'll only be talking shop.'
'Even that might do Max good. He's struggling with
this case.'
Jill knew that. Until he could forget Valentine for more
than ten minutes at a stretch, he would struggle with every
case they gave him. He couldn't accept that there were
dozens of equally capable people working on Valentine's
case and that he was senior investigating officer on the
Truemans' case.
'Have a good walk on the beach,' Kate had said. 'Enjoy
the fresh air and enjoy being with the boys for a day. Hang
it all, Max will even buy you lunch . . .'
So here she was, walking along the beach near Southport,
with Max at her side. Harry and Ben were racing
around with the dog. Fly hadn't seen the sea before and
was barking like something demented every time a wave
appeared.
January was always a flat month, the weather usually
too bad to venture far, and Jill had to admit that it was
bliss to feel the sun on her face, and the wind whipping at
her hair. It was cold, but exhilarating. Besides, she had
never wanted to distance herself from Harry and Ben. She
would see them at Christmas and around their birthdays,
and keep up a contact in between.
'You're miles away,' Max remarked.
"I was just thinking what a refreshing change it made not
to be staring at a VDU.' She looked at him. 'What will you
do when this is all over? I don't mean the Truemans' case,
I mean when Valentine is behind bars.'
'I'll persuade you to marry me, and retire,' he said
immediately. 'I'll buy a beach bar in Spain. Shergar can fix
the drinks, Lord Lucan can take care of the cellar, Elvis can
cook the steaks.'
She smiled at the picture he painted. 'Yes, Max, but what
will you really do?'
'I'll persuade you to marry me, retire, buy a beach bar in
Spain '
Her loud, impatient sigh cut him short.
'Why did Jonathan Trueman kill his wife?' he asked,
changing the subject.
'You think he did?'
Max bent to pick up a pebble. He turned it over in his
hand, then threw it at the sea, watching as it bounced and
skimmed across the waves.
"I think that's the most likely explanation, yes.'
So did Jill. It was the only sensible explanation.
'He got there early,' Max said, 'they had a row, and he
killed her. Assuming he found her in bed, or in the bath
with someone else, do you think he might have lost it and
killed her?'
'No. He was too calm and exact a character for losing
control like that,' Jill replied. 'He loved her, though, no
doubt about that. He worshipped the ground she walked
on. If he did kill her, it was because she was leaving him
for someone else.' She thought for a moment.
'No one believes she would have looked twice at anyone
else.'
'Except Jim Brody,' Jill pointed out. 'Molly Turnbull
thought she had a soft spot for him.'
"I think that might have been Molly's over-active imagination.
Brody's adamant he was just the gardener. Along
with everyone else in the world, he reckons Alice Trueman
was one of the nicest people ever born, but he swears they
only talked about gardening. Added to which, he's got a
cast iron alibi for both occasions. When Alice Trueman was
murdered, he was at the hospital having a couple of
stitches and a tetanus jab. He was there for hours so he
hadn't spent the morning in bed with Alice.'
'That's some alibi.'
'It is. He'd been sawing up logs for Ella Gardner. She
drove him to the hospital and that all checks out.'
'What about the night Jonathan Trueman was killed?'
'He was visiting his brother in London. He even went to
great lengths to get the used rail ticket out of the dustbin
to show us.'
Jim Brody hadn't struck Jill as a criminal, and certainly
not a killer. She didn't know him well, but they'd had a
chat earlier in the week when they'd both been in The
Weaver's Retreat talking to Andy Collins. He seemed a
likeable, friendly chap. According to everyone she'd
spoken to, he was an asset to Kelton Bridge. He'd lived in
the village for several years, he mowed the grass in the
churchyard for nothing, and arranged an annual collection
for the RNLI.
'What about Tony Hutchinson's gun?' she murmured.
'That's odd, isn't it?'
'Very,' Max said grimly. "I wouldn't trust that bloke as
far as I could chuck an elephant. There was no sign of a
break-in, and he hadn't even noticed it was missing.
According to Molly Turnbull, and Liz Hutchinson has
confirmed this, she left a key for Molly underneath a
patio tub if she was going out. It's feasible that someone
knew that.'
'Or found it. Where's the first place you'd look for
a key?'
'Quite.'
Seagulls circled overhead, dipping and diving on the air
currents.
Jill had always enjoyed this, walking with Max and
bouncing ideas back and forth. When they'd been together,
though, their ideas had seemed sharper, their minds
quicker. Now, they both seemed dull and tired. Or was that
her imagination?
'It's Alice's past that intrigues me,' Jill remarked. 'How
does that check out? Any former lovers who might have
come back into her life? Anyone she left? Someone she left
for Jonathan? They'd been married for some time before Michael was born so it wasn't as if she felt she had to
marry him. There has to have been some sort of regret
there, though. No matter how much she loved Jonathan,
and I'm prepared to believe she did love him, she must
have longed for her former life.'
'We're checking it out, but she could have been as
happy as Larry with Jonathan Trueman. Just because that
life wouldn't appeal to us, it doesn't follow that Alice
hated it.'
"I know, but I can't see it. If someone more romantic, fun
and exciting came back into her life for any reason, I think
she might have been tempted. Oh, she wouldn't have done
anything drastic perhaps, but she might have met up with
an old friend for coffee, maybe an evening out.'
'You think Jonathan was the jealous type?'
'Yes. He lived in fear of losing her to someone else,' Jill
said. 'Living that way for almost twenty-five years would
take its toll on anyone.'
They walked on. The boys, oblivious to their presence,
were kicking a football for the dog to chase. Jill wondered
if they would remember this day in years to come. There
was nothing memorable about the day, yet they were
happy and carefree . . .
'Everything takes so long,' Max complained. 'Imagine
the time it's taking to try and track Alice's movements over
the last year or so. And then imagine trying to contact
everyone she's ever known.'
'It's always the same, Max. You know that. That's the
job. You plod away until something turns up. And something
always does turn up.'
'Not always.'
'Yes, always. Even if it takes thirty years or more.'
Max groaned at the thought of that, and Jill had to
smile.
It was true, though. Something always turned up.
Always. The killer or killers of Jonathan and Alice True
man would be found, and so would Valentine. She was
confident of that.





Chapter Thirty-Eight

Max and Grace were back in the interview room. Grace
switched on the tape and named those present.
Andy Collins looked nervous as Max took his seat opposite
him. His face was pale and he kept licking his lips and
swallowing as if he doubted his ability to talk. He was
there of his own free will, however, and had said he was
more than happy to answer their questions.
Here was another man Max didn't like. Hell, he didn't
like any man who managed to take Jill out to lunch.
Thanks to Kate and the kids, Max had bought her lunch on
Sunday, but she wouldn't have dreamed of dining alone
with him. Was that the only reason he disliked Andy
Collins? Probably, he admitted to himself.
Collins' past was proving tricky to unearth and discovering
he'd spent time alone with Alice Trueman was a
breakthrough of sorts.
'Where were you on the afternoon of Monday, eighth of
November?' Max asked him.
'The day Alice was murdered?'
'Yes.'
"I was working. I don't have my diary with me but, from
memory, I was out in Haslingden all day. I'd had a couple
of appointments, possible house sales. I was definitely in
Haslingden during the afternoon. My last appointment
was with a Mrs Smith - a four-bedroomed detached that
we'd just had an offer on. I expect she'll vouch for that.'
She already had.
'And when you left Mrs Smith?'
'It wasn't worth going back to the office, so I drove
home. I changed, then went down to The Weaver's Retreat
for a drink. It was while I was there that I heard about poor
Alice. I liked her.'
'Most people liked her.'
'Everyone liked her,' he said quietly.
'Not everyone,' Max pointed out. 'Someone murdered
her.'
Andy Collins began swallowing rapidly. 'Yes,' he
agreed, his voice hoarse.
'Any ideas? Can you think of anyone who might have
borne a grudge, someone she'd upset, anyone who might
have disliked her enough to kill her?'
'No. No one.'
'Do you know much about her past?' Grace put in.
'Not really. She was a dancer, I heard. She was on TV a
few times.'
'She had the body of a dancer, didn't she?' Grace murmured.
'A very attractive lady, wasn't she? Sexy, I suppose.
Did you find her sexy?'
"I never thought of her that way, no.' Collins ran a finger
around the inside of his collar. It was warm in the interview
room, Max thought. Probably too warm.
'Tell me about the time you were charged with rape,'
Max demanded, and Collins cleared his throat.
'It was a long time ago '
'1987,' Max supplied helpfully.
"I was a student at university,' Collins explained hesitantly.
'A girl there, Lucy Rickman, asked me out. She'd
had a lot to drink and it was coming up to Christmas.
I couldn't make it so I declined. She seemed upset. Days
later, when she'd sobered up, she apologized for being so
pushy, and I suppose I felt sorry for her. I also regretted
being a bit rude when I declined. So I asked her out for a
couple of drinks, the cinema and then more drinks. Afterwards,
we went back to her place.'
'And?' Max prompted.
'We had a kiss or two. A bit of a fumble, I suppose. Look,
is this relevant?'
'Who knows? Define fumble.'
'A bit of petting, you know. We kissed, and I fondled her
breasts. That was all, I swear. She didn't turn me on.'
'Why not?' Grace asked.
'She just didn't. Apart from the fact that she wasn't
anything special to look at, she talked non-stop. I found
her tedious.'
'Then what happened? After your, er, fumble?' Grace
asked.
"I went home,' he said. 'The next day, I was informed I'd
been accused of rape.'
'Why do you think that was?' Max asked.
"I couldn't say,' Collins replied thoughtfully. 'Either she
was mad at me for turning her down the first time, or
she felt bad when I didn't take things further. I got the
impression I could have spent the night with her if I'd
so desired.'
'Why did she drop the charges?' Max asked.
"I imagine that all she wanted to do was scare me. And
if I'm honest, she did. No bloke wants to be on a rape
charge. But I doubt if she wanted to go to court any more
than I did.'
'Have you seen her since?' Max asked.
'What do you think?' Collins demanded scathingly.
'And I really can't see what any of this has to do with Alice
and Jonathan.'
'Probably nothing,' Max agreed. 'You're not married,
are you?'
'No.'
'Why's that?' Grace asked. 'A good-looking bloke like
you, I would have thought they'd be forming a queue.'
He didn't smile. Was he used to such flattery?
"I haven't met the right person,' he answered. 'I'm not
anti-women, if that's what you're driving at. I simply
haven't found the right one. I was with a girl for six years
- we came close to marriage, but neither of us wanted to
spoil things.' He looked Max straight in the eye. 'I'm not
gay, either.'
'It hadn't crossed my mind,' Max said mildly.
'Do people think you might be gay?' Grace asked.
"I neither know nor care what people think,' Collins
retorted.
'A lot of blokes wouldn't like people thinking they were
gay,' Grace persisted.
'Well, I don't care.'
'What about Monday, the twenty-ninth of November,
the evening Jonathan Trueman was murdered?' Max
asked. 'Where were you?'
"I was at home.' Once again, he ran a finger inside the
collar of his shirt. 'And no, there's no one who can vouch
for that. I left the office at five thirty, and drove straight
home. I was alone.'
'The weapon used to kill Reverend Trueman was stolen
from Mr Hutchinson. Did you know that?'
'Everyone in Kelton knows that,' Collins muttered.
'Could you have stolen it?' Max asked.
'Anyone could have stolen it, I imagine. I knew Tony
had guns, and I knew where they were kept. Four, he has
- three now presumably - in a cabinet in the dining room.
I sometimes think he only invited people to dinner so he
could show off his trophies.'
'A bit of a show-off, is he?'
'He's OK.'
'So if anyone wanted to steal a gun, you reckon it would
be easy enough?' Max asked.
"I didn't say that. I said I knew they were there, and
I knew where they were kept. The cabinet was locked, so
whoever did it would have to get in that. And presumably,
they'd have to break into the house in the first place.'
'Unless they had a key,' Max pointed out.
'Unless they had a key,' Collins agreed, somewhat
sarcastically.
So Collins hadn't stolen that gun. If he had, he'd have
known there was only one there. He presumably didn't
know that Hutchinson had sold his collection.
The rape charge could be as innocent as he made out.
Even if it wasn't, it hardly mattered.
'How often did you see Alice Trueman?' Max asked.
Collins frowned, not sure where this was leading. 'Once
a week or so, I suppose. If I went to church, which wasn't
often, I'd see her there. If there were gatherings, concerts,
fetes, dinner parties, I might see her there.'
'Any other times? Days out? Anything like that?'
'No. Of course not.' Collins still looked scared half to
death. 'Oh, there was once,' he remembered. "I had to go to
an auction in London on behalf of a client last summer.
Without looking at my diary, I couldn't tell you the date,
but it was either June or July.'
It was June the seventeenth. And probably as innocent
as Collins was about to describe it. Sod it!
'We were buying a few pieces on behalf of a client. Alice
saw the catalogue, fell in love with some of the pieces, and
wanted to go. Of course, I immediately invited her to join
me. Jonathan wasn't happy about it,' he remembered. 'He
joked about it, said he was worried Alice would spend too
much, but I think . . .' He hesitated.
'Yes?' Max prompted impatiently.

"I gained the impression Jonathan didn't like to let her
out of his sight. I'm not sure why that was. Jealousy
perhaps. I don't know.'
'But she went?'
'Oh, yes. And thoroughly enjoyed herself.'
Max thought over the conversation he'd had with Jill
that morning.
'It's supposed to be a powerful aphrodisiac,' he remarked.
'What is?'
'Good versus evil,' Max explained pleasantly. 'On the
one hand, you've got the devoted vicar's wife - godliness,
goodness and purity. On the other hand, there's the chance
of bringing out her evil side - making her forget the
sanctity of marriage, the Word of God, the fact that respectable
girls don't do oral or anal.'
'That's disgusting!'
'Who knows,' Max continued, ignoring his outburst,
'perhaps she had fantasies of rape?'
'Oh, no!'
'Lots of women do, I gather.'
'No!'
Max turned to Grace. 'What about you? Have you ever
fantasized about being raped? About being powerless?'
Grace didn't even blink. "I might have.'
'There you go,' Max said, addressing Collins with satisfaction.
'Women do fantasize about it. Perhaps Alice did.
Perhaps you fulfilled those fantasies for her.'
'No!'
'Perhaps you had an affair with her and perhaps she
planned to leave her husband for you.'
'That's ridiculous!'
'Perhaps it was her idea,' Max ploughed on, 'and perhaps
you didn't want the commitment - or the scandal. So
perhaps you had her killed. Or perhaps her husband killed her and you killed him out of revenge.'
'No, no, no!' Collins was on his feet. 'I'm answering no
more questions without my lawyer present!'



