Beth couldn’t help but notice the air of dejection when she entered the office. It was a physical thing which polluted the atmosphere. Both O’Dowd’s and Thompson’s faces wore harried, uninspiring frowns and there was no sign of the always-early Unthank.

‘Morning.’ Beth cast a look at Unthank’s seat, noticed the lack of a jacket hanging from the back of it. ‘Where’s Paul?’

‘He phoned in sick. Said he’d been up all night spewing.’

Beth winced at the grumble in O’Dowd’s tone. Illness happened, and while Unthank wasn’t to blame for his, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time for them.

‘Anything else happening?’

‘Yeah. The DCI has invited me to join him for a press conference.’

From the way O’Dowd spoke, Beth could tell the invitation was one which couldn’t be refused. She’d never had to take part in a press conference, but it was a box she’d be quite happy to leave unticked. With so few leads to pursue, one unidentified body, and no obvious link between the victims apart from how they died, there was next to no information to share with the press. And when the journalists sensed they were being fobbed off with stock responses, their questions would become sharper, more pertinent. DCI Phinn would probably want O’Dowd there as the sacrificial lamb should the press conference turn tricky.

‘So we’ve got the missing persons to track down. What else do we have, ma’am?’

‘Nothing. That’s the bloody problem. We’ve got nothing. There’s bugger all to go on, and in a few hours, I’ve got to sit next to DCI Phinn and tell journalists from national newspapers and the TV news as much. Jesus, we still haven’t identified the fourth victim. What the hell am I supposed to say?’

‘Actually, ma’am, I was thinking about that last night. I went through the misper reports and eliminated everyone from Cumbria who’s a match for what we know about Woman 1. With that done, I looked at the matches in the misper files for Dumfries and Galloway and Northumberland, in case the first victim wasn’t as local as the other three. I’ve got a list of nine people to call this morning.’

‘Well done. If you can get me a name, at least I can tell those jackals we’ve identified all the victims.’

‘I did have another thought.’

‘What is it, Young Beth?’ There was now kindness in Thompson’s voice where there had once been mockery.

‘Woman 1 was in her fifties, according to Dr Hewson. It’s possible she was a little older. If she lived by herself and didn’t have any family, there’s a possibility her disappearance has gone unreported. She may also have been homeless. Again, nobody would miss her.’

O’Dowd skewered her with a glare. ‘You started out so well there. Do you have any more ideas? Good or bad, I’m almost past caring.’

‘I’ve been thinking about the wings, ma’am. Specifically the sparrowhawk’s wings that were attached to Nick Langley. I think it might be worth trying to contact local taxidermists. One of them may have sold a stuffed bird to the killer.’

‘You’re redeeming yourself. Get on the phone and see what you can find out.’

---

An hour later, when Beth was finished speaking to the last of the relatives, she had all nine names crossed off her list. Most had returned home, although one had been found in the mangled wreckage of a car which had careered off the road.

Beth looked at Thompson; his head was buried in a sea of reports as he looked for that one detail which may give them the breakthrough they were desperate for. O’Dowd had tasked him with looking for people with grudges against Rachel Allen and Nick Langley.

O’Dowd had gone to speak with DCI Phinn in preparation for the press conference, which meant only the two of them were left in the office.

‘Beth, I’ve got the psychologist’s report here.’ The printer rattled its way into action.

Thompson’s eyes scanned the screen as Beth stood waiting by the printer.

The first sheet she read was nothing more than a condensing of facts. The second looked more promising until she realised it was mostly medical terminology and in plain English had very little to say. And as she read the third and fourth sheets, such was her rage that she was tempted to deliver a series of kicks to the printer.

‘This is garbage. He’s telling us nothing. He suspects the killer is a man aged between twenty-five and sixty. That he’s well-funded and has a purpose “or project”. He suggests in one breath that the man is a loner and in the next that he may have an accomplice. A fiver says the line about the killer possibly being from a broken home is a standard inclusion. He even goes on to say that our killer will most likely pursue his project until it’s completed. Have you seen this line about the idea he worships his victims?’ Beth threw the pages onto her desk and glared at them. ‘I bet he got paid a fortune for writing that report. It’s like those horoscopes that tell you it could be A or B, but to watch out for C. It’s all just vague statements.’

Thompson fixed her with a hard stare. ‘What did you expect, some kind of magical insight that would give us the killer’s name and address? This is real life not the movies. Yes the report seems generic, but the psychologist only had our statements and a few pictures to go off. We know about the extra three victims, but he doesn’t. Sure we can tell him about them and he can maybe give us a bit more, but don’t expect him to give an opinion on deaths he doesn’t know about. He’s probably some fat bloke from Doncaster who’s been handed a near-impossible task. Trust me, when you’ve seen how the human mind can work, or rather stop working, you’ll recognise the hopelessness of trying to understand one that doesn’t work like yours.’

‘Sorry. I was just expecting more, that’s all.’

‘We’re all expecting too much.’ He picked up the pages she’d tossed down and straightened them. ‘I’m going to let O’Dowd and Phinn see this. Have a fag or a coffee, do whatever it takes to calm down and then get back to it.’