‘Time to join up the dots.’

Rachel and Rob were in a coffee shop next to the budget hotel she had booked, and he was arranging photos on the table in front of them, much as Rachel herself had done when Brickall visited her flat, only this time a photo of Melissa Downey joined the gallery of pretty young blondes. Rachel showed him the email she had received the day before from Abbie Harris.

‘She’s no wordsmith, but I think we get the picture.’

‘Phoebe Stiles’s classmate had something very similar to say about her. Almost identical, in fact.’

Rob took a sip of his coffee and thought about this. ‘That’s very interesting.’

‘Is it though?’ Rachel remembered Brickall’s bullying statistics. ‘Clearly neither Tiffany or Phoebe were very nice people…’

‘Little bitches, you might say.’

‘Exactly. But that’s hardly a sub-sector of society. There are a hell of a lot of little bitches out there.’

‘Trust me, I know.’ Rob grinned. ‘But it implies a type, and in victimology that’s significant.’

‘Victimology? Is that even a thing?’ Rachel asked, even though she knew full well it was.

‘Sure it’s a thing. There are loads of studies and books on the subject. And d’you know why?’

‘I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’

‘Because the victim leads us to the criminal. Victimology tells us why there is a link between two otherwise unconnected parties, and in a case like this, which isn’t about spontaneity or gratuitous violence, we need that.’

Rachel was shaking her head slowly over the rim of her mug. ‘I’m still not sure how we move past mere coincidence.’

Rob tapped the picture of Melissa. ‘That’s where this young lady comes into it. The serial killing rule is at least three. So, the way I see it, if Melissa Downey fits the same type then we move from coincidence to a definite pattern.’

Rachel leaned back, sipping her coffee and staring at the photos. ‘So we obviously need to know more about Melissa.’

‘You got it.’ Rob started shuffling the papers together. He stopped long enough to place his hand lightly on hers. ‘How long did you say you were here for?’

‘It’s Wednesday. Allowing travel time to the UK I have to leave no later than a week on Saturday. Eleven days.’

‘Then we don’t have time to waste.’ He finished gathering up the exhibits. ‘Go and get your stuff, we need to make a move.’

‘But I haven’t even checked in yet.’

‘Even better. We’re going to pay our respects to Miss Teen North Carolina.’

---

For most of the forty-five-minute flight from Washington DC to Raleigh–Durham – her thigh pressed up against Rob’s, her arm brushing his – Rachel was not thinking about Melissa Downey, but about sleeping arrangements. Rob had said something vague about checking in somewhere. Surely he didn’t mean the same room? She thought she’d made her position clear at the end of her last trip.

The idea disturbed her. Of course, he was gorgeous. Brickall had not been far off the mark about him being Jason Bourne made flesh. But too much proximity was not going to work. It was too much of a risk. If she allowed anything or anyone else into her headspace, everything stopped working. Or you ended up drastically compromising the investigation, just as she’d done with Giles Denton. They were investigating parties held by a child grooming ring in Edinburgh, only for Rachel to discover that Giles had attended one of the parties as a guest. It became messy, to put it mildly.

She needn’t have wasted the time worrying. At the bland, cookie-cutter airport hotel that they drove to in their rental car, Rob requested two rooms. ‘Keeps things professional,’ he said with a brief smile, as he handed her the key. ‘Meet me in the lounge in five.’

He was on the phone when she returned to the reception area, and she hovered awkwardly, waiting for him to finish.

‘That was the Raleigh PD,’ he said when he hung up. ‘They’re emailing me a copy of the crime report right now, and I’ll print it off in the business centre here. I think we need to read that before we go any further? Agreed?’

Rachel nodded and waited while he strode off, returning a few minutes later with two printed copies of the report. It made grisly reading. Melissa had died from ligature strangulation and an estimated thirty-six to forty-eight hours later, her body had been packed and sealed inside a heavy-duty shipping crate. Clayton Hill had died later, probably soon after the packing process had taken place, and had been found at the deposition site, bent over the crate. Rachel scrutinised the crime scene photos. It looked as though he was embracing it, or shielding her.

‘So what do we think?’ demanded Rob. She liked that he read and absorbed information as quickly as she did. She liked so many things about him.

‘If this was our Miss XX, then I think the strangling was an unintentional departure, probably because the blow to the head method failed for some reason.’

‘I agree. But what do you make of the difference in the times of death?’