Chapter Thirty-Nine

Max was sitting in his office when Fletch burst in waving
a piece a paper.
'This had better be good news,' Max warned him.
'It is, guv,' Fletch said breathlessly, hitching up his
trousers. 'It's about that train Jim Brody caught back
from London.'
'And?'
On the night Jonathan Trueman was murdered, Brody
had caught the last train back from London to Manchester.
He'd even shown them his ticket.
'It was cancelled,' Fletch said triumphantly.
'So what alternative arrangements were made?' Max
refused to build up his hopes. 'They can't leave dozens of
passengers stranded in London, Fletch.'
'The passengers eventually got a train to Stoke, and then
a bus was laid on for those going on to Manchester.'
So much for caution. Max's hopes were already sky
high.
'And there's no way Brody could have caught a train all
the way from London to Manchester? Even if he'd done a
different route?'
'It's possible,' Fletch allowed, 'but he would have
known it was cancelled and he would have had to do one
hell of a detour. If that were the case, he would have
mentioned it.'
'Let's go and have a chat with him.' Max was already
putting on his jacket. He had an appointment with his
superior but, as he knew the script by heart, that particular
bollocking could wait. 'And why the bloody hell wasn't
this checked out sooner?'
'Dunno, guv. Because he found that ticket, I suppose,
and we were '
'Gullible enough to believe him,' Max finished, striding
out of his office.
They went in Fletch's car and that was even more untidy
than Max's. As Fletch drove, Max gathered up half a dozen
empty coffee cups.
'The wife's pregnant,' Fletch said, as if that explained
everything.
'You what?'
'Sandra's pregnant again. Instead of cleaning out the car,
she's been getting the spare bedroom ready.'
'Yeah? Hey, congratulations.'
'Thanks.' Fletch grinned sheepishly and Max knew there
was no point reminding him of the sleepless nights spent
walking the floorboards that would soon be upon him.
'But why can't you clean the car yourself?'
'Good question.'
One to which there clearly wasn't an answer.
'Do you know what you're having? Boy or girl?'
'Yes, I expect it'll be one of those.' That was Fletch's idea
of a joke. 'Sandra doesn't want to know. Says it will spoil
the surprise. A boy would be great,' he said, somewhat
wistfully, 'but we'll probably have another girl. She's
doing the spare bedroom out in yellow which is sort of
neutral, I suppose.'
'You'll be better off with a girl. Boys are hell. They're too
energetic, too wily, and too conniving by half. I still can't
believe I got talked into having that damn dog.' He gave
Fletch a sideways glance and grinned. 'Sorry, Fletch. Dogs
are still a sore point, I imagine.'
'Bloody thing. And it wasn't an Andrex puppy, far from
it. It wasn't even a puppy, it was almost a year old. When
the vet thought he might have to dart it, he estimated its
weight as between twenty and twenty-five kilos. A pity
that shotgun hadn't been loaded . . .'
They were soon driving into Kelton Bridge.
There were some odd characters living in the village,
Max thought, but there must be hundreds of normal people,
too. It was just the ones he came into contact with that
seemed odd.
Fletch took a wrong turning and they ended up going
past Jill's cottage. A bearded chap was working on the
roof, and Max assumed it was Len. According to Jill, he'd
arrived early yesterday morning, worked till late, and
hadn't stopped singing traditional folk songs all day. Jill
reckoned she'd never known a man so happy in his
work.
'Of course, Brody might not be at home,' Max mused. 'It
was his day for working on the vicarage garden so he
might have taken on another job to replace that.'
'We'll soon find out,' Fletch said as he pulled the car on
to Brody's drive. 'Let's hope we can nail him for Trueman's
murder,' he added grimly.
As they got out of the car, Brody came out of his front
door, his car keys dangling from his fingers, but he
stopped when he saw them. The ever-present collie was at
his heels.
'We'll only take a minute of your time,' Max told him.
'You'd better come in then.' Brody went back inside and
held the front door open for them.
Max and Fletch followed him into the lounge. No one
sat down. The dog lay by Brody's feet, watching Max
and Fletch.
'We thought you might have found a replacement job for
the vicarage,' Max remarked.
'No.' He didn't elaborate. Nor did he seem unduly bothered
about the lack of income.
'Plenty of work around, is there?'
'Seems to be.'
'The evening Jonathan Trueman was killed,' Fletch said,
getting straight to the point, 'would you describe your
movements for us again, please?'
"I drove to Manchester Piccadilly, parked the car and
caught the 11.15 train to Euston. I got there at around half
past one, had a coffee at the station, then took a cab out to
my brother's place just off the King's Road.'
'Was the train on time?' Fletch asked.
'Give or take.'
He looked uncomfortable, as well he might. Max
guessed he had no idea if the train was on time or not.
'And then what?' Fletch asked.
"I spent the rest of the day with my brother. He'll vouch
for that. I took a cab from his place back to Euston to catch
the 9.05 p.m. train and then drove straight home from
Manchester.'
'How about that train?' Fletch said, notebook at the
ready. 'Was that on time? Give or take?'
"I don't rightly remember. I imagine so.'
'You imagine so,' Max repeated. 'Now, the thing is,
we've checked with your brother and he confirms that
you were with him until you left to catch that train. The
problem, however, is that the 9.05 train to Manchester
Piccadilly was cancelled.'
'Has that jogged your memory?' Fletch asked casually.
'No, but I must have caught a later train, mustn't I?'
Credit where it was due, he didn't even flinch. He stared
Fletch straight in the eye.
'No trains went into Manchester that night,' Fletch
informed him. 'Surely you remember taking a different
route.'
'Ah, now you mention it, yes I do. I had to catch a train
to Stoke and then a bus up from there.'
Fletch looked at Max, and Max could see his own
thoughts mirrored there. Shit!
Did Brody catch that train and then the bus from Stoke,
or was he taking a guess? The Manchester train had terminated
at Stoke for a week, while track repairs were
carried out. Brody could easily have heard about it.
'Did you have an affair with Alice Trueman?' Max
asked.
The question should have taken him by surprise, but
it didn't.
'What would she see in me?'
'Was that a yes or no?' Fletch asked impatiently.
Brody gave his dog a quick glance before looking
straight at Fletch. 'No, I didn't have an affair with Mrs
Trueman.'
"I don't know how a woman's mind works,' Max said,
walking over to the window and looking out at immaculate
borders, 'they're far too complex for me. However,
I can imagine a woman like Mrs Trueman, a woman married
to a vicar and feeling stifled by life at the vicarage,
finding a gardener, a man with a passion for warmth and
colour, and especially a man who made her laugh, quite
appealing.' He spun round. 'I've been told she used to look
forward to your visits.'
"I couldn't speak for Mrs Trueman.'
'So what time did you get to Manchester on the night
Reverend Trueman was murdered?' Fletch asked.
"I really can't remember.'
'Do you know anything about shotguns?' Max asked.
'Yes, I've done some shooting in my time. Clays mainly,
but pheasant too. I know Tony Hutchinson's shotgun was
stolen and I assume it was the same one used to kill
Jonathan Trueman.'
'A good shot, are you?' Max asked.
'Good enough.'
I bet you are, Max thought. Not that one would need to
be a good shot to make such a mess of a body.
Brody was a very cool, calm individual. Perhaps he
could afford to be with his brother providing an alibi, but
Max was convinced he'd killed Jonathan Trueman.
'Do you think Mrs Trueman was murdered by her husband?'
Max asked him.
'If he and young Michael are the only suspects, then yes,
it's possible.' Something resembling a smile touched his
lips and left his eyes cold. "I didn't kill Mrs Trueman if
that's what you're thinking. If you check with the hospital,
you'll find I was there at the time. In fact, I was there for
about five hours.'
'Yes, we've checked,' Fletch told him.
'Right,' Max said briskly. 'Thanks for your time, Mr
Brody. We'll be in touch. Oh, and if you hear anything,
give us a call, will you?'
"I will.'
As they were walking out, the collie moved forward and
touched a cold wet nose against Max's hand.
'Funny how she's taken to you,' Brody murmured.
Max bent to stroke the dog's head. 'I've got a dog so I
expect she can smell that one. Goodbye then, Mr Brody.'
Max and Fletch stepped out into the sunshine, and then
got back in Fletch's car.
'Well?' Fletch asked.
'He's our man,' Max said confidently.
'That's what I thought,' Fletch replied. 'God, he's bloody
cocky, though. You really reckon he was having an affair
with Alice Trueman?'
'Yes, I do. Given all we've been told about the squeaky
clean Alice, it's hard to believe, but yes, I reckon he was.
And how the hell did they manage that in a place like
Kelton? I want his every movement checked and double
checked. We'll have another chat with his brother, too. He
has to be lying. And I want Brody's van checked out. We
need to know where it was when he was supposed to be
on that London train. I'll issue details to the press . . .'
Max dared to believe they were finally getting
somewhere.


Chapter Forty

He loved this. He was so close to her, almost close enough to
smell her, yet she was oblivious to his presence.
It was risky, too risky, but he hadn't been able to resist. The
challenge appealed to him.
He was lying on his back in her dark attic, his hands clasped
behind his head as he listened to her moving around beneath
him. He'd already heard the shower running and now he could
hear the radio. Impossible to make out what was being said, or
which record was being played, but he reckoned she was listening
to the late night country music show. He often listened to that
himself.
Her phone rang, and the radio was silenced as she spoke to the
caller. He heard her laughing.
Make the most of it, sweetheart. You won't be laughing for
much longer . . .
She was going to be his next victim. That was a pity in some
ways, but she wasn't much fun. He could have greater pleasure
pitting his wits against Detective Chief Inspector Trentham, a
man he'd taken a great dislike to. Some days, you couldn't switch
on the television without seeing his face on the screen. Except
Trentham had forgotten all about Valentine. He was busy seeking
the glory from the murder of the vicar and his wife.
Valentine would have to jog his memory. Oh, yes. He could
hardly wait.
It was cold in her attic, but he didn't feel it. He'd brought a
sleeping bag up here and that was keeping him snug. His
exciting thoughts were keeping him warm, too.
He would have to strangle her, of course. To make sure
Trentham got the message, he would remove those heart-shaped
pieces of skin from her body, too. A dozen hearts.
Next week perhaps . . .
First, he wanted her to panic. She was cool, one of those
individuals who refused to acknowledge that death could be
round the corner. Perhaps she believed she was too clever for
death.
As soon as she left in the morning, he would arrange the
thirteen red roses in one of her vases and leave them on her
kitchen table. The small, accompanying card was already
written: From Valentine.
He hated having to sleep with the roses in the loft, but there
was no alternative. It was exhilarating to share her home for the
night, so he must concentrate on that. No need to think of
competing for air with those blood red buds . . .
He closed his eyes and concentrated on killing her. The brief
moment of panic on her face, using his scalpel to turn her body
into an object of beauty, imagining Trentham finding her . . .
Of course, there were still the details to work out. Where
would he kill her? How would he get her there? He was tempted
to kill her here, in her own house. Perhaps he would. He could
do it now. All he had to do was jump down from this loft, walk
out through the spare room and into her bedroom. Easy!


Chapter Forty-One

Jill's eyes were tired. It had been a long day, spent poring
over statements, and it was good to get away.
The Green Man was almost opposite headquarters so it
was inevitable she'd recognize a lot of people in the bar.
'What are you having?' Cornwall asked her.
'A long, cold lager, please. I'd have something more
exciting but I've got to drive.'
"Me too.'
She found a table while he queued for the drinks and
she was amused to see him, a minute later, bringing a glass
of lager and an orange juice to their table.
'You're allowed one drink, Don.'
'It's not worth the risk.'
Cornwall wasn't a risk taker. She wasn't either, but she
did know she could have one drink without being found
drunk in charge of a motor vehicle.
She'd like to think she was getting along better with
Cornwall, but she wasn't. He might be able to tolerate her
more easily these days, but they weren't getting along. His
views on psychologists were well known, and she felt he
didn't give her all relevant information. It made for a
tricky relationship.
'Look who's here,' he said, nodding at the door.
Max and Grace spent a large part of their working day
together so it wasn't unusual to see them having a drink
occasionally. Jill wondered if their relationship went
beyond work these days. She didn't think it did, but
who knew?
Max often needed a female officer with him to offer
support to people he might be questioning or to protect
himself from accusations of impropriety. They made an
attractive couple, Max and Grace. Grace was much
younger, but she was striking, intelligent and as hard as
nails. She was laughing at something Max had said.
Jill dismissed all jealous thoughts from her mind and
put a smile on her face as they joined them.
'Anything new?' Cornwall asked Max.
'Nothing. What about you two?'
'Nothing I consider significant,' Cornwall said, and
again, Jill was irritated. Either he'd learned something new
or he hadn't.
He looked across at the quiz machine. 'Anyone fancy
trying to win a tenner?'
'No, thanks,' Jill said.
'I'm quite good at these,' Grace said, rising to the challenge.
'Best of ten, Cornwall? Loser buys the next round?'
'Sure,' Cornwall replied.
Jill watched them go, but she had more important matters
on her mind. 'Anything more from Janie Fisher?'
'No, not a whisper.' Max nodded towards the quiz
machine. 'How did Cornwall take it when you told him
you'd seen her?'
'How do you think? He's convinced there's nothing in it
and, even if there were, she can't tell us anything. But if it
was Valentine she saw,' Jill said, voice low but confident,
'he'll kill again and probably soon. Escaping like that, she
will have robbed him of control. He won't like that. He'll
probably be angry. This next one might be more vicious.'
'There's not much I can do about it. I have to concentrate
on the Truemans' murders.' He took a swig from his half
pint of beer. 'What's Cornwall doing about it?'
Jill tapped the side of her nose, just as Cornwall often
did. 'He has his methods.'
Max smiled at that. 'And you still reckon Valentine lives
in the Rossendale area?' he asked.
'Yes.' Jill hated the thought of that, but it was what the
computer believed.
'What about Hutchinson, Jill? Could he have anything at
all to do with sending you photos and Valentine cards?'
"I don't know,' she admitted. 'He's not killing prostitutes,
though. Tony's been married for years, and seems to
be used to the odd affair. Valentine isn't in a long-term
relationship, I'm sure of that.'
'Yes, but these photos and cards. The more I think about
it - firstly, it only started when you moved to Kelton.'
"I don't know/ she said again. 'He likes the idea of my
work - not that he has a clue what it entails - and I'm sure
he believes it's far more fascinating than his own job. And
he does like to impress people with his knowledge. He
might, but it's a big might, be keen to remind me that I'm
not as great as I like to think I am.'
'Mm.' Max nodded. 'And how about Andrew Collins?
He isn't in a long-term relationship, he's been accused of
rape in the past, and he has to keep reminding people that
he's not gay.'
'Does he?'
'Yes. He reckons he had a long-term relationship in the
past, but it could be a figment of his imagination.'
'He's told me about that. They were together for about
six years, I gather.'
'Not usual, is it?'
'What? To have a long-term relationship?'
'To keep reminding people of your heterosexuality.'
'It doesn't make him a killer.' At least, Jill hoped not.
She'd been invited to the manor for drinks tomorrow night
and he was sure to be there. 'These days, lots of people
choose to stay single. Marriage isn't what it used to be.
People choose careers over marriage and kids.'
'Yes, but '
'Cornwall's around the same age as Andy and he isn't
married,' she pointed out, gazing across at the quiz
machine where he and Grace were frantically jabbing but
tons. 'No one gives it a second thought. You certainly
wouldn't suspect him of being gay'
"I suppose not,' Max murmured, thoughtfully. 'No,
you're right, I hadn't given it a thought. Until you just told
me, I wouldn't have known if he was married or not.'
"I only found out because I asked.' Jill took a swallow of
lager. 'He doesn't talk about himself - something of a
loner. He's not the easiest bloke to get along with, either.
He's ambitious, but I don't think he considers himself part
of a team.'
'Yes, I've heard a couple of people say that. Anyway, do
you want another drink?' Max asked.
She did, but she couldn't. 'I'm driving.'
"Me too, and I have to collect the kids from a party' He
picked up her empty glass. 'You can have another. Leave
your car here and I'll give you a lift home.'
'Hey, great. In that case, I'll have a gin and tonic.
Oh, and don't let them put the tonic in the glass. They'll
drown it.'
He smiled, and wandered off to ask Cornwall and Grace
if they wanted more drinks.
Jill watched him chatting to them. He was laughing. She
guessed he answered a question correctly for Grace before
leaving them to it.
'Cornwall is an oddball, isn't he?' he remarked, when he
returned with her drink.
"I think so, yes. But what makes you say that?'
'He's ambitious, no doubt about that, and doing well for
himself, but you have the feeling that he keeps his ideas
and his methods to himself. I'm not sure what he wants
more - Valentine arrested or the glory for being the hero of
the day by catching him.'
Jill knew exactly what he meant. 'He's very critical, too,'
she mused. 'He spends a lot of time telling you how much
better life was in Newcastle - the place, the people he
worked with. I've been tempted several times to ask him
why, if it was so great, he doesn't piss off back there.'
Max chuckled at that.

