‘Are you sure you actually live here?’

Brickall was standing in the living room of Rachel’s flat, looking around at the bare walls, minimalist furniture and general absence of belongings, save the running shoes in the hall, a couple of pot plants and a colourful rug.

‘What – just because it’s tidy? Trust me, it doesn’t look like this when Joe’s been staying here.’

‘But you tidy up after him?

‘Of course.’

Brickall shook his head. ‘Still can’t get used to you being a mother. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.’

‘It’s only been six months: it’s all still pretty new.’

She was slowly becoming accustomed to the practical and emotional demands of parenthood, but compared to most women with teenage children, she needed ‘L’ plates. Besides, Joe’s adoptive parents were still his parents. She and her ex-husband Stuart Ritchie were content to play a peripheral role.

‘Hasn’t changed your design choices, that’s for sure.’ Brickall indicated the spartan décor. ‘Still light on the personal touches.’

Rachel pointed to a framed photo of Joe that had pride of place, then handed him a can of lager. ‘See – doesn’t get more personal than that. Anyway, look how useful a bare white wall can be.’

She indicated the longest wall in the sitting area, where she had Blu-Tacked all the printable evidence from the Phoebe Stiles case. There were blown up photos of Tiffany Kovak, Phoebe Stiles and Jennifer Van der Wieke (aka Heather Kennedy or Stacey Gunnarson), crime scene photos, the CasaMia listings, stills from the Lovely Locks commercial and from the CCTV at Valley Plaza. She handed Brickall a file containing crime reports and forensic results, which she had attempted to place in some sort of chronological order.

Rachel poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it slowly while Brickall flicked through the papers.

‘Okay, so the MO with Phoebe Stiles was a bash on the back of the head with a lump of marble… how about the first girl?’ He flicked back to the crime report on Tiffany Kovak.

‘She was hit on the back of the head with a Padres souvenir baseball bat. That’s her local team. Their stadium’s a couple of blocks from her apartment.’

‘And afterwards they find the baseball bat in the apartment, but it’s been completely cleaned using Citranox. That’s a very… strange… touch.’ Brickall pursed his lips with a sort of grudging respect. He put the file down and looked at the pictures on the wall. ‘So this person here, wearing a Padres cap, who is this? Not Tiffany presumably.’

‘That’s someone a neighbour in Los Angeles identified as Phoebe Stiles. Except it can’t have been Phoebe, because on the day in question she was definitely dead.’ Rachel put down her glass of wine and joined him at the wall, pointing to the still from the commercial. ‘It could be the same person as this girl, but it’s hard to tell from the CCTV images.’

‘Christ, talk about wheels within wheels. This is a right old hall of mirrors you’ve got here, Prince.’

‘Mixing your metaphors after just the one beer,’ Rachel grinned. ‘Seriously though Mark, what’s your gut telling you?’

He thought for a few seconds. ‘That this isn’t someone who enjoys killing. It’s almost as if they want to get the killing bit out of the way so they can get to the good bit. So – what’s the good bit? You’d think it could be robbery, except if I understand the reports correctly, nothing was stolen. And the places were left clean and tidy.’

‘Pathologically clean,’ concurred Rachel. ‘Literally.’ The doorbell rang and Rachel went to admit the curry they had ordered. She laid out the food on a tray with plates, forks and paper napkins and plonked it on the coffee table. ‘Tuck in.’

As she bit into a poppadum, sending greasy splinters all over the front of her sweatshirt, she asked, ‘So what about the CasaMia link? How does that fit in?’

Brickall was washing down a mouthful of rogan josh with his lager. ‘Is there a link though? I don’t know how you can be sure, given that literally millions of people use the site. Isn’t that like saying two crimes are linked because the victims both use Facebook?’

Rachel shook her head violently, covering her mouth to stop her pilau rice escaping. ‘Not when the person who rented both girls’ apartments used the same profile photo.’

‘Unless you’ve got a forensic link, that’s still just circumstantial.’

‘The girl in the video is the key to this; I’m sure of it. She turned up at the shoot safe in the knowledge that the real Phoebe wouldn’t show. She could only have done that if she knew Phoebe was dead. And the DNA she left in the dress and the shoes is the same as the DNA on the lipstick I found in Tiffany Kovak’s apartment. There’s your forensic link. You can’t possibly say that’s circumstantial.’

Brickall considered this as he chewed on a naan. ‘Fair enough. So if the perp is the girl in the shampoo ad – or her accomplice – then she’s targeting women who all have a very similar look to her own.’ He pointed to Tiffany, Phoebe, Jennifer and the Lovely Locks girl. ‘Look at them; from a distance they could be quadruplets. So what the fuck’s that all about?’

‘That’s what I need to find out.’

Brickall siphoned lager from the can and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It strikes me that this is a hell of a lot of trouble to go to when the killing itself is so perfunctory, almost an irrelevance. She drives around San Diego in Tiffany’s car, wearing a lipstick that she’s copied from this chick,’ He stood up and tapped Jennifer’s photo. ‘Then in LA, she turns up at professional shoot and does Phoebe’s day job for her. It’s a bit like that thing De Clerry… De Clarry…’

‘De Clerambault’s Syndrome.’

‘That’s the one. Where the sufferer believes they have a relationship with someone they don’t know at all.’

Rachel considered this, picking bit of poppadum off her sweater. ‘Kind of, but that’s not quite it. There’s a piece of the puzzle that we’re missing, but I can’t quite work out what it is.’

Brickall belched discreetly. ‘What can you do about it from here? Not a fat lot.’

‘Where Tiffany’s concerned, no, but we can look harder at Phoebe. Know your victim.’

‘And other great crime-solving clichés,’ Brickall quipped. ‘I’m guessing this is where the road trip comes in?’

Rachel nodded. ‘This weekend. You up for it?’

‘Go on then.’ Brickall sat down on the sofa, closer to her this time, and put down his can. He scrutinised her face, and there was something in his gaze that made her hackles shoot straight up. ‘You know something Prince, you’re not a bad-looking bird when you make the effort. Quite pretty.’

Rachel indicated her curry-stained hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. ‘I sincerely hope you don’t think this is making an effort.’

‘Maybe it’s because your hair’s down,’ He tweaked one of the long blonde locks that fell around her shoulders. ‘You always have it tied up at work.’

He didn’t relinquish her hair, but wherever he thought this was headed, it was not somewhere she had any desire to go. In fact, his sudden change in manner sent curdling panic through her. Not Brickall, for God’s sake. Never Brickall. That was the last taboo.

Keep the deflection light, she told herself. Don’t bruise his ego. ‘I sincerely hope you’re not making a pass at me, Detective Sergeant?’

He jutted his chin defiantly. ‘What if I did?’

‘Don’t be daft; you know you’re not my type.’

‘And why’s that? You never did say.’

‘You swear too bloody much.’ She stood up and lifted the tray of dirty dishes to avoid having to overtly recoil. ‘Now go on with you, it’s a school night.’