Rachel considered this for a while. ‘The boxing-up before disposal and the choice of site are very deliberate, very staged. We saw the same thing with Phoebe and Tiffany. Does Clayton suspect something and follow Miss XX and then she manages to bash him when she’s confronted?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know… that doesn’t feel right. I don’t think she would allow for a mistake like that.’

‘He’s surely more likely to call law enforcement? And if someone confronts you, someone much bigger than you are, how do you conveniently get behind them and hit them? It just doesn’t work, in my mind. She needs the element of surprise.’

‘He can’t have suspected anything. He must have been lured to the location somehow.’

Rob was nodding. ‘And then his truck’s dumped elsewhere. Also by Miss XX, presumably. So if he drives himself there, how does she get to the location of the theatre?’

‘Did you find any CCTV footage. That’s what we need.’

Rob shook his head. ‘The main office was closed.’

Rachel stood up and shouldered her bag. ‘So what are we waiting for, Agent McConnell? Time to pay a visit to the scene of the crime.’

---

They left the confines of the airport and headed towards the CBD. Rob drove while Rachel stared out of the window, enchanted by the spring blossoms beneath a forget-me-not blue sky: magnolia, dogwood, cherry and a reddish-purple tree she’d never seen, that he told her was called redbud.

‘They thought long and hard about the name of that one,’ she laughed.

The Fairfield Theater was a brick cube of a building standing alone in a parking lot the size of a football pitch. The police had done their work and left, and the place appeared deserted.

‘This is where they found them.’ Rachel pointed to the rear left-hand corner of the building. Rob was scanning for cameras. There were none at the rear of the building where the packing crate was placed, but there was one at the front, facing the parking lot. He tried the front door, which opened.

‘Let’s see if we can find someone; if the door’s open there must be someone around.’

The foyer was carpeted in brick dust, and there was plastic sheeting everywhere, loose wiring hanging from the ceiling.

‘Hello!’ Rob called. Silence. They looked into the auditorium, which was completely empty, all the seats removed. Eventually, after fighting their way through cabling and piles of loose flooring, they made their way to a back office where a solitary security guard was swilling Mountain Dew with his feet up on the desk.

‘Already gave a copy to the police,’ he grumbled when Rob showed his badge and asked to see footage from when the bodies were dumped.

‘You’ll have the original on here though?’ Rachel said, pointing to the hard drive. ‘We only want a very quick look.’

The security guard found the right digital file and disappeared for a cigarette break. The grainy images showed the front of a pickup truck. It was only just in shot, with not much more than the bumper visible. Then after a few seconds, the back view of Clayton Hill appeared, carrying the large box, swaying slightly under the weight. Behind him was a smaller, slighter figure in jeans and T-shirt, hair covered by a baseball cap.

‘She’s got something in her hand – look!’ said Rachel, pointing.

Rob rewound the tape and they watched again. It was a tubular metal object, like a wrench or a tyre iron. Then both figures disappeared from shot, heading past the camera towards the left side of the building. Less than a minute later, the nose of the truck could be seen reversing out of shot. There was nothing more.

Rob sat back in the security guard’s chair. ‘Wow. She makes him carry his own girlfriend’s corpse. That’s so fucked-up.’

‘Do you think he knew?’ Rachel mused. ‘Could it even have been him who strangled Melissa, at Miss XX’s bidding?’

‘No,’ Rob shook his head. ‘That doesn’t fit. I’m pretty sure she killed them both. From what we know so far, using an accomplice isn’t in her wheelhouse. She’s a lone operator.’

‘So…’ Rachel breathed out slowly, ‘in that case he had no idea what was in the box.’ The room felt suddenly cold. The two of them sat for several seconds in the chill silence.

---

As they walked back to the car, Rachel asked, ‘Do you think we can take a look at Melissa’s apartment?’

‘It’s probably still undergoing forensics, but I guess it’s worth a try.’

They headed for Fayetteville Street, an inner-city neighbourhood packed with bars and galleries. Melissa’s condo was in a pre-war building, and their access to it was barred by an officious uniformed security guard.

‘Uh uh,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Oh-ficial crime scene.’

Rob pulled out his Interpol badge, Rachel even produced her NCA warrant card, but the concierge remained unmoved. ‘I don’t have the authorisation to let you in. You’ll have to come back with a warrant from Wake County.’ He retreated huffily into to his cubicle.

‘Oh crap,’ said Rachel, turning back to the building’s foyer.