As he was in no rush to leave the pub, probably because
he had time to kill before he needed to collect Harry and
Ben from their party, Jill had another gin and tonic.
It didn't take Cornwall and Grace long to lose their
tenner on the quiz machine, and they soon joined them.
'My round/ Grace said with a grimace. 'Don had some
lucky questions.'
Cornwall shrugged modestly, but he was clearly
delighted with his win. He was petty.
Jill watched him closely and decided that it wasn't only
a case of not liking him. There was more to it than that.
There was something about Don Cornwall that raised too
many questions in her mind. She didn't trust him.
'You ready then, Jill?' Max asked eventually.
She was. All she had planned for the evening was a long,
leisurely bath with lots of foam, stretching out on the sofa
with a good book, and then an early night. Bliss.
They said their goodbyes to Cornwall and Grace who
were about to have another game on the quiz machine,
and walked back for Max's car.
Jill could easily have fallen asleep as Max drove. The
glare of oncoming headlights had her eyes closing on
several occasions. Perhaps she did doze off. It came as a
surprise when Max stopped the car outside her cottage.
He followed her inside, just as she'd known he would.
Jill saw them immediately - glaring triumphantly at her
through the open door.
'Oh, God!' She grabbed Max's arm.
'What is it?'
Still with her hand on his arm, she extended a finger in
the direction of her kitchen table.
'Fuck!' His voice was very low, barely audible.
She didn't let him go. Together, they walked into the
kitchen.
One of her vases had been filled with roses. Thirteen
dark red roses. On each side of the arrangement was a tall
white candle. Lit.
Thirteen? Why thirteen? And why, she wondered, had
she counted the bloody things?
'The candles,' Max said, voice still low. 'How long have
they been lit? Ten minutes? Half an hour?'
Not expecting a reply, he lifted the small card that was
with the roses and she read it at the same time he did.
From Valentine. Not your Valentine . . .
'Don't move,' Max whispered, but Jill wasn't staying on
her own.
She was right by his side and together they checked
every room in her cottage - the sitting room, the bedrooms
and the bathroom. Max even had a look in the attic.
Everything was as it should be.
'Right,' Max said, 'get on the phone. Ring Tony Hutchinson
and thank him for the flowers.'
'What? Are you mad? What if Liz answers? I can't '
'Just do it, Jill.'
She hesitated, but only briefly. Perhaps Max was right. If
Tony Hutchinson was playing a sick joke on her, it was
time she put a stop to it. But if he wasn't - and she
honestly didn't think he was - she'd be making a fool of
herself. Still, better a fool than a nervous wreck.
She had to look him up in the phone book and, after
hesitating again, tapped in his number. He must have
been right by the phone because he answered it on the
first ring.
'Tony? Tony, it's Jill Kennedy'
'Hello there, this is a nice surprise,' he said jovially.
'What can I do for you?'
'To tell the truth it's a little delicate. Is Liz there?'
'She's isn't, no.' He laughed softly. 'Now you've got me
intrigued. What is it, Jill?'
'The flowers,' she said. "I wanted to say thank you, but
really, I'd rather you didn't. Liz is '
'Hang on a minute,' he cut her off. 'What flowers?
I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Oh, erm . . .' She gave a light-hearted laugh. 'You mean
it wasn't you?'
'Unless you tell me what you're talking about, I can't
say, can I?'
'You didn't send me flowers?'
"I didn't, no.' He sounded uncomfortable with the idea.
'Jill, I don't know what gave you that idea, but if you have
a secret admirer - well, I admire you - but if someone is
sending you flowers, I'm afraid it isn't me. Were they sent
through Interflora? If so, I believe you can contact them
and'
'No, it wasn't Interflora. Sorry, Tony, I've got completely
the wrong end of the stick. Something on the card made
me think of you and I thought - well, it doesn't matter
what I thought. Forget it, will you? Please? I've made
enough of a fool of myself.'
'Not at all. Really, Jill, if I weren't a happily married '
'Please, no more about it. Thanks, Tony. Goodnight.' Jill
cut the connection.
She looked at Max and shook her head. 'He didn't know
anything about it. I believe him, too.'
'OK, but you're not spending the night here/ Max told
her. 'Shove the cats in their cages and put them in the back
of my car. Then pack a bag. Tomorrow, we'll get all the
locks changed, but tonight you'll have to stay -' He broke
off. 'Somewhere else,' he finished.
Dear God. Did he really think someone was listening to
their conversation?
For Jill, that was the final straw. She went to her bedroom,
and packed an overnight case. Then she put three
protesting cats in boxes.
That maniac, whoever he was, had been in her cottage. He
had touched her things, and walked through her rooms. The
knowledge made her feel sick, and she didn't start feeling
better until she was sitting in Max's car again.

'Who has a key to your cottage?' Max demanded as he
drove.
'No one. Not a soul.' She was struggling to talk, and she
knew her teeth were about to start chattering. 'Unless
someone has one from the time Mrs Blackman lived there.
She was elderly and neighbours might have kept spare
keys in case she needed anything. Helpful neighbours
don't make killers, though.' She tried to think. "I asked Bob
Murphy, you know, the builder, if he wanted one, but he
didn't. He said he didn't like having people's keys.'
'What about Andrew Collins?' Max asked. 'He sold the
house to you so who's to say he didn't keep a spare?'
'No one,' Jill admitted. 'He said he gave me all the keys he
had but I don't know. I suppose anyone could have one.'

Chapter Forty-Two

Max was idly shuffling papers on his desk, but his mind
wasn't on his work.
The locks had been changed at Jill's cottage and she was
adamant that, tomorrow, she would go back home. Getting
into Fort Knox without being seen would have been easier,
but he still didn't like it.
Who the hell would put sodding roses and candles in
her cottage? Apart from Valentine?
Grace knocked on his door and pushed it open.
'Guv, there's a lady outside, a Mrs Margaret Green,
who wants to speak to you. She says she has important
information about Alice Trueman, and won't speak to anyone
but that nice Detective Trentham she's seen on the
television.'
'You'd better show her in then,' Max said, adding a
grim, 'Another crank is just what I need this morning.'
Grace grinned and went away again.
The woman she showed into his office didn't look like a
crank. She did, however, look very nervous. Nervous
enough to get Max intrigued. He introduced himself, and
shook her hand.
'I've seen you on the television,' she said.
'Yes. Please, sit down.'
She took a deep breath, fiddled with her black handbag,
and looked straight at him. Margaret Green would be in
her late fifties, Max supposed. A slim woman, fairly tall,
with her hair styled neatly and a very erect carriage.
She was wearing a dark blue skirt and jacket. A teacher
perhaps.
"I hope I'm not wasting your time, Chief Inspector, but
ever since I saw the story on television about Alice True
man, I thought I ought to say something. It's been preying
on my mind.'
'Did you know Mrs Trueman?' Max didn't want to rush
her, but he felt the stirrings of excitement. She was no
crank, he was sure of it.
'Sort of. Well, only by reputation,' Margaret Green said,
'and it was a long time ago. A very long time ago. I always
wanted to be a dancer, you see, and I saw her in a few
shows. She was good. A lot of it was her bubbly character
and her natural sensuality coming through. There was
never anything forced about her performances.'
So how the devil had Alice Trueman, with her bubbly
character and natural sensuality, married Jonathan True
man and settled for what Max was convinced had been a
stifling life at the vicarage?
Come to that, if Margaret Green only knew her by
reputation, what was she doing in his office?
She fiddled with the straps on her handbag again.
"I didn't have what it took to be a dancer,' she continued,
'and my parents wouldn't have allowed it anyway. So,
instead, I trained as a nurse and got a job at a private clinic
in Middlesex. The clinic offered vasectomies, fertility treatment,
terminations . . .' Her voice trailed away.
'Can I get you a drink?' Max asked, but she shook her
head.
'One day, a young girl was brought in for a termination.
She was just eighteen, I learned. It was Alice Trueman except
in those days, of course, it was Alice Walshingham.'
'Are you sure it was her?'

'Oh, yes.' She thought for a moment. "I knew it was her
immediately, even though she was booked in under a
different name. It was her age that surprised me but,
apparently, she'd been dancing with Mainly Legs since she

was fifteen. She was the youngest member the group had
ever had.'
'And she had an abortion?' Max asked.
'Yes. Sadly, there were complications and she was quite
poorly. She was with us for over a week, I remember.'
'Why did she book in under a false name? She wasn't
that well known, was she?'
'No, but her father thought he was,' she said grimly. 'He
was a lawyer and he disapproved of her boyfriend.
I gather the termination was at his insistence. He was
something of a bully.'
Adrian Walshingham was dead now, as was Alice's
mother, but from what Max knew of the man, the fact that
he was a bully didn't come as any great surprise.
'One day when I was on duty/ Margaret Green continued,
'poor Alice cried and cried for her lost baby. She
was distraught. I talked to her. Tried to console her.
I thought that if I spoke of her dancing, it might remind
her that she had plenty to live for. I told her I'd seen her
on the television and knew who she was. She didn't care
about people knowing who she was, about dancing, about
anything. All she wanted was the child she'd lost. And her
boyfriend, of course.'
'Do you know who that man was?'
"I don't,' Margaret admitted. 'He wasn't allowed anywhere
near her. Alice's father made sure of that. Let me
think - she did talk of him. She cried for him. Jim, that was
his name. He was a student.' She frowned. 'He was studying
something a bit different - ah, yes, I remember. He was
at horticultural college.'
A gardener called Jim!
'He was at horticultural college in Middlesex?' Max
asked.
'Yes.' Margaret Green tugged nervously on her handbag's
straps. "I doubt if the poor girl ever saw him again.
I imagine, however, that the murder of that child, as she
saw it, haunted her until her death. I was pleased to read
she'd had a son, though. I remember at the time that there
were doubts about her ability to have more children. She
must have gained a lot of pleasure from her son.'
'Yes. Yes, I believe she did.'
'Do you have children?' she asked softly.
'Yes, two boys.'
'Then perhaps you'll be halfway to understanding how
that poor girl felt.'
'Yes.'
Max couldn't understand, though. His own father was
a gentle, loving man. He'd been a strict father, but fair.
All he had ever wanted for Max was his happiness. How
could anyone understand how it felt to lose your own
child, simply because your father disapproved of the
child's father?
'That's all I can tell you, I'm afraid,' Margaret Green
said, getting to her feet.
Max also rose. 'You've been very helpful. Thank you for
coming to see me.'
'Have I?' She sounded surprised.
'You have.'
So helpful that Max now had to go and arrest Jim Brody
for the murder of Reverend Jonathan Trueman.
The thought filled him with no satisfaction whatsoever.

Chapter Forty-Three

Max and Fletch arrived at Brody's house just as Brody was
pulling up outside.
He got out of his van slowly, his dog running ahead
slightly to see who the visitors were. Holly licked Max's
hand, but Max couldn't look into those huge, trusting
brown eyes. He was about to take her master from her.
This was wrong. It should have been Alice's father they
were putting away.
'He's a murderer, guv,' Fletch pointed out grimly, as if he
could read Max's thoughts.
'He is, Fletch, and in his position, I'd probably be
one, too.'
Brody walked over to them. He waited for them to
speak, but no one did. Fletch must have been waiting for Max, and Max couldn't find the words.
'How did you find out?' Brody asked at last.
'A nurse came to see me,' Max explained. 'She looked
after Alice when she had her termination.'
Brody's eyes filled with pain, but all he said was, 'Right.'
Max left the formalities to Fletch.
Fletch was already leading Brody to the car when Brody
stopped and looked at Max.
'Holly,' he said simply. 'She's eight, and I doubt I'll see
her again before she's gone. She don't take to people as a
rule and might be difficult to - well, will you see to her,
please?'
See to her? Put her out of her misery?
Max looked from Brody to the dog and back again. It
was far easier to look at Brody than the dog.
'Yes, I'll see to her,' he promised.
'Thank you.' Those two words were spoken with a quiet
dignity that had Max wondering, not for the first time,
what had happened to justice.
'We'll put her in the car with us,' he decided. Brody had
known enough grief in his life. Max was damned if he'd
grieve for his dog, too. 'Front seat.'
'You what, guv?'
'You heard.'
Fletch had heard; he simply didn't believe it. He didn't
like it either.
Holly sat in the passenger seat, facing the back of the car
and panting as she stared at her master. Fletch drove and
Max sat in the back with Brody.
They were almost at the station before Brody spoke. 'We
were so happy when we knew Alice was going to have our
child, you know.'
Max looked at him. 'Did you follow her here?'

"I would have followed her to the ends of the earth.'
'And her husband killed her because she was finally
going to leave him for you?'
'Yes. Her father, her husband - they were both the same.
They had to own her. She wasn't even allowed to think for
herself.' He shook his head in disgust.

'Why did she marry Jonathan Trueman?' Max asked
curiously.
'Her father liked him so Alice was persuaded to marry
him. Alice liked him in her own way, too. He was a good
enough husband to her - so long as she stayed with him.'

He fell silent again, and they were soon back at the
station.

