Tom was late for work. He hated being late, much preferring to be early. The fact that they had three bathrooms and he’d been unable to get into any one of them for a shower had pissed him off. He dashed out to the car, which his wife had kindly left parked halfway up the narrow dead-end road, facing the wrong way. He cursed out loud, getting into the car while trying his best not to spill the strong black coffee he was carrying down the front of his suit. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’d left it here on purpose. He always made the effort to either park on the drive or at least leave the car facing the right way. Well, Alison could bugger off; tonight he’d leave it parked outside Craig’s house. Let the lazy cow take a hike the next time she had to rush off to get her nails painted, or when she was running late for yoga.

Slotting the coffee cup into the holder, he put the window down. It wasn’t particularly warm out, but he was overheating with all the rushing. He started the car and drove up to Craig’s house; they wouldn’t mind if he used their drive to turn around. As he pulled into the drive, the front door to the large detached house blew open in the breeze. Craig’s car was parked there so they must be in. He’d probably gone back into the house for something. Tom didn’t give the fact that all the lights were on even though it was daylight a second thought as he reversed out of the driveway. He had a lot to do today and he wanted Lewis Waite back in the cells and charged with murder – if only to make his life a little easier.

* * *

The incident room was busy. On the large whiteboards there were photographs of Stacey Green and Melanie Benson, alive and dead. The search of Stacey’s flat had been successful; there were fingerprints on the bathroom windowsill that were a match for Lewis Waite’s. There had also been a half-empty can of cola on the coffee table, which Lucy could almost guarantee would bring up a match for his DNA. The flat, however, wasn’t the primary crime scene – the backstreet was – and up to now they had nothing from the scene or Stacey’s body that could be linked back to Lewis Waite. He was their number-one person of interest, but Lucy still had a gut feeling that he wasn’t the killer.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t know who the killer was, though, or that he hadn’t had something to do with it. To her it seemed that Lewis might be caught up in a whole world of shit that had nothing to do with him. He was still wanted for breaking and entering because if he’d had a legitimate reason to be inside Stacey’s flat he would have used the front door. Guests didn’t usually climb into people’s flats through the bathroom window. So he had been up to something – she just didn’t think it was murder. It didn’t make any sense; he wouldn’t have killed her in the backstreet, then gone into her flat to sleep. If he knew he could get in, he’d have waited inside for her to come home and then killed her. At least, that’s what she’d have done; but you never could tell.

Browning was typing up everything they had so far onto HOLMES. He didn’t look happy this morning and she wondered if he was okay. He hadn’t spoken much to any of them; instead he’d reverted back to his normal, sullen self. She’d take him to one side later and check if he was all right; she didn’t want him to go back to being a miserable bastard. She liked the new improved, funnier version.

Mattie, who was on the phone to someone, pointed at Browning and she nodded – so he’d picked up on it as well. Col was sitting with his head bent as his fingers flew over the computer keyboard, doing every conceivable background check on the victim and suspect. This was now known as Operation Swift: each serious case was given its own name to make it easier to distinguish between them. Stacey’s post-mortem hadn’t picked up anything that they didn’t already know, apart from the blue fibre, even though Catherine had been her usual, diligent self. There had been no sign of sexual assault and no semen had been found anywhere on the body. So despite it looking like a sexually motivated homicide, it wasn’t – at least not in the conventional way. The killer hadn’t left behind any traces of himself. Neither had Waite, the voice in her head reminded her.

So what the hell was this? Some kind of stranger-killing, a revenge murder, or just pure bad luck that Stacey Green was in the wrong place at the wrong time? And what about Melanie Benson? Why had the killer chosen those two out of all the women he could have? What made them so special? She was staring at the whiteboards, waiting for the answer to jump out at her.

She went to get her mobile from her desk, passing Patrick, who was sitting at his computer looking at BBC News. She shook her head; he hadn’t impressed her much yet. At this rate she’d be taking over the woman in the woods case and solving that as well before he pulled his finger out. It irked her; surely it was pretty straightforward. All he had to do was track down the original missing persons report for Jenny Burns. It would be boxed up in the archives somewhere; even if it took him a morning it was better than wasting time on the internet. Once he found the report he could get the details and go and visit her parents; revisit the last people who had seen her before she’d disappeared. She was tempted to go and suggest this to him, but surely he would know what to do? He was the same rank as her – he must have a bit of an inclination as to how to do his job. Grabbing her phone off the desk, she checked her messages.

There had been no sightings of Lewis Waite. He’d gone to ground, which wasn’t what Lucy had wanted to happen. Some scroat must be hiding him away; he must have spun them some bullshit story about why the police were searching for him. Because they were – there was a six-man task force team tracking down every acquaintance that he had to their addresses, which were held on the computer system. Already three doors had been put through and the council had fielded several complaints about why the police hadn’t bothered to ask for keys to the flats. Lucy hoped that someone had told them the reason: that they didn’t have time for niceties. They needed Waite locked up and answering questions now.

Lucy’s mood was getting worse by the minute; she was hungry, in need of caffeine and pissed off. She heard raised voices – Mattie and Browning were having a heated debate over the CCTV footage from Aston’s. Walking back into the incident room, she nodded at Browning. ‘Can I have a word?’

She suppressed her anger when he rolled his eyes at Mattie. Seconds ago they were having a go at each other and now they were comrades in arms because she’d intervened. She turned and strode back across the hallway to her office. Browning followed her in, closing the door behind him.

‘What’s up, Lucy?’

‘Nothing’s up with me; what’s up with you?’

He shrugged. ‘The golden boy isn’t always right, you know; just because he manages to wrap all the women around his little finger it doesn’t make him God’s gift or the best copper in the station.’

Lucy laughed. ‘I know very well that he isn’t always right – I argue with him enough. I don’t care about you two having a spat. I just wanted to check that you were okay? You’ve been a bit quiet the last few days.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m fine thanks, boss, just tired like we all are. We need a break with both of these cases – then we can get the suspect arrested and put to bed.’

She nodded. ‘We certainly do. What do you say that we go to the Italian later? A nice greasy pizza and a couple of glasses of wine. After today is through I think it’s the least we deserve.’

He nodded. ‘I’m supposed to be going to Slimming World with my brother’s wife.’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant, well done. It doesn’t matter – we can go another time.’

‘No, we can’t – I’d kill for pizza. I’ll ring her and tell her we’ll go tomorrow night instead. I can have my Last Supper and enjoy it.’

She shook her head, laughing. ‘Sounds like a good idea. If I keep eating like I am I’ll be joining you.’

Browning raised his eyebrows. ‘Fuck off, Lucy – you’ll be one of those women everyone else wants to stab because they need to lose ten pounds to get back to their goal weight.’

She stuck two fingers up at him and he headed for the door. ‘Right. I’ll try not to kick Jackson’s arse – you can tell him he better behave himself. I don’t want to be put off my pizza by him winding me up.’

‘I will.’

He left her on her own. She thought about the thick, heavy envelope with the divorce papers inside that George had sent her. They’d sat on her dressing table for two days staring at her, while she’d tried to ignore them. She wanted to go home now and get them signed and sent off. It was time to get on with her own life. Her phone beeped and she saw Stephen’s name flash up.

Coffee?

Tempted to say yes, she ignored it and pushed the phone into her pocket. She didn’t want him thinking she was at his beck and call by answering straight away.