‘Hey, Miss Tenacity, you’re not giving up?’ Rob pulled a lighter from his pocket. ‘Watch this.’ He struck it and held the flame under the smoke detector. Within a few seconds the lobby sprinkler system kicked in, with a squealing alarm accompanying the jets of water. The concierge came running, but not before Rob had grabbed Rachel’s wrist and pulled her through the fire door. They collapsed, laughing, against the wall.

‘That was a pure Bonnie and Clyde moment,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m impressed. Although not so much that you’re a closet smoker.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Why carry a lighter then?’

‘Let’s just say that’s not the first time I’ve set off a sprinkler system. Come on.’ He led the way up the stairwell. ‘Just be thankful that we only have to go up to the third floor.’

The condo was screened off with crime scene tape, and its front door had a polished nickel doorknob with an inbuilt deadbolt. Not that this discouraged Rob, who squatted down with his penknife and jiggled the lock open.

‘Proper little boy scout, aren’t you?’ Rachel observed drily. She held up her own Swiss Army knife. ‘I was about to offer to do the honours.’

‘Those locks cost about ten bucks and they’re not even worth that much; a seven year old could pick one.’

They stepped into a well-proportioned three-room apartment with polished floors and crown mouldings. The décor was at odds with the surroundings, betraying a twenty-something who had not yet developed taste. Rachel looked at the photos on the shelves. The way they were arranged suggested one was missing from the group. She picked one up and looked at it. Clayton Hill, draped around his pretty girlfriend, just as he had been in death. She shuddered, and moved on to the closet. The clothes were ordered by colour, apart from one flimsy top, which hung alone. She picked up the clothes hanger and sniffed it. There was a distinct chemical smell. She smelled the other clothes on the rail, but none of them shared it.

‘This one’s been recently washed,’ she observed. ‘Not with the same laundry detergent all the others share.’

They checked the bathroom and the kitchen. ‘Like an operating theatre,’ said Rob.

‘Phoebe’s apartment was just the same.’

In the bedroom, the linens had all been stripped, and the mattress gave off a similar chemical odour to the top. It made Rachel feel nauseated, and she was suddenly aware that, after a transatlantic flight sandwiched between two work days in two different time zones, she was starting to feel very tired.

‘Come on,’ said Rob, noticing her expression. ‘You need a margarita.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’ She wanted to lie down and sleep for twelve hours.

‘Sure you do. Everything’s better after a margarita.’

He took her by the hand and led her down the stairs and out onto Fayetteville Street. The happy-hour crowd was starting to fill the bars, and Rachel and Rob joined them. Despite her protests, he ordered a jug.

‘Better now?’ he asked, as she sipped the sour, icy liquid through a straw.

‘A little,’ she conceded, then asked. ‘How did you even know Melissa had shared the apartment on CasaMia?’

‘The detective I spoke to said Melissa’s mother mentioned it. She said that Melissa was supposed to be travelling to Florida for a few days, and had rented it out while she was gone to help cover the bills. Of course, the police here saw no particular significance in that, but then they don’t know what we know.’

Rachel sat silently for a while, letting the tequila numb her.

‘So what are you thinking our next move should be, Miss T?’

‘I think we need to talk to Melissa’s mother.’

---

Back at the hotel, she told Rob she needed a shower and a nap, and headed to her room. Taking out her phone, she texted Brickall.

There was no reply. Not that she had expected one, but she worried about Brickall nonetheless. What he was going through was tough. She showered, turned down Rob’s offer of ribs and fries downstairs in the grill in favour of a room service salad, and just as she had done in Los Angeles, lay on the bed watching CNN until she drifted off to sleep.

She was woken a couple of hours later by a gentle tapping on the door. She switched off the TV and stumbled to answer it.

‘Room for a small one?’

Rob was standing there in sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt that showed off his muscular torso.

Rachel smiled. ‘There’s nothing small about you, Agent McConnell… what can I do for you?’

‘I was wondering if I could come in.’

Rachel hesitated. It was an appealing idea. But that wasn’t really the issue. She pursed her lips, and slowly, reluctantly, shook her head.

‘No?’ he asked, not hiding his disappointment.

‘No.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘We’ve been over this. It’s really not a good idea.’

‘Sure there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?’

But she was already closing the door, quickly, before she weakened. Once she was in bed, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned for a couple of hours, her mind continually running to Rob, and what they could have been doing. Eventually, just as she was dozing off, her phone bleeped with a text. She snatched it up and checked it.

From Lindsay.

As if it bloody matters, Rachel thought, but restrained herself from replying.