It was late that night when Max finally drove home. He
was tired, and in no mood to have a dog whining on his
back seat.
"I don't like this any more than you do, Holly, but the
choice is yours. You can either have a trip to the vet's, a
quick shot and end up being cremated, or you can come
with me and make friends with Fly - always assuming Fly
doesn't swallow you whole. So what's it to be, eh?'
Holly threw her head back and howled.
'Bloody hell!'
Max grabbed a CD, one of Harry's, put it in the player,
increased the volume by several decibels, and allowed
Eminem to drown her out.
'Yes, I know it's shite,' he told her, 'but it's a bloody sight
more tuneful than you.'
Eminem had the power to silence the dog, but Max
could feel her accusing eyes boring into the back of his
head . . .
Harry and Ben were still up when he walked into the
house with a reluctant Holly following. Jill was in the
process of picking up several model cars off the floor.
There was no sign of Kate.
It was good to be home, despite the mayhem that followed.
Predictably, Fly raced around the newcomer and
then jumped all over her. Holly stood still, trembling
slightly, and trying her best to ignore the fuss. Meanwhile,
Max attempted to answer his sons' many questions.
'Her owner's had to go away, and she doesn't take to
strangers. I thought we'd see if she'd settle here with us. If
not . . .' If not, what? It would be no use trying to rehome
her, and Max didn't relish taking her to the vet's. He
certainly couldn't mention such a fate to Harry. 'If not,
we'll have to think of something else.'
Jill stroked the dog, her eyes as sad as the collie's. She
would have recognized Holly as Brody's; she must have
guessed what had happened.
The boys had been ready for bed when he'd arrived, but
another hour passed while they tried to coax Holly to have
some food. The dog merely lay down, her head on her
paws, not interested in food or anything else.
'She'll feel better tomorrow,' Jill told Harry and Ben,
'which is more than you two will if you don't get off to
bed. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be awake to
see Holly.'
They argued, but they went. Eventually. Fly followed;
the dog usually slept at the foot of Ben's bed.
'Do you fancy a drink, Jill?' Max asked when they
were alone.
'Please. A small Scotch with lots of water.'
He was pleasantly surprised; usually, she went straight
upstairs to Kate's flat. During the short time she'd been
staying there, Max had hardly seen her.
She sat on the floor with her drink in her hand. 'What's
happened then?' she asked. "I assume Jim Brody's been
arrested for Jonathan Trueman's murder?'
He told her of the conversation he'd had with Margaret
Green, and the subsequent conversation he'd had with
Jim Brody.
'It seems that Alice's father was a bully,' he remarked
grimly. 'Funnily enough, he didn't mind her dancing.'
'No, it'll be a Daddy's little girl thing,' Jill said. 'He'll
have imagined her dancing for him alone.'
'He didn't want her falling in love with another man,
though. He ended her relationship with Brody as soon as
he found out about it. Then, when he discovered she was
having Brody's child, he whipped her off to a clinic for an
abortion.'
'Poor Alice. And had they been seeing each other ever
since?'
'No. Her father decided she ought to marry Jonathan
Trueman and she went along with it. He must have been
one hell of a forceful bloke. Or she was very weak. Anyway,
she was happy enough, or at least content with her
lot, I gather. Trueman was a good husband, and she tried
to be content with that. And of course, Michael was her
life. Brody says he pursued her. He spent all his time
trying to track her down. He did - just before the True
mans moved here. When that happened, he followed. No
one in the village knew about their early relationship, not
even Jonathan Trueman.'
'And they fell in love all over again?'
"I don't think they ever fell out of love,' Max murmured.
'They both decided enough was enough, and they wanted
to live together. Brody wanted her to disappear without
telling Trueman where she was going, but even he knew
that wouldn't work. There was Michael for one thing. Alice
insisted on telling Trueman the truth. She was frightened
of his reaction. Terrified, according to Brody. He wanted to
be with her when she told him, but she wouldn't hear of
it. She wanted to do the right thing.'
'And Jonathan killed her?'
'Yes. She'd told him she was leaving the night before,
and she rang Brody the following day, saying that his
reaction had been much as expected - a cold anger. His
anger had frightened her. Anyway, it seems that Jonathan
Trueman came home early the next afternoon, when Alice
was in the bath, and went for her with a knife. She managed
to get down the stairs and '
'The poor woman.'
'If Trueman couldn't have her, no one else was going to.
Brody had heard Molly say that Liz Hutchinson left a key
outside for her. Brody knew Hutchinson had guns, and
getting into that cabinet was easy enough. The key was on
a hook in the kitchen.' Max let out his breath on a long
sigh. 'He killed him quite calmly by all accounts. There's
no remorse whatsoever. I think,' he added, 'that if it hadn't
been for Holly, he'd have handed himself in at the start.'
'God, poor Alice. What a sad life. And poor Michael.'
Yes, it was Michael Max felt sorry for. Divorce was
common enough these days and Michael would have
coped with being part of a blended family, or whatever
fancy term they used these days. He would have been
happy with Alice and Jim, or with Jonathan. Instead, the
poor kid had lost both parents.
'Do you think Holly will settle?' Jill asked. 'And if she
does, will you keep her?'
"I hope she settles, but I don't know. Brody's been a bit
of a loner, and the dog has spent almost every minute of her life with the man. I'll keep her if she'll stay. I just hope
she doesn't starve herself to death in the meantime.'
'What a damn fool, Jim Brody I mean. Killing Jonathan
Trueman wouldn't bring back his Alice. All it's done is
deprive Michael, the boy who'd meant so much to Alice, of
his father.'
"I know,' Max replied, 'but I can understand it - his
anger and perhaps his need for revenge, too.'
Jill sighed. 'Yes. So can I.'
They fell silent, both watching Holly. The dog was lying
with her head on her paws - waiting. Waiting for a command
from her master, waiting to feel his gentle hand on
her head, waiting to please him, waiting for normality to
resume. It was a depressing sight.
Yet such unconditional love from a dumb animal was
moving.
'You and Grace?' Jill asked suddenly.
Max waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming.
'What about me and Grace?'
'Are you friends outside work?'
'We're friends, yes.' Max considered the question. 'If
you're asking if we've slept together, or are likely to
sleep together, then the answer's no. God, Jill, you're the
psychologist.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning Grace is years younger than me, goes clubbing
at every opportunity and insists on listening to Radio One.
We're miles apart.'
'Oh.'
'Added to which, she got engaged to the man of her
dreams last month.'
"I didn't know that.'
'She's been shouting it from the rooftops for a month.'
Grace was a good officer, and Max liked having her on
his team, but anything else had never crossed his mind.
What a strange question.
A disheartening question, too. Why couldn't she see
how much he loved her?
But he knew the answer to that. He'd spent the night
with another woman.
Looking back, he found that hard to believe himself.
Sharon had meant nothing to him. He'd barely known the
damn woman. She'd been ten years younger than him,
she'd had a great body with legs up to her armpits - and
that had been it. He'd been flattered when she'd made it
clear she was interested in him. He'd imagined a night
with her would make him forget his problems. All it
had done was make him long for Jill, the Jill he'd had
before Valentine had screwed them up, before Rodney
Hill committed suicide, before the fighting and the nightmares
. . .
'Do you want another?' he asked. He was tempted to
drink himself to oblivion.
"I don't. And you'll be out of a job if you don't stop
drinking, Max.'
"I don't drink much. Really, I don't,' he insisted at her
raised eyebrows. "I have a Scotch, maybe two, when I get
home at night. That's nothing.'
'When's your next assessment due?'
'In about nine months' time,' he replied, 'and before you
ask, the last one was fine. I'm perfectly fit and, despite
living in this madhouse, mentally stable. An ideal man for
the job.'
'That's good then,' she said in her "I can't be bothered to
argue' voice.
She walked over to Holly, who was still lying with her
head on her paws. A car drove past and she pricked up her
ears, but she soon flattened them again.
'In the morning,' Jill whispered, stroking those flattened
ears, 'I'll cook sausages and bacon. We'll see if that tempts
you, eh? If not, I'll go out at lunchtime and buy you a
good, thick steak.'
Max had thought she was determined to return to her
cottage tomorrow. He wouldn't raise the issue, though.
The longer she stayed here, the better he liked it - for a
variety of reasons.


Chapter Forty-Four

Jill had walked down to The Weaver's Retreat, but now,
faced with the prospect of going back to the cottage alone,
she was wishing she hadn't.
A group of them had been sitting at a large table by the
fire for an hour. Tony and Liz Hutchinson were managing
to be pleasant to everyone else and to one another,
although Liz was knocking back the vodka and Jill
guessed that would cause problems before too long. Andy
Collins was there; he'd had a fair amount to drink, too. Bob
Murphy was nursing the same pint he'd bought shortly
after Jill arrived. While Andy was talking a lot, Bob
seemed happier to listen.
They were a genial bunch, and there was a lot of laughter
around the table.
Perhaps Tony and Liz would get a taxi. Liz wouldn't be
able to walk far in her heels, and her coat was more
fashionable than windproof. If that were the case, perhaps
Jill could share a taxi and invite them inside for a drink.
Tony was sure to be easily persuaded. The prospect
relaxed her slightly.
The cottage was under surveillance, yet she knew it
couldn't be watched every second of every hour.
Talk, unsurprisingly, soon returned to Jim Brody.
'You couldn't meet a nicer chap,' Andy said for at least
the tenth time.
'For a thief and a murderer,' Tony said, grinning. He
sobered immediately. 'Sorry, bad taste. I'm a bit annoyed
with him because he stole my gun and got me into all sorts
of trouble with the police. But yes, Jim always seemed a
good enough sort.' He looked at Bob. 'You built that extension
of his, didn't you?'
'Yes, and he was a pleasure to work for. He didn't mess
you about like some do. They'll tell you what they want
doing, and then change their mind fifty times mid-job. Jim
left me alone to get on with it. He knew his own mind, did
Jim. And he was a good payer.'
'Molly Turnbull says she always suspected him and
Alice of having an affair,' Liz put in, 'but I think she's
talking with the benefit of hindsight. I can't imagine Molly
keeping something like that to herself. And why did none
of us know about it?'
'Even Olive Prendergast didn't know,' Tony said,
chuckling.
'What gets me/ Bob said, 'is that we all sat and listened
to Jon's sermons. I can't believe he could stand in his
pulpit one day and kill his wife the next.'
'That's what I can't believe,' Liz agreed. 'Vicars, doctors
- they simply aren't killers.'
'It just proves that anyone can kill if provoked,' Bob
said.
'Do you think so?' Jill asked curiously.
'Well, yes, I reckon.' He didn't seem so sure now.
An icy draught hit them as the door opened, and Jill was
amazed to see Don Cornwall walk up to the bar and order
a glass of orange juice.
'Don!' She got to her feet, albeit reluctantly. What the
devil was he doing here? 'Come and join us.'
He put up his hand in acknowledgement.
'You don't mind, do you?' she said to the others. 'Don's a
policeman. I've been doing some work with him lately.'
'The more the merrier,' Liz said. 'Besides,' she added to
Jill in a stage whisper, 'he's got a really cute bum.'
Jill spluttered with laughter. "I can't say I've noticed.'
Yet she had noticed how Cornwall cared about his
appearance, and she'd noticed a few females give him
admiring glances. And yes, the suits he wore did show off
a good body.
'The very chap,' Tony told Don Cornwall as soon as
everyone had been introduced. 'We're a bit divided here.
Doctors, vicars, and the like - we don't believe they're
killers. Bob, here, thinks anyone could kill if provoked.
What do you think?'
'Are you a detective?' Liz asked before he had a chance
to reply.
"I am, yes.'
'So do you think anyone could be a killer?' Tony
persisted.
"I suppose so, yes,' Cornwall said, having considered the
matter. 'Any idiot could poison someone. It's easy enough
to fix the brakes on a person's car, too. And so long as
you're not squeamish, you could shoot someone. Any fool
can pull a trigger.'
'That's just the mechanics, though/ Tony pointed out.
'What about mentally? Do you think anyone is capable of
taking someone else's life?'
'Probably. Yes,' Cornwall said. 'Most wouldn't have the
brains to get away with it, though.'
'Getting away with it is a different matter altogether,'
Bob said. 'Few get away with it. Jim Brody didn't.'
'It's not just reading a police procedural and learning
about forensics/ Cornwall went on, 'it's having the intelligence
to think things through carefully, to act methodically,
and put that knowledge into practice.'
'God, what creepy talk,' Liz said, pulling a face. 'Let's
talk about something more cheerful or we'll all be having
nightmares. Let's have another drink, Tony'
Jill couldn't have agreed more.
'What are you doing out here anyway, Don?' she asked
curiously.
"I was passing through,' he replied, cagily Jill thought,
'and thought I'd stop for a drink.'
What did that mean? There was no need for him to be in
Kelton Bridge at all.
She knew she was bordering on paranoia now but, in the
morning, she was going to have a good look at Cornwall's
police assessment record. He couldn't - No, she'd had too
much to drink and her imagination had gone into overdrive.
Don Cornwall was a lot of things, but he couldn't be
a killer.
She knew very little about him. He wasn't married, he'd
lived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne for years but had applied
for a transfer. When Jill had asked how he knew the area,
he'd said, "I used to have family round here.' She hadn't
pressed the matter, and he hadn't elucidated. He had a strange admiration for murderers who could get the better
of the police. And, of course, he also had inside knowledge
of forensic procedures.
But, no. Cornwall couldn't have killed Anne Levington
and the others. He couldn't have put those red roses on her
kitchen table.
'So what's the perfect murder weapon, Don?' Tony
mused. 'Poison? A bath of acid?'
'You'll have to leave me out of this debate/ Bob said,
laughing. 'Some of us have an early start in the morning.'
"Me, too,' Jill said with undue haste. "I don't suppose
I can beg a lift, can I, Bob?'
'Of course,' he replied immediately, 'so long as you don't
mind the van. It's filthy.'
Jill didn't mind at all, and it wasn't as dirty as she'd
feared. It also meant she could ask Bob to hang around
while she went inside her cottage for the set of drawings
she wanted to give him.
"I reckon Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson will be there
till throwing-out time,' Bob remarked with amusement as
he drove them along Pennine View.
'Not the most cheerful of subjects, was it?'
"I hope Liz isn't paying too much attention. If Tony
comes up with the perfect murder, she might just put it
into practice.' He gave her a sideways glance. 'Sorry, that
wasn't funny. Not with poor old Jim locked up in a cell.'
'Dreadful thought that, isn't it?'
'It is,' he agreed, slowing the van to a stop by Jill's
drive.
'Will you come in for a minute, Bob? A coffee or something?
I'd like to give you those plans.'
'OK. Yes, thanks.' He killed the engine. 'A quick coffee
would be good, although I really do have an early start in
the morning.'
'Oh? Busy?' she asked, as she took her keys from her bag
and let them into the cottage.
'I'm having a couple of days in Dublin. A chap who
used to work for me lives over there now and I've been
promising to visit for a couple of years.'
'Very nice.'
'Had any winners lately?' he asked, following her into
the kitchen.
'Nothing spectacular,' she told him with a laugh,
'although I did have a couple of quid on Son of Sailor and
that raced well. Not a very good price, though.'
She put the kettle on while he looked through the
drawings.
'Nothing too difficult here,' he said, folding them and
putting them back in the envelope, 'and it should make a
difference to this place. It's a nice cottage - lovely spot.'
'People always tell me it's too remote,' Jill said, handing
him a cup of coffee, 'but I like it. It's good for the cats, too.
I wouldn't want to be too near a main road.'
There was no sign of her cats at the moment. It had
rained earlier so it was good mousing weather.
'If you don't mind me asking,' he said curiously, smiling,
'how come the celebrated psychologist spends half her
time in the bookies?'
She laughed at that. 'Ah, it's terrible for my image, isn't
it? All my father's fault. As a kid, I hung around while he
was choosing horses to back, and then I'd be as excited as
can be waiting for the results to come through. My mother,
of course, was horrified. Let's take our coffee into the
sitting room/ she suggested, changing the subject. 'It's
warmer in there . . .'
She didn't want to think about her mum right now. The
surgeon had found a tumour, a benign tumour, thank God,
and had removed it. Mum still wasn't well, though. Jill
was convinced she was keeping something from them.





Chapter Forty-Five

Jill had only been in the office for an hour, and twice
Cornwall had asked if she was OK.
'You seem a bit tense and jumpy,' he said.
'Really?' She gave him a smile. 'No, just tired probably.
I sat up reading until late last night.' In truth, she'd spent
the night wondering about him. She was determined to get
hold of his career details.
'I'll be back in a minute,' she added. "I need to go and
see Max about something.'
She was surprised to find Max sitting at a clear desk,
and then she saw the leaning towers of paperwork on
the floor.
'Filing?' she asked, and he smiled.
"I wish I could file the lot in the bin. So what brings
you here?'
'I'd like a word with you sometime. Not here, though.'
He frowned. 'What's up?'
"I don't know, but I don't want to discuss it in the
building.'
He was surprised, but he didn't comment. "I can grab an
early lunch. Say an hour?'
'Thanks.'
'Meet me in the car park in an hour then.'
Feeling better, and guessing she was getting everything
out of proportion, she went back to her office.
'Are you sure you're all right?' Cornwall asked again.
'You're not going down with something, are you? Several
people have been off with this flu thing.'
'I'm fine, thanks. Really.' She knew she had to tell him
something. 'It's personal. I've agreed to have lunch with
Max and I'm not sure I've done the right thing. I don't like
mixing business and pleasure.'
'Ah.' That was all he needed to know. 'You and Max
used to have a thing going, didn't you? Lived together,
didn't you?'
'Yes, we did.'
'It always ends in tears/ he said briskly. 'Business and
pleasure never mix well.'
'Do you speak from experience?' Jill asked.
'Only other people's.'

Max already had the engine running when Jill arrived in
the car park, and she climbed in, grateful for the car's
warmth.
He drove them a mile or so away, parked the car and
then turned in his seat to look at her. 'So what's the
problem?'
There were so many problems, she didn't know where to
start. 'God, how long have you got?' she asked with a
smile. 'I've lost all confidence I ever had, haven't I?' she
murmured. "I used to be good at offender profiling, but not
any more.'
'You're still good,' he said thoughtfully, 'but yes, you've
lost confidence. You know how you feel, but you're too
scared to say so because of what happened to Hill. There
are dozens of blokes out there who fitted your profile, Jill,
and we would have arrested any one of them who'd been
with the murdered girl.'
"I know that.'
'What's really bugging you?'
'Don Cornwall/ she said softly.
She told him how he'd come into the pub last night,
and how he and Tony had talked of the perfect murder.
'And what the devil was he doing in Kelton anyway?' she
asked. 'He said he was just passing, but that was crap.
I don't trust him, Max. I want to know something of his
background.'
Max thought for a moment. "I don't know much about
him,' he admitted. "I do know that he applied to come here
about five, maybe six years ago.'
Her eyes widened at that.
'Jill, he might be a lot of things, but he's no killer. He's
bright, he's doing well. He'll be Chief Constable one of
these days.'
'He's not popular,' she pointed out.
"I know.'
'Mind you, that might be just his way. He's very anti-me
because he thinks I go running to you with any information
I might have. He still hasn't forgiven me for going to
see Janie Fisher with you. It's a clash of wills, I suppose.
He thinks I'm holding out on him and I'm convinced he's
holding out on me.'
"I'll see what I can dig out,' Max promised.
'Thanks.'
He gazed at her for several moments. 'So are you all
right back at your cottage?' he asked at last.
'Fine.' The reply was automatic. 'Well, it's OK,' she said
carefully. 'Last night, I was going to get a taxi home with
Tony Hutchinson '
Max's eyebrows shot up at that.
'And his wife,' she added. 'Tony's a show-off and a
general pain, but he's not a killer. And yes,' she added
with a rueful smile, "I am sure of that.'
'Killer or not, Jill, don't spend any time alone with
him. OK?'
"I didn't,' she explained. 'As it turned out, I cadged a lift
with Bob Murphy'
'Good. Keep away from Hutchinson. I mean it.'
Max fired the engine, but didn't drive off. 'Hey, try to
relax/ he said. 'Your place is as safe as anything now.' He
gestured to a building across the road. 'Do you fancy a
coffee?'
'Please.'
He was right; she must try and relax. It wasn't only Don
Cornwall, though, and the delivery of those roses. What
worried her more than that was that she'd lost the ability
to do her job. OK, so she hadn't wanted to return to the
job, but she had been good at it. Now, a kid of five could
make as much progress as she had. Before Hill was
arrested, she'd felt as if she actually knew Valentine. She
had truly believed that if they'd met in the street, she would have recognized him. Now, she couldn't get into his
mind at all . . .

On the way home that afternoon, Jill stopped at Ella's
bungalow.
As soon as Ella opened the door, Jill was treated to a
broad smile, but there was no mistaking that Ella had
been crying.
"I heard Tom had gone into hospital,' Jill explained,
'and I thought I'd call round to see if there was anything
I could do.'
'Bless you. Come in, Jill, come in.'
'How is he?' she asked. 'And what exactly is wrong?'
Ella automatically headed for the kitchen, but Jill's
words stopped her in the doorway.
'He's sworn me to secrecy,' Ella said with a sad smile.
'He doesn't want any fuss so -' She swallowed hard. 'So
if you hear he has terminal cancer, you didn't hear it
from me.'
'Oh, Ella, no.' Jill could have sat and wept with her.
She'd only met Tom once, but even if she hadn't, she
would have known just how much he meant to Ella. He
was responsible for Ella's happiness, for her acceptance of
life's knocks, for her sense of fun.
'Ella,' she said again. 'I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry.'
After the scare with her mum, and Jill still wasn't
sure all was well there, she knew just how terrifying the
c-word was.
'Don't you start,' Ella warned, 'or we'll both be in tears.
Seriously,' she added, "I haven't told a soul except you.'
Jill felt honoured, and touched. It was funny how she'd
hit it off with Ella.
'And all I've been doing,' Ella said, 'is going through our
old wedding photos. Do you want to look?'
Jill hadn't planned on stopping, but she couldn't refuse
now. Her own plans for the evening were very trivial
compared to poor Ella's worries.
'I'd love to.'
They went and sat in the sitting room where a couple of
photograph albums lay on the table.
'Everyone has their own problems,' Ella said briskly as
she opened one of the large albums, 'so I shouldn't complain.
I've had a good life with Tom.'
'That doesn't make it any easier, does it?'
'Not really, no.' Ella smiled. 'I'm just trying to concentrate
on other people's worries at the moment. There's
young Michael without his parents, Jim Brody - well, I still
can't believe that. He's such a good, honest, decent chap.
The salt of the earth. Still, I suppose we'd all be surprised
what lengths we'd go to if pushed. To think of him locked
up in a cell, though. That's awful. He needs the wind on
his face, does Jim.'
She turned and looked at Jill. 'And what about you,
young Jill? What problems are you wrestling with?'
"Me? None. Touch wood,' she added lightly, putting a
hand on Ella's coffee table.
'No men trouble?'
'No. What makes you ask?'
Ella laughed, a pleasant sound. 'While everyone at the
bonfire party was making eyes at Bob Murphy, you barely
gave him a second glance. I thought you must have someone
special in your life to make you blind to our Bob.'
'Bob's an attractive man,' Jill agreed. "I did notice that
much.'
'He is. I keep telling Tom that if I was forty years
younger, I'd be after that body of Bob's.'
'He'd make a fortune in TV advertising,' Jill agreed with
a laugh. 'He'd have to do long cold drinks. You can just
imagine him topless, sweat running down that impressive
chest of his as he knocks back a can of something cold.'
'Actually I've been meaning to catch him,' Ella said, 'and
tell him about a girl I met. Like me, Gemma has been
digging into her family history, which is why I met up
with her. Anyway, her aunt is the same woman Bob refers
to as Aunt Jenny. Apparently, she's his foster mother. Isn't
it a small world?'
'Isn't it,' Jill agreed, 'and isn't it strange how we all jump
to conclusions? I'd assumed David and Lindsay Murphy
were his parents. Is it David and Lindsay? Live up by the
church?'
"It is, but no, they're no relation. I don't know about
Bob's father, never heard mention of the man, but I know
his mother died in a house fire when he was only ten years
old. A terrible business it was. They never did find out
who started that fire.' She broke off. 'Hark at me. I'm
turning into a worse gossip than Olive Prendergast.' She
opened the photograph album. 'It's just that it takes my
mind off - you know.'
Jill did know. 'Talk all you like,' she told Ella. 'I'm a
good listener, and an awful talker. I won't repeat anything,
you know that.' She tried to get Ella's mind back to Tom.
'Is there anything I can do, Ella? Anything I can get for
you? Do you need ferrying to the hospital?'
Smiling, Ella shook her head. 'There's nothing, love,
but thanks for asking. If I need anything, I'll let you
know. Promise. With any luck, he'll be home again in a
few days.'
Jill hoped so.
'Meanwhile,' Ella went on briskly, "I refuse to even think
about the day he won't be home.' A teasing light crept into
her eyes. 'So this mysterious man of yours, and I know
there is a man - it's not that policeman who followed you
into the pub last night, is it?'
'Don Cornwall?' Jill smiled, but she didn't like the way
Ella said 'followed you into the pub'. Had he followed
her? 'Honestly, you can't move in this place without everyone
knowing about it. How did you know about that?'
'Liz told me/ Ella explained. 'She reckoned he spent the
entire time mentally undressing you. A cute bum she said
he had.'
Mentally undressing her?
'He does/ Jill told her, 'but he's just someone I work
with. Nothing more than that.' She knew Ella wouldn't
rest until she'd got the truth from her. "I had a fling with
someone, a detective, but we split up a year ago. The
trouble is, I'm seeing quite a bit of him at the moment
because of work.'
'Ah, so he's the one who makes you immune to our
Bob?'
'Probably.' Max was the man all men had to measure up
to. Few managed it.
'And does he have a cute bum?'
"I haven't inspected it closely for some time, Ella,' Jill
confided with amusement, 'but, yes, it's not bad.'
'Don - Cornwall, did Liz say his name was? That name
rings a bell.'
'Oh?' Jill was immediately alert. 'In what context?'
"I don't know.' Ella looked impatient with herself. 'That's
the trouble with getting old.' She flicked through the
album's pages with a heavy sigh. "I can remember every detail of our wedding day, but I struggle to remember
what I did this morning. Don Cornwall . . .' She shook her
head. 'It'll come to me.'
'Will you let me know if it does?' Jill asked. "I don't
know much about him, and I like to know who I'm working
with.'
'Of course I will. Mind you, I'm sure it's nothing
important.'
They looked through the albums and laughed at the
fashions of the day. Ella and Tom's happiness was there for
all the world to see . . .
Jill hated going home in the dark but there was nothing
else for it. With the knowledge that her cottage was as
secure as it could be, and a couple of police officers
were keeping a watchful eye on it, she had to assume she
was safe.
As she was slowing down for her driveway, she saw
Tony Hutchinson out running. She was out of the car when
he jogged over to her.
"I saw your car parked at Ella's,' he told her. 'How's
Tom?'
'He's doing OK. I gather they're still doing tests.'
'I'll call on Ella later, and see if there's anything I can do.'
"I told her the same thing, but there's nothing at the
moment. She's very independent, is Ella.'
'Yes, she's a capable old bird.'
'Indeed,' Jill agreed, wondering what Ella would make
of that description.
'Did she tell you? Yes, I suppose she did. I saw her on
the Manchester train one day,' he explained, and he looked
decidedly shifty.
'Really?' Probably best to play dumb, Jill decided.
'Thinking back, I'm not surprised she was suspicious
enough to rush straight to the police. They said they didn't
hear it from her, but it can't have come from anyone else.
And God knows, I'm not their favourite person at the
moment. Not that they've got anything on me,' he added
quickly. He glossed over that in a man of the world,
couldn't care less sort of way. 'Anyway, a young girl was
trying to blackmail me. We'd had a brief, meaningless
affair and she'd got herself pregnant. She claimed I was the
father. In the end, it was either get a DNA test done,
remortgage the house or go bankrupt. Or, of course,' he
added sarcastically, "I suppose I could have killed her.'
Jill was trying to keep her face bland and composed, but
it wasn't easy. 'What did you do?'
'The DNA test,' he said. 'And I'm pleased to say, not that
I had any doubt, that it cleared me of all responsibility.'
'I'm glad,' she said.
"I told Liz all about it, and she was very good. She's not a bad stick - apart from her drinking.'
'A lot of women would drink,' Jill couldn't help pointing
out, 'if their men were having affairs.'
"I know, and I've promised her it will stop.'
Jill remembered how well he and Liz had been getting
on in the pub last night. There had been none of the usual
animosity flying between them.
'I'm glad, Tony, really glad.' She would like to see Tony
and Liz, Liz especially, in a happier relationship. 'Are you
coming in?'
Max would have been horrified, but Jill knew she was
safe enough with Tony. She just knew it.
'Thanks, but no. I need to get in training. Another time,
Jill.' He was about to move on, but stopped again. 'Those
flowers . . .'
'Oh, that.' She pulled a face. 'Sorry about that, I thought
it might have been you playing a joke. Your initials on the
card, you see. Anyway, the case has been solved.'
'That's good then. Be seeing you.' And he jogged off into
the darkness.

Chapter Forty-Six

The work on the Truemans' murders was just beginning
for Max. He now had to prepare the case for court.
Brody's dog was giving him as many headaches as
Brody himself had. The confounded animal refused to eat
properly. It was possibly eating enough to stay alive. Possibly.
When the dog had first taken a few morsels out of the
bowl, Max had thought that was it. No. He'd offered her
steak, chips, sausages and anything else he thought might
tempt her. She simply looked at him in that accusing way
she had and wandered off to another room . . .
Max forced his mind back to work. He'd done a little
unofficial digging into Cornwall's past, but nothing had
come to light. Jill might be interested to know that he'd
been adopted after his real mother had abandoned him
outside a hospital, but although sad, there was nothing
particularly telling about that. His adoptive father had
worked on the force, as a detective with the West Midlands
CID, so perhaps that had something to do with Cornwall's
determination to be the best. Other than that, there was
nothing of note. He'd done OK at school, no better than
that. He'd been accepted by the army, then changed his
mind for some reason. More importantly, to Max at any
rate, was that he'd been on duty each time Valentine
had struck.
Fletch knocked at the door and came inside.
"I thought you'd gone home for the day,' Max said.
"I was on my way when something caught my eye.
One of the traffic cops stopped a dark blue Mondeo in
Preston,' he said quickly, 'the night that prostitute, Janie
Fisher, escaped from the weirdo. It had a defective rear
light. The funny thing was, the owner had filed an off-road
notification.'
'Oh?'
For a reason Max couldn't explain, his interest was
caught. The night was right, and the car fitted Janie's
vague description. Claiming a car was off the road wasn't
unusual, though. Max would like a quid for everyone who
did that to avoid paying road tax.
"It belongs to a Robert Murphy.'
The name meant nothing to Max.
'He has his own building firm and lives in Kelton
Bridge/ Fletch explained.
'Ah!' Bob Murphy. He was working on Jill's cottage.
'You saw him when Alice Trueman was killed, didn't
you, Fletch?'
'Yes. He seemed an OK sort of chap. Kept apologizing,
saying he couldn't help. He'd done some work at the
vicarage, last summer I think it was. He said he liked the
Truemans. His business is doing well so he's sitting pretty
financially, I imagine.'
'Then why would he say his car was off the road? And
what was he doing in Preston that night? Do we know?'
'No one's spoken to him about that.'
Max was ready to go home, and so was Fletch.
'Have you passed this on to Cornwall, Fletch?'
'Dunno where he is, guv,' Fletch said innocently.
'Right, how about we call on Murphy on our way
home?' Max suggested.
"It won't do any harm,' Fletch agreed. "I expect it's a
waste of time, but it did strike me as coincidental.'
Yes, it was coincidental, and Max knew how important
coincidences were in this job.

Max would have made an offer on Murphy's house if it
had been on the market. A barn conversion, it sat right on
the edge of Kelton Bridge, overlooking the village and
guarded by the Pennines. The upper floor was one huge
picture window. The gardens were large and informal, the
driveway was block paved, and low walls enclosed the
building.
His white van was parked outside on the drive and the
man himself came out of what looked to be a storeroom.
Max made the introductions. 'Nice place you've got
here,' he added.
'Thanks.' Murphy looked around him. 'It's taken years
to get it in shape, but yes, I like it. It suits me.' He wiped
his hands on his jeans. 'Sorry, you'll freeze out here.
Come inside.'
He led the way into a farmhouse-style kitchen. It looked
as if he more or less lived in that room. A desk took up one
corner, and on that sat a computer and a pile of brochures
and mail.
'My office,' he explained ruefully, pointing at the computer.
"I use an accountant but I like to keep an eye on
things myself. And, of course, there are always quotes to
go out, accounts to be settled.'
'Is business good?' Fletch asked.
"It is, yes. I've had to turn quite a few jobs away. I don't
like doing that, especially when it's local people who've
used me before, but neither do I like to keep them waiting
too long. I'm thinking of taking on another labourer or two
but it's difficult finding anyone interested. I've just taken
on an apprentice, and that's more trouble than it's worth.
The paperwork is unbelievable. And of course, as soon as
I've trained him, he'll set up in competition, I expect.' He
stopped. 'Sorry, you won't want to be bored with my
problems. How can I help you?'
'You probably can't,' Max told him, 'but our job is a bit
like yours. It would be OK without the paperwork, and it's
the paperwork that brings us here. On the evening of the
twentieth of December, a Monday, your car was stopped in
Preston. Is that right?'
"It is, and I still can't believe I was so stupid. It was the

Mondeo. I was planning to sell it, but I didn't get much
interest when I advertised it, so I thought I'd leave it a
while and then put it in Auto Trader or something like that.
Meanwhile, as I wasn't using it, it seemed daft to tax it.
I filled in the form to say it wasn't being used, and forgot
all about it. I climbed in the thing, forgetting it wasn't
taxed and - bingo. Your blokes got me for a duff light.'
That seemed feasible.
'What were you doing in Preston, Mr Murphy, if you
don't mind me asking?' Fletch said.
"I don't mind at all. About six months ago, I was invited
to tender for a hotel refurbishment in Preston. It was too
big a job for me, so I didn't bother. Here . . .' He walked
over to his desk and shuffled through the papers. 'Ha,
can't find it now. I must have filed it somewhere. Anyway,
I was just being nosy. I thought I'd drive out there, see how
the work was coming along, and find out who'd got the
contract. It was a spur of the moment thing.'
'Who did get the contract?' Fletch asked.
'Mmm? P and R Projects.' He was still hunting through
papers on his desk. 'Ah, here it is.'
Max glanced at the letter asking Murphy to tender, but
he wasn't interested.
'What time were you in Preston?' he asked, handing
it back.

"I got there about ten o'clock that night, and would have
been out of the place by ten thirty at the latest. I was on my
way out of the town when your lot stopped me.' He picked
up a handful of paperwork. 'I'm sure I've got the letter
here somewhere. I expect there will be a time on that. Here
it is.' He shook his head at the letter in his hand. 'Nope.
That's the parking ticket I got in Rawtenstall. I got done for
parking on double yellow lines in Rawtenstall back in
November. It was throwing it down when I parked, and
I thought I was clear of them. Typical. Still, never mind. I'd
gone to watch United play - on the big screen, you know?
Anyway, United won 2-1 so I suppose it was worth it.'
"I remember that,' Max said, struck by the coincidence.
"It was a cracking game, wasn't it?' It was played on the
thirteenth of November, the night Anne Levington was
murdered.
"It was,' Murphy agreed. 'I've resisted getting Sky so far,
but that game tempted me. The trouble is, though, I'd
never get a thing done if I had the sports channels. Far
better to drive into Rawtenstall and watch it on the pub's
big screen.'
"It means you can't have a drink, though,' Max
pointed out.
'Ah, yes, that's the disadvantage. I don't drink a lot, so
I'm OK. If I do have more than a pint - usually if it's a dull
game - I get a taxi home and fetch the van in the morning.
It depends on what work I've got on the following day.
The van's safe enough. There's a street camera there so if
the yobs of Rawtenstall decide to nick the wheels, at least
they'll be caught on camera. That's the theory, anyway.'
He returned the letter to his desk. 'Sorry, I can't find the
letter about the defective rear light. At a guess, I'd say it
was around twenty past ten that night. What's this about
anyway?'
'Probably nothing,' Max said briskly, 'but something
happened in Preston that night and we don't have a lot to
go on. At the moment, we're trying to eliminate as many
people as possible.'
'Oh, right. Well, there's nothing more I can tell you
really. I drove in, looked at the hotel from the outside - it
was too dark to see a lot - and drove home again.'
'That's enough, thanks.' Max turned towards the door,
then stopped. 'You're doing some work for a friend of
mine, Jill Kennedy'
'Ah, Lilac Cottage,' he said. 'Well, don't tell her business
is booming,' he added with a smile, 'or she'll think I'm
overcharging her.'
"I think that chap - oh, the estate agent - what's his
name?'
'Andy Collins?'
'That's the one. I gather he gave her a rough estimate of
what it should cost.'
'Did he? A good job I didn't overcharge her then. Mind,
she's lucky I could fit it in. Fortunately, Len, my roofer, is
pretty quiet at the moment. Ah, I should have guessed you
knew her. We were both at a bonfire party at the manor,
and I remember Tony Hutchinson talking about her work
with the police. She looked quite embarrassed by the attention.
Tony was calling her our celebrity, and I felt a bit of
a fool because I'd never heard of her. But there, Tony likes
to impress people with his vast knowledge.'
'So I gather,' Max said, amused. 'OK, thanks for your
time, Mr Murphy'
Max and Fletch walked back to their cars. They stopped
by Max's.
'We might have known it was a waste of time,' Fletch
muttered.
'Indeed. A duff rear light lands him in Preston at more
or less the right time, and a parking ticket gives him an
iron-clad alibi. We'll just check on the times, and make sure
he got the date right, but it looks as if he was safely in
Rawtenstall getting nicked when Valentine was killing
Anne Levington.'
'You can't win 'em all, guv. It was worth checking. Right,
I'm off home. Hey, how's that dog of Brody's doing?'
'Don't ask. I take the damn thing in out of the kindness
of my heart and the sodding animal refuses point blank to
eat. I've got Kate and the kids buying very expensive
titbits to tempt it with, but nothing. Fly, on the other hand,
will eat anything. It was one of my shoes yesterday'
Fletch laughed. "I bet the boys love it, though.'
'Yeah.'
They did, and on that thought, Max got in his car and
drove home.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Whenever Jill came to the Trafford Centre, which was only
three or four times a year, she always spent nigh on a
year's income. It was just as well she didn't visit the shops
very often. Today, she was laden down with two pairs of
shoes, a dress, a jacket, small presents for Prue's kids, a
picture for her sitting room and some new cutlery.
It was a relief to find a cafe, drop her bags on a chair,
take off her coat, and wait for a cappuccino to be brought
to her table. She'd have a sandwich or something more
substantial as soon as her coffee had revived her.
She was enjoying her coffee when she saw Liz Hutchinson,
also laden with carrier bags, walk into the cafe and
look for a free table.
'Liz, over here!' Jill got to her feet and waved her over.
'Hey, Jill, if I'd known, we could have come together.'
Strangely, Jill would have liked that. Liz had her problems
- Tony mostly - but Jill liked her.
'Next time,' Jill said, 'which will be in about three
months, I'll give you a call.'
'Exhausting, isn't it?' Liz laughed happily, not looking in
the least bit tired. She put her bags on the floor, and
ordered them both coffees. 'You look as if you need another,' she told Jill, and she was probably right.
They chatted about the shops, the way other shoppers
looked as if they'd entered hell, and how lucky they were
not to have children to supervise while they shopped.
'So how are things?' Jill asked her.
'Not bad,' Liz said, eyes twinkling. 'Tony's had a bit of
a fright lately, so he's behaving himself for a change.'
'Oh?'
'He wouldn't admit to it, of course,' Liz chuckled, 'but
he was nearly having kittens when the police were questioning him about that missing gun. And he felt such a
prat. I mean, what kind of an idiot has something stolen
and doesn't notice for months?'
'At least that's one mystery solved.'
'Yes. It saddens me to think of Jim though,' Liz said.
"I always thought he was a lovely chap. The sort you could
trust - well, with your life.'
"I liked him, too,' Jill agreed. "I didn't know him well,
but I liked him.'
Jill still did like him. He'd obviously been deeply in love
with Alice for most of his life. Her death, or her murder at
the hands of her husband, was too much for him to bear.
It would have been too much for many men to bear. Really,
Alice's father or Jonathan Trueman were to blame for
the tragedy. It was their anger, their jealousy and their
possessiveness.
'But the fright Tony had,' Liz said, lowering her voice
to a whisper, 'was far more personal than that. It's no
secret that he's had affairs, is it? Everyone in Kelton must
know that.'
Jill gave a vague shrug, which Liz pulled a face at. 'Even
you know about them and you've only lived here two
minutes. Anyway, he had a fling with a young girl, and
I mean really young. Only about twenty, she was. She
thought she was on to a good thing, got herself pregnant
and was trying to get money out of him by claiming he
was the father. He had to get one of those paternity tests
done.' She dropped her voice even lower. 'No one was
more relieved than Tony to find himself in the clear.'
'Oh, dear.' Jill didn't know what to say. She couldn't tell
Liz that Tony had already confided in her. But what if Tony
told her? Talk about a tangled web . . .
'I'm not sure if it will have frightened him enough to
keep him close to home for long,' Liz said, 'but I'm enjoying
it while it lasts.'
'That's good. I'm pleased for you.'
'Thanks.' Liz smiled a little shyly. 'They say you
shouldn't marry the man you can live with, you should
marry the man you can't live without. For all our problems,
and all the grief we give each other, we do belong
together, you know.'
'That must be a good feeling.' It was a feeling Jill had
known herself. She'd always thought she and Max belonged
together. 'It's not easy living with someone who's
been unfaithful,' she murmured, 'and yes, I do speak from
personal experience. The sense of anger and betrayal is
overwhelming. I admire you, Liz.'
'Because I'm daft enough to have him back?' Liz scoffed.
'No, because you can forgive and forget.'
She pulled a face and Jill guessed she did neither. Or if
she forgave, she never forgot.
'The first time it happened,' Liz said, "I chucked him out.
That was years ago now. Probably fifteen years. But then,
you have to ask yourself what it is you're gaining. Was my
life better without him? No. It's the same with forgiveness.
Would I gain anything by not forgiving him? No.'
Jill knew exactly what she meant. She also knew how
hard it was to make such a wise decision.
'Not that I give him an easy life,' Liz went on. 'I'm
spending his money for all I'm worth and I check every
penny he spends now. The other week, I gave him hell.
There was an invoice from some florist's on the credit card
bill and I assumed he was up to his old tricks again. But no
- one of the dinner ladies at the school was leaving and
Tony wanted to give her something personal. The school
had bought her gifts, of course, but Tony thought she
should have roses from him and me.'
'Roses?' Jill queried, a sick feeling in her stomach.
'How nice.'
'Not for Tony,' Liz said with a grin. "I gave him real
grief for it. That'll teach him not to tell me when he's
buying flowers.'
They chatted over sandwiches and one more coffee.
'Are you game for more shopping?' Liz asked. 'I'm
planning to treat myself to a sexy new dress. Do you fancy
helping? It should be fun.'
Jill's mind was still on those roses. 'Why not? Come
on then.'

Chapter Forty-Eight







When Max walked into her office, Jill leaned back in her
chair and rubbed her aching neck muscles.

"I thought I'd come and see if there was life down
here,' Max said, sitting on the edge of her desk. 'On
your own?'
'Yes. Cornwall's about somewhere but, for the moment
at least, he's keeping out of my way, thank God.' She
tapped her pen on the desk. 'I'm still not convinced about
him,' she admitted, 'and I don't like working here with
him. There's something odd about him.'
'There might be something odd about him,' Max agreed
with a wry smile, 'but he's not killing prostitutes. On every
occasion, he's been on duty.'
'Doesn't that strike you as coincidental?'
'Not really, no. He's made entries on the computer, and
he's got witnesses. Even without the witnesses, he can't
change dates on the computer.'
'He tried to get a transfer here at just about the time
Valentine started his killing spree,' Jill pointed out.
'True,' Max agreed, 'but he's not our man. There's nothing
in any of his assessments to suggest anything untoward.
He's got a good record. And on the night of the very
first murder, he was on TV helping with a live reconstruction.
You can't get a much better alibi than that, Jill.'
"I suppose so.'
He nodded at her computer. 'What are you working on?'
"I was looking at the Rodney Hill papers,' she admitted,
'and trying to see if I can find anything from that.' But it
was hopeless. 'He'll strike again soon, Max,' she said with
conviction. 'And my bet is Valentine's Day'
'That's next week.'
"I know.' The shops were awash with red heart-shaped
balloons, red roses were in every supermarket and filling
station, and it was a waste of time trying to find a birthday
card. 'He thinks he's clever,' she explained, 'and he
wants everyone else to know he's clever. Killing on Valentine's
Day will appeal to him. His ego will be massive.
He'll believe it's his day. His special day.' The thought
sickened her.
'But where?' she asked, speaking more to herself than
Max. Where was he going to choose his victim? 'I've been
trying to find a pattern to the geography, but I can't. My
best bet is Preston, simply because he may - if he was
indeed the man Janie Fisher saw, and I think he was return
to the place he was thwarted. That way, he'll regain
his control over the situation.'
'Have you told Cornwall?'
'Of course, but he didn't seem particularly interested.
Either uninterested or planning to patrol the streets of
Preston single-handed.'
The man himself walked in at that point, and Jill didn't
feel inclined to say more. Not that there was more to say.
'Well?' Cornwall asked, looking from one to the other.
'I'm on my way back to the office,' Max told him. 'This
evening then, Jill, eight o'clock? I'll call for you.'
Jill had no time to ask what he was talking about; he'd
gone, closing the door quietly behind him. What the devil
was that about?

At eight o'clock sharp, Max pulled up outside Jill's cottage.
'What,' she asked, holding the door open for him, 'is
this about?'
"I thought we'd have dinner out,' he said. "I didn't want
to say too much in front of Cornwall. We don't want the
office grapevine working overtime, do we?' He looked at
her shocked face. 'Come on, then, get your coat. I'm
starving.'
It was only when Jill had checked on the cats, grabbed
her coat, locked up the cottage and was sitting in Max's
car, that she seriously began to doubt her own sanity. It
was always the same with Max. She'd never been able to
resist him. He said jump, and she didn't even bother to ask
how high.
The worst thing was that she was absurdly pleased to be
going out with him. Would she never learn?
Was it as Liz had said, that her life was better with Max
around? It was better, but if it went too far, he could so
easily hurt her again. Of course, one should love as if one
had never been hurt, but that was nigh on impossible.
'What do you fancy?' Max was asking. 'Indian? Chinese?
Italian?'
'English. I fancy roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and all
the trimmings.'
'Can you still get English food in Lancashire?'
'With difficulty, yes.'
After a couple of miles, he turned the car around and
headed out towards Burnley. 'The Ram?' he suggested.
'Sounds great. And why are you in such a good mood?'
she asked curiously.
'I've escaped two kids and two dogs to be with the
woman of my dreams.' He grinned as she pulled a face.
'And you know the old saying, all work and no play
makes Max a miserable bastard.'
'How are the kids?' she asked.
'Fine,' he said softly. 'They're good kids.'
'They are. A lot better than you deserve.'
'That's what everyone says,' he replied, exasperated.
'What sort of kids do I deserve?'
Jill laughed. "I don't know, but you don't deserve those
two.' Yet, if Max wasn't the man he was, Harry and Ben
wouldn't be the boys they were. 'Although I suppose you
deserve a bit of credit,' she allowed grudgingly.
He was a good father, she couldn't deny that. Sometimes
work kept him too busy, but when he was home those
boys enjoyed real quality time. They adored him, worshipped
him.
'How are the dogs?' she asked, unused to putting Max
in too good a light.
'Fly's manic. If he were human, he'd be your typical
petty criminal, in and out of prison, dreaming of the crime
to end all crimes. Holly is different. She's eating just
enough to stay alive, although she's getting painfully thin.
Occasionally, if you're stroking her or encouraging her to
play, the light will come back into her eyes for a moment,
but most of the time, she lies by the front door waiting for
Brody. She wags her tail when I get home, and I think
we've got a bit of a breakthrough, but then she goes back
to the door and waits.'
'You love her to death, don't you?'
He turned off the road and into the car park. 'I've got a
soft spot for her, I suppose, yes. Come on then - food.'
They chatted amicably during their meal, and Jill still
didn't know why he was doing this. She was pleased
he was, but she kept waiting for him to get to the point
of it all.
He had a mineral water with his meal, and then they
lingered over two coffees - chatting all the while. Still he
didn't get to the point.
It was late when they left, and Max seemed relaxed
enough as he drove her home. He stopped long enough to
drink a coffee - and to satisfy himself that no one had been
inside - and then went to leave.
'Max, this evening - what's it all about?'
'No reason.' Seeing she wasn't satisfied with that, he
thought for a moment. "I don't know. It just seemed the
right thing to do.'
'Yes, but why?'
"I honestly don't know. I thought we both deserved an
evening out. It's been too long, Jill.' He kissed her, a light
touch of lips on lips, and then walked away down her
drive.
'And keep that bloody door locked!' he called out.
As if she needed reminding.



Chapter Forty-Nine

The net was closing and he had to move quickly now.
The mighty detective had left half an hour ago. 'Keep that
bloody door locked,' he'd instructed her on his way out.
Did he truly believe a locked door would save her?
The man was stupid. All the time Trentham had been with her,
he'd been watching them both from the dark shadows of her
garden.
Where had they been? He hoped they had enjoyed a pleasant
evening as time was running out. They only had two more
evenings left . . .
He'd wondered where he might take her to kill her, but what
could be better than killing her in her own cottage? A couple of
policemen drove past a few times during the night, but other
than that, she was vulnerable. They'd put all their faith in the
new locks, bolts and chains and a highly sophisticated alarm
system.
Not that it mattered. He would be welcomed. The door would
be opened wide.
The thought made him want to laugh out loud.
Idiots, idiots, idiots!
They thought she was safe enough at Lilac Cottage. That's
exactly where they would find her body.
She was more special than the others, more highly prized by
the great detective, so he would make her death more special. As
it would be Valentine's Day, he would buy red roses. Dozens of
them. He'd cover her body in hundreds of rose petals. It would
make a striking photograph for the great detective to hang on his
wall . . .
One of her cats wandered through the garden. Even that, a
creature of the night, didn't spot him. He heard the click-clack of
the cat flap opening and closing.
The excitement was becoming almost unbearable but he had
to wait. Just two more days. But oh, it was so tempting to kill
her now.
He longed to see her face on the front pages of the newspapers
and on the television. People would say good things about her,
turn her into a saint, a martyr.
What would they say about the mighty detectives? How many
of them were trying to catch Valentine? And how many had even
come close? None.
The public was right; the police force was only good for
catching speeding motorists . . .
On Valentine's Day, he would make them look even more
stupid.




Chapter Fifty

Jill almost jumped out of her chair at the knock on the
door. She laughed at herself. That would teach her to
watch horror films on her own.
She'd been edgy all day as she waited for something
to happen. Yet nothing had. No Valentine's cards had
arrived. There had been no floral deliveries. As far as
she knew, no girls had been reported missing. Valentine's
Day was almost over and, as yet, nothing untoward had
happened.
Her smile quickly died. It was a few minutes before ten,
late for visitors, and she hoped it wasn't Ella with bad
news about Tom.
She slipped on her shoes and hurried to the door.
It was a relief to see Bob standing there.
'Hello, Bob, you gave me a fright. I was watching a
horror film and the noise made me jump. Then I wondered
if it might be Ella with bad news. Come in.' She closed the
door after him, shutting out the cold, wet night. "I don't
suppose you've heard how Tom is?'
'No.'
The abrupt answer and his lack of interest took her by
surprise.
She was about to comment on it when he turned around,
locked her front door - and slipped the keys in his pocket.
It was Valentine's Day. Valentine was a strong man;
Bob was strong. Hadn't she laughed with Ella about his
stunning physique? They never did find out who started
that fire.
No! Oh, no!
The bile was already rising in Jill's throat. Paranoia, she
told herself . . .
'What -?' Her throat was suddenly too dry to get the
words out. They never did find out who started that fire.
'One day you'll be mine,' he said, and there was a light
of triumph in his eyes as a gurgle of almost childish
laughter escaped him.
She turned in panic, but he was too fast - and strong.
His leg flew out to trip her, and her wrist was caught in a
vice-like grip as she fell.
'You think you're so clever, don't you?' He took a knife
from his pocket, and the blade glinted in the glow of the
lamps. Then, with that in one hand, he quickly tied her
wrists tight behind her back. He tied her feet together at
the ankles.
Think, Jill's mind was screaming at her. Think!
Yet she couldn't think. Not a single coherent thought
came to her. All she seemed capable of was making terrified,
babbling noises. Think, think, think!
'You're so dim,' he said scathingly. 'You, those stupid
police officers who were watching this place - they
couldn't watch grass grow - and that jumped-up detective
Trentham.'
Play to his ego, Jill told herself. Flatter him. Let him bask
in his small glory.
He'd locked the front door but she was fairly sure the
back door was still open. She'd been in and out a couple
of times, messing around with the cats, and, unless she
was having a major panic, she often forgot to lock it until
she went to bed. Keep that bloody door locked. Sorry, Max,
but I'm fairly sure the back door is still unlocked and it
might, just might, save my life. Dear God, she hoped it was
open. If it was locked, the key was on the ring in his
pocket . . .
Yet how the hell could she get to the door? Her arms and
legs were tied.
Think, think, think!
She could scream, but no one would hear. Her mobile
phone was in the kitchen so she couldn't even send a text
message. Someone might phone her, but he wouldn't let
her answer it. It was getting late for phone calls anyway.
If someone did phone, and if she could persuade him
to let her answer it, she could pretend it was Ella with
news of Tom and, somehow, let that caller know she was
being held.
'It's not that we're stupid,' she said, amazed by two
things - one that her voice was audible and two that she
sounded reasonably calm - 'it's more that you're so clever.
We've always known that. No one working on your case
has agreed on much - other than the fact that you're the
cleverest killer they've ever come across.'
They never did find out who started that fire.
Of all the people in the world, Bob Murphy was probably
the man she would have suspected least. Everyone
liked him. Everyone in Kelton Bridge thought he was
marvellous. He did a good job, they said, and he was
reliable. The women worshipped him. Even Ella had
noticed how good his body was.
'You with your fancy profiling,' he scoffed. 'All the locals
think you're a miracle worker, that you can read minds '
'No.'
'The local celebrity.' His voice was sneering.
'You're the local celebrity,' she said. 'People will talk of
you for years to come. For as long as people live, they'll
talk about you.'
He dragged her to her feet - God, he was strong - and
pushed her down into the chair in front of her desk. Then he
leaned back against her desk, facing her. The frighteningly
sharp-looking knife was only inches from her throat.
Play for time. Flatter him. So long as there was time, there
was hope.
'Why me?' she asked. 'You've always killed women
who '
'Whores!' He spat out the word. 'Dirty, filthy, cheap
little whores.'
His anger was tangible.
'Yes,' she agreed, too terrified to argue with him, or
point out that Anne Levington had been a young girl
whose life had gone so sadly wrong. 'So why me?'
'It's time Trentham had something to think about. I'm
sick of seeing that smug face of his on my television.'
'That was because of Jonathan and Alice Trueman,'
she said.
'And what did he care? Huh? So long as it's his face on
the screen, his name in the papers, he doesn't care who
lives or who dies.'
Bob wanted the fame for himself. What he wouldn't
know was that Max hated the press conferences. Given the
choice, Max would let someone else do them, and he
certainly wouldn't agree to one unless he thought it would
help an investigation.
Yet Bob wanted his picture on the small screen.
'What does he care if the odd whore gets killed?' Bob
went on. 'He doesn't. Who does?'
Max cared.
'You think he'll care if I'm killed?' she asked. 'He won't,
you know. I'm just someone he works with, that's all.'
'Don't try and be clever with me. I've seen how much
time he spends with you. I've seen his kids with you.'
'We used to be friends, but that was a long time ago.'
Her phone rang out, pushing her nerves to breaking
point, and she gave him an appealing look.
"It might be Ella with news of Tom. She said she might
call. It's late and she'll think it odd if I don't answer. She
might come and investigate.'
He rammed his hand down on her shoulder, just in case
she thought of moving. The knife was icy cold against
her neck.
'Don't try and be clever with me.'
Jill only wished she could.
'You've reached Jill Kennedy . . .' Her recorded message
sounded so carefree. Another world.
'It's only me, Jill,' Ella said. 'Sorry, it's a bit late. You've
probably gone to bed. Just thought I'd let you know that
Tom should be home tomorrow. He's much better, thank
God. Oh, and Don Cornwall? It came to me, and it's nothing
to do with your Don. The Don Cornwall I was thinking of
was a pal of Tom's. If he hadn't died last year, he'd be
eighty-three now. Anyway, I'll catch you tomorrow.'
The machine clicked off just as a burst of canned laughter
came from the television.
Jill felt an almost overwhelming urge to burst into tears,
and the knowledge infuriated her. Hard facts: he'd killed
several times; he killed with a casual ease; he was good at
it. She recalled the photographs of all the girls he'd killed.
If she didn't outwit him, she would end up just like them,
strangled, and with heart-shaped pieces of skin removed
from her lifeless body.
'Why me?' she asked again.
'Told you.'
He was short, snappy, disinclined to talk. She had to
make him talk.

'I've sat for hours at this desk working on your profile.'
Her only hope was to keep him talking. Until what? She
didn't know. She only knew that she had to keep him
talking. 'Not that it did me much good. That computer '
she pointed at it - 'is full of stuff about you.' She paused,
letting him mull that over. 'Pages and pages and pages of
reports on you. There are notes about the people who have
claimed to be you. Oh, yes, they've all wanted to be you.
We've been able to suss them out straightaway, though.
We've known they aren't as clever as you. My report says
. . .' She paused again. 'Still, it doesn't matter what my
report says, does it? I like to think it was a fairly good
profile of you but - well, we'll never know.'
He was breathing hard.
Then, just as Jill had hoped, his ego got the better of him.
He hit the button, and switched on her laptop.
'We've got all night,' he said.

Chapter Fifty-One

Max was uneasy. Every time his car phone rang, he
expected the worst.
Valentine's Day had started bright and sunny, completely
at odds with his mood, but the weather had soon
deteriorated.
Perhaps Jill was wrong; perhaps Valentine wouldn't
strike today. She'd been fairly confident of that, though.
More confident, in fact, than she'd been of anything for a
long time.
Was Cornwall taking her seriously? Max wasn't sure.
Having said that, there were more patrol cars on the streets
than usual.
His phone rang and he saw from the display that it
was Fletch.
'Where are you, guv?'
'Preston,' Max said vaguely.
Jill had thought Cornwall might patrol the streets of
Preston single-handed, and that's exactly what Max was
doing. Unlike Cornwall, though, he had no choice. His
neck would be on the line if they thought he was even
thinking about Valentine.
'You?' he asked.
'At home. Where you should be.'

Max should. What did he expect to see in Preston?
Nothing really. What was the point of driving round and round the blasted town?
'You're probably right,' Max agreed. He was definitely
right. "I just thought I'd have a look round. There's not much
happening. I'll be heading home myself in a minute.'
Jill had thought Valentine might strike today, and she'd
thought he might strike in Preston. She could be wrong.
He might strike tomorrow. Worse, he could have got his
victim last night. There had been no reports of missing
working girls, but that meant nothing. And he might fancy
Blackpool or Burnley. Who knew? Certainly not Max.
'So if there's not much happening,' Fletch pointed out,
'you may as well go home now. Unless you're enjoying
driving round the fleshpots of Preston.'
Max wasn't. It was pissing down with rain yet, despite
the weather, there were a few louts on the streets, young
kids kicking tin cans around.
'There aren't many girls around,' he told Fletch. 'If I had
cash burning a hole in my wallet, I'd be hard pushed to
find one.'
'That's a good thing. I reckon they're more twitchy
than usual.'
'They damn well ought to be. They've been warned.'
'Yeah.' There was a pause. 'Go home, guv,' Fletch said
with a sigh. 'You were pulled off the case, remember?'
'Yes, and you're right. "I'll be going home in a minute.'
Max spent another hour driving round the wet, dark
streets of Preston. What did he expect to see? A prostitute
getting into a black or dark blue Mondeo?
The shop windows were still decked out with red roses
and hearts. The pubs were doing a good trade by the look
of things, and a lot of them had special offers - cheap
drinks for Valentine's Day. Couples, the blokes in shirts,
and the girls dressed in nothing worth wearing, walked
the streets, going from one pub to the next. It was just a
normal night.
He should go home. He'd already had warnings from
above about his lack of ability to delegate, interviewing
people when less senior officers should be doing it, forgetting
he was part of a team and all the rest of it.
He was driving out of town, eyes still boring into every
person on the street, checking every car
Looming
out of the darkness, he saw it. The Newland
Hotel. There was scaffolding around it, signs keeping
people out of what was, at the moment, a construction site.
There, on a huge yellow board in bright red lettering,
was the name of the company doing the refurbishment.
Not P and R Projects, as Bob Murphy had said, but Drake
Construction Ltd.
Max pulled over, switched off the engine and stared at
the sign. So Bob Murphy had got the name wrong. Or he
hadn't been anywhere near this site on the night he'd been
nicked for that defective light.
I get a taxi home and fetch the van in the morning.
Max hit the button on his phone.
'Robert Murphy got a parking ticket on the thirteenth of
November,' he explained, his mind working fast. 'Apparently,
he parks in front of a street camera. I want the
camera checked for that night, and I need to know if his
white van was parked there all night. You can't miss it. It's
got R. Murphy Building Contractor scrawled all over it.'
Who's to say Bob Murphy even watched the United
game? He could have read all about it in the morning's
papers.
While United's finest were playing their socks off, Bob
Murphy could have been killing Anne Levington.
If the yobs of Rawtenstall decide to nick the wheels, at least
they'll be caught on camera . . .
Did Murphy park in front of that camera to ward off
Rawtenstall's yobs? Or did he park there to give himself
an alibi?
'You fucking idiot, Trentham!'
He was on the phone again, his words falling over
themselves in his attempt to get them out quickly.
'That camera in Rawtenstall,' he said, "I want it checked
for the twentieth of December - the night Janie Fisher
called us. I want to know if Murphy's white van was
parked outside that pub.'
He drove fast, shouting instructions down his phone as
he did so.
Then he phoned Fletch and gave him his possibly half
baked theory
'I'll meet you at Murphy's place,' Fletch said doubtfully.
'You could be reading something into nothing, though, guv.
Perhaps he just got the name of the contractor wrong.'
'Yeah, and a fucking pink farmyard animal just flew
over my bonnet. There are too many coincidences for my
liking. I'm convinced the bastard's using that fucking van
as a decoy. He leaves it in full view of a camera, then goes
out in his bloody Mondeo.'
Murphy, if he was going to strike tonight, would be out.
His van would be parked in front of a street camera
somewhere, and his dark blue Mondeo, the car seen by
Janie Fisher, would be gone.
He could be anywhere.
Soon afterwards, the call came through and Max was
informed that it was in Rawtenstall.
'Parked in front of that camera?'
"It is, guv, yes. It's parked in the same place that he got
the parking ticket in November. Tonight, Murphy got out
of the van and walked through the doors of the pub
opposite. That was almost two hours ago.'
'Let's check it out,' Max said to Fletch.
As he drove, with Fletch behind him, a huge red heart in
a shop window caught Max's eye.
One day you'll be mine.
His heart seemed to stop beating for a second. That
fucking card, those roses - how many more clues did
they need?
The bastard had lined Jill up as his Valentine's Day
victim months ago!





When Max arrived at Murphy's place, Fletch was
already there.
'There's no sign of him, guv,' Fletch greeted him. 'I've
had a quick look round. The van's nowhere to be seen, but
the Mondeo's in the garage.'
Max breathed a sigh of relief. If he was out in his van,
with his name emblazoned on the side for all to see, he
was unlikely to be killing anyone. He might be leaving his
an in front of that camera, and he might be sitting in a
taxi coming back for his Mondeo but, for the moment at
least, all was well.
'You might have got it all wrong, guv,' Fletch said,
clearly not amused at being dragged from a warm house
and a pregnant wife.
"I might,' Max agreed. "I just wish they'd hurry up and
get the CCTV checked out.'
Feeling slightly easier, thanks to the presence of the
Mondeo, Max decided they'd have a drive round and see
if they could spot Murphy's van.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Jill stared at the computer's screen. There were several
folders pertaining to Valentine. She tried to think fast.
What did the folders contain? Where were the notes that
claimed he was sexually dysfunctional? Which set of notes
would best flatter his ego?
Someone would see his van outside. If his van was there
for hours, someone was sure to spot it and think it suspicious.
Or would they? They would think it odd perhaps,
but not unusual enough to do anything about it. By morning,
Olive Prendergast would probably be telling everyone
in the post office that Bob Murphy was having an affair
with that fancy psychiatrist . . .
They heard her mobile phone ring out in the kitchen.
She looked at him; his face was expressionless.
It was late for a call on her mobile. Few people used it.
She opened a folder. If her memory served her well, it
contained little other than her notes on the geography
involved and the basis for her assumption that Valentine
lived in the Rossendale area, and possibly Kelton Bridge.
A game show was on the television, bringing the contestants'
laughter and shouting into the room.
Bob Murphy wasn't interested in the television; he was
looking for items of interest on her computer. He clicked
on a file named 'parent'. There it was, with a few notes
underlined in red, her conviction that his mother had been
a prostitute and that his father hadn't figured in his life.
'Clever, aren't you?' he sneered.
'Was your mother a prostitute?' Jill asked.
'A dirty, filthy, disgusting whore.' He spat out each
word.
'She died when the house burnt, didn't she? They never
did find out who started the fire, did they? No one would
suspect a child of ten.'
He said nothing.
'So even as a child you were clever,' she mused. 'Even as
a child you were determined to make the world a better
place. That's what you're doing, isn't it? Your mother was
a bad person, so you got rid of her. You set fire to the
house. You started the fire that killed your mother.'
'She shut me in a cupboard. Every night, as soon as the
men were due to call, she locked me in the cupboard out
of the way'
'Was it dark?'
'Yes.'
'And you were frightened?'
'No! Wasn't frightened! Wasn't a baby!' His saliva
landed on her face, but she daren't brush it off. "I spent
hours in that cupboard, and I wasn't frightened. I took a
biscuit she'd made and she hit me, then put me in the
cupboard. After that, whenever she made the biscuits,
I had to go to the cupboard. Hated those biscuits. They
were all the same shape. All she had was a heart-shaped
cutter and the biscuits were all the same.'
Biscuits? Jill had to keep swallowing to stop herself
vomiting. The heart-shaped pieces of skin he removed
from his victims . . . surely to God he didn't cook them.
"It was only going to be her,' he said, scowling, getting
agitated, 'but there was another whore in Blackpool. She
thought I'd pay to have sex with her. Filthy bitch.'
'No!' Jill managed to sound scandalized.
'Bitch. Stupid, dirty, filthy, disgusting bitch.'
Jill's mobile phone rang out again. Who was trying to
call her at this time of night? Her family and friends would
try her at home first. Hardly anyone used her mobile.
'And that was what?' she asked. 'About five years ago?'
'Yes. And you lot had to arrest Hill,' he scoffed. 'He was
nothing. A nobody'
'He was,' Jill agreed, 'but we didn't know that until we'd
arrested him.'
'You never knew it. Until he killed himself, you thought
he was me. I had to kill again, just to show you.'
'We were stupid,' she agreed. 'You were the clever one.'
'Don't humour me, bitch.'
"I wasn't. Sorry.'
He suddenly picked up a heavy glass paperweight from
her desk and hurled it at the television screen. Glass
went everywhere and the noise seemed as if it would
never end.
When all was silent, he was listening.
'What was that?' he demanded.
"I didn't hear anything.'
"I did.'
'These stone walls are two feet thick in places,' she
reminded him. 'It's impossible to hear anything. I didn't
hear your van pull up.'
"I didn't come in my van. I walked.' He was distracted,
listening for sounds. All was silent, except for the thud of
Jill's heartbeat.
He took a dark red, silk scarf from his pocket and wound
it around his wrist a few times. He was still listening.
The phone in the sitting room rang out. Jill wondered if
she could hurl herself at it, knock it off the hook and yell
for help. No. He might be distracted, but he still had a
knife and a scarf in his hands. And he was strong. Ridiculously
strong.
Again, her recorded voice on the machine shocked her
with its light-hearted frivolity.
'Hi, Jill, it's Max. We've caught Valentine so I reckon I'll
soon be Chief Constable Trentham. You were right; he
struck in Preston. We caught him in the act - just as he
was removing his trademark hearts from the dead girl's
skin '
'What the -?' Bob Murphy was furious. His breathing
was fast and hard.
'And he's confessed to everything,' Max continued.
'Thought you'd like to hear the good news. All we have
to do now is wait for the cranks to come out of the
woodwork. I guess all of Kelton Bridge will claim they're
Valentine - Andy Collins, Tony Hutchinson, Robert
Murphy. They'll all reckon they're Valentine, but we know
the truth. I expect I'll be stuck in Preston all night so I'll
catch you tomorrow.'
The machine clicked off.
'Stupid fucking bastards!' Bob Murphy screamed.
He looked at Jill, as if he expected her to do something
about this terrible error.
Hi, Jill, it's Max. Max never said that. He always said,
Hi, it's me. All that nonsense about Chief Constable
Trentham? Max hadn't been talking to her at all. He'd been
talking to Valentine.
'What the fuck's going on?' Screaming with rage, Bob
Murphy strode towards the answer machine. He was
yanking it from the wall when a single shot rang out.
Jill watched, a sudden numbness claiming her, as Bob
Murphy collapsed to the floor.
Blood was seeping into her carpet as he clutched his
injured leg. An officer was standing over him, his gun
pointing at Murphy's head.
She looked at Max, but he wasn't looking her way. He
was giving Murphy a vicious kick in the ribs as Fletch and
two uniformed officers handcuffed him.
'If you had any fucking idea,' Max roared, 'of the hassle
involved every time an officer uses his gun - but you
would, wouldn't you? You're well read on police procedure.
But remember this, there's so much fucking hassle
involved, that it would be no worse if we blew your
fucking brains out.' He kicked him again. 'If I thought
anyone would so much as mention diminished responsibility,
I would blow your fucking brains out!'
Max was breathing heavily; fury in every inhalation.
Murphy was writhing in pain.
Two more uniformed officers came inside and one of
them untied Jill.
She was shaking. Every part of her body was shaking,
and her teeth had started to chatter.
Max hadn't glanced at her; that piercing stare of his still
hadn't left Bob Murphy. The gun - and she knew Max was
itching to take it from the other officer and pull the trigger
- was still aimed at Murphy's head.
'Are you all right?'
Jill focused on the officer. She didn't recognize him.
'Yes. Yes, I'm fine.'
She had never been less fine. The numbness was quickly
wearing off and reaction was setting in. She was suffering
from shock.
But she would be all right. Soon.
The wail of a siren announced the arrival of an ambulance.
When Murphy was lifted on to the stretcher, he
smiled at Max. It was a smile that chilled Jill.
'A ten-year-old boy has to watch his beloved mother
burn to death?' he gurgled. 'That would do terrible damage
to a boy's mind . . . send him mad, I shouldn't wonder.
A young boy so damaged, so lacking in love, that he turns
his victims into objects of beauty - that's a damaged mind
. . .'As they carried him away, he was laughing.
Jill knew she would hear the sound of that laughter for
the rest of her days. She guessed Max would, too.

Chapter Fifty-Three

An almost full moon lit the path to Jill's cottage. Max
stopped the car, switched off the engine and sat for a
moment to watch the shadows dancing around as the
moon slid behind small clouds before emerging again.
Three weeks had passed since Murphy had been taken
in - Max still wished he'd blown the fucker's brains out and
he hadn't seen Jill since.
He knew she'd spent a week in Liverpool with her
parents before returning to her cottage. Max, guessing
she needed time, had left her alone. Perhaps he'd needed
time, too.
He'd asked Kate to keep an eye on her. She and the
boys had been regular visitors to the cottage over the last
fortnight.
'She's fine, Max,' Kate had insisted. 'Busy. But fine.'
Jill, he knew, was an expert at keeping her feelings well
hidden. He wanted to see for himself.
He got out of the car, flicked the button to lock it, and
walked up to her front door. He knocked loudly, realized
belatedly that he'd probably frightened her half to death,
and quickly called out, 'Jill, it's me!'
He was expecting to hear the locks being unfastened and
the chain being released. What he hadn't been expecting
was for her to call out, 'It's open!'
'For fuck's sake!' He barged through the door and she
was standing two feet from him. 'Is it really so difficult to
lock a bloody door?'
'No. Sorry, Max.' She laughed, and Max had to admit it
sounded carefree and relaxed. Perhaps, after all, she was
doing OK.
"I don't suppose you're expecting a takeaway?' he asked
hopefully.
'Nope. Are you hungry?'
'Only when I thought of a takeaway' He spotted a bottle
and a glass of red wine on the coffee table. 'I'll have a glass
of wine though, if you're offering.'
She fetched a glass from the kitchen and filled it from
the bottle. 'So is this a professional or a social call?'
'Purely social.' He took off his jacket, threw it over the
back of a chair, and sat on the sofa. 'Thanks.' He took
the glass from her and tasted the wine. 'That's not bad
at all.'
She sat beside him, looking very relaxed.
Two suitcases sat in the corner of the room, he noticed.
'Are you going somewhere?'
'Spain,' she replied. 'Just for a week. It was a spur of the
moment thing. I booked it on the internet yesterday'
'Very nice. You can buy me a beach bar while you're
there. So how have you been?'
'I'm good, Max. You?'
He wouldn't say he was good, although he was improving
by the minute.
'Not bad. No nightmares?' he asked.
She looked at him then. Straight at him. 'A couple,' she
admitted, 'but they've been different. In these, you've been
coming towards me, I've turned to run and come face to
face with Bob Murphy swinging from a rope.'
'There's an easy answer to that.' He ran his finger round
the rim of his glass.
'Oh?'
'Stop running from me.'
'Perhaps you're right.' She laughed again. 'But no, I'm
good. Although I'm still pissed off at myself for being so
stupid.' She shook her head. 'He was everything my damn
profile said he was - including sexually dysfunctional, no
doubt. Creep! He lived alone, right on the very edge of
Kelton Bridge, he's as strong as a bloody ox, and the worst
thing is that Ella had told me about the fire that killed his
mother. Why the bloody hell didn't I take note? God, no
wonder he thinks we're all idiots. He's right. Cheeky bastard
- coming to my cottage to work for me, putting
envelopes through my letterbox, leaving bloody roses and
candles on my kitchen table . . .'
'Hindsight is a wonderful gift, kiddo.' Max sprawled
back on her sofa. He was relieved to hear her able to talk
about it.
'Sometimes,' she said slowly, "I wonder what would
have happened if you hadn't driven out to Preston, if you
hadn't seen the name of that construction company, if
you hadn't put two and two together.'
They both knew the answer to that one: she would have
been in the morgue.
'When he threw that paperweight at the television -' She
shuddered. 'He was really losing it then, Max.'
"I know. That's why I had to get him away from you leave
that message on the machine and hope it both
angered him enough and distracted him enough for us to
manage a shot at him.'
Jill fetched the bottle and refilled her glass. She was
about to fill his.
'I'm driving,' he told her, 'so unless I can persuade some
lovely young lady to give me the use of her sofa for the
night . . .'
'Just don't wake me when you go. My plane doesn't
leave until the afternoon and I've promised myself a lie-in.'
Smiling, she refilled his glass.
Something had changed, and Max didn't know what. He
liked it, liked it a lot, but he felt as if he was on stage with
the wrong script.
'Don't suppose you fancy a quick shag, do you?' he
murmured.
She gave a burst of laughter, as she always had. It was
a sound from long ago, a sound that brought a lump to
his throat.
'Don't push your luck, Trentham. You might have saved
my life, but if you were a half-decent detective, my life
wouldn't have needed saving in the first place.'
'Given the help of a psychologist - one without a penchant
for inviting maniacs into her home for late night
coffee and chat - I might make a half-decent detective
one day.'
'Ha!' She punched him in the ribs before giving another
sigh of contentment.
'So how are the boys?' she asked. 'And the dogs? Is
Holly settling in? Oh, and did I tell you I'm coming back
to work next month?'
'No. Really?'
'Yup. I'm getting this book of mine finished, then I'm
back on the job.'
'That's great.'
'Yeah. So how are the boys?'
As he drank his wine, he told her about Harry and Ben.
He talked of Fly and Holly.
'Holly's doing great,' he said. "I think, thanks to her, that
Fly is finally learning what fetch means.'
Jill hadn't heard. She was fast asleep.
Max wasn't sleepy. He was busy thinking how good life
was. His sons were happy and healthy, he had a job he
enjoyed for the most part, Valentine was gone from their
lives, and the woman he loved was sleeping nearby. Life
couldn't be better.
Well, it would have been better if the wine bottle hadn't
been empty but, hey, a man couldn't have everything.

The End.