Toby had spent his entire morning off researching historic killers – just a typical morning for him. He wanted to impress Lucy with his knowledge. She might take a little more notice of him if he could help them out. They were struggling with so many murders; it was quite obvious. He didn’t know how long it would take them to make the relevant connections, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to give them a helping hand. He couldn’t see any obvious links between the different killings, but something about them was bothering him. He knew that Brooklyn Bay was no stranger to murders – there had been a spate of them not that long ago, in which Lucy had been involved. Maybe she was a killer. Now that would be something. Quite the turn-on. He could imagine her straddling her victims as she trussed them up with some rope.

He smacked the side of his head with the palm of his hand. That was his problem; he always got carried away with his imagination. He forced himself to concentrate on the screen in front of him as the page loaded, full of black-and-white photographs of some of Britain’s most infamous serial killers. He knew what Peter Sutcliffe, Harold Shipman, Fred and Rose West, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley all looked like with his eyes closed. From a young age their photographs had been unwittingly seared into his mind.

Melanie Benson had been found hit over the head with a hammer and left on a field, partially clothed, which was reminiscent of the Yorkshire Ripper’s modus operandi. In fact, it was pretty much the same. Stacey Green had been killed in a dark, back alley. She’d been found with her trousers around her knees too – so had some of Sutcliffe’s victims, but that was where the similarity ended. Stacey had been strangled; Sutcliffe’s victims were bludgeoned over the head and stabbed, then mutilated with a screwdriver.

Why did Stacey Green’s murder feel familiar to him? Where had he seen something like it before? Who did it remind him of? Because it did remind him of something. Then there was the Martin family last night, all three of them shot dead at close range. He wondered how Lucy was holding up at the post-mortems. He’d attended Stacey Green’s with Amanda and he’d been impressed at how Lucy hadn’t flinched throughout, unlike him. He’d felt his knees buckle at the point when the doctor had peeled down Stacey Green’s face. When she’d clicked the button that set the vibrating saw into action ready to cut off the top of her skull, that had almost been it for him. He’d managed to stay upright, though. After that he’d tried not to watch too closely what the doctor was doing for fear of passing out on the mortuary floor. He’d never get over the shame of it; they’d make fun of him at the police station for the rest of his life.

Tired because of how late he’d worked last night at the scene and fed up, he printed out some pages from a site about Scottish serial killers. He hadn’t recognised any of the grainy photographs that had loaded onto his computer screen, so he would do some more research when he had the time. The names were familiar, even if the killers’ faces weren’t. Bible John and The Beast of Birkenshaw were two that he’d heard of. But right now he had someone he needed to meet quite urgently.

Toby had to speak to Lucy; the more he’d thought about it, the more he was convinced that the killings, despite their differences in MO, were all connected. He wanted her to think of him as more than just the new boy. He thought about going into work to speak to her, then changed his mind. It was his day off; he’d look like a weirdo if he walked in demanding to talk to her. He decided to wait outside her house for her; the only problem was that he didn’t know where she lived. He wondered if Amanda would tell him or whether she would think he was being creepy as well.

The best thing he could do was to wait on the road outside the police station and follow her when she left, only he didn’t know when she’d leave. He could be there for hours. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to know where her house was; he liked her and you could tell a lot about a person by their home. He imagined she would like his secluded house with the large bay windows looking out onto the leafy garden. She’d never imagine that he would live in anything so grand; it would be a nice surprise for her, something to impress her with.

He sat slurping on his McDonald’s chocolate milkshake, wondering how long he was going to be here. He should just go into the station; he knew she was still in there because he’d seen her a couple of times. That was the beauty of a building that had such vast windows. Someone really should tell them that anyone could be watching.

About to give up and go home, he heard the heavy grind of the mechanical exit gates rolling back. He looked into his rear-view mirror and was rewarded with the sight of Lucy’s mint-green Fiat 500 driving towards him. He kept still, not wanting her to see him waiting like some stalker. Technically he was acting like one and he knew it. It was all for a higher purpose, though. Or so he kept telling himself. Starting to pull out on her tail, he heard the loud beep of a horn and snapped his head up to see a huge pick-up truck inches away from him. His heart skipped a beat and he lifted his hand to apologise. The black truck swerved around him and drove off, leaving him clutching at his chest.

He took a deep breath and began to drive again. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of her car, not now. He’d waited so long for her that his backside was numb. Seeing her car in the distance as it rounded a bend, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator to catch up. The pick-up went one way and Lucy the other; he followed at a safe distance. It would be pretty difficult to lose a car of that colour. She turned onto one of the nicest private housing estates in town and stopped outside a large detached house. He felt deflated; maybe she wouldn’t be so impressed with his house if she lived here. There were already two cars on the drive, yet as far as he gathered she wasn’t in a relationship with anyone. Unless she house-shared; that was a possibility. He parked behind a BMW on the opposite side of the street and watched as the door to the house opened and a teenage girl came running out. This must be her daughter, whom Amanda had mentioned. He watched as Lucy got out of her car and the girl flung her arms around her neck. Lucy had a big brown envelope in her hands, but she still managed to wrap them around the girl and hug her back. She followed the girl up the front path to where a man was standing watching them. He looked so much older than Lucy and Toby wondered if he was her dad.

* * *

Lucy stepped towards George, passing him the envelope. He took it from her.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, you?’

He nodded. ‘Do you want to come in and have a coffee, spend some time with Ellie before she goes?’

‘Is Rosie in?’

‘Yes, but she won’t mind. She’ll understand.’

‘It’s okay. I’d like to, I really would, but I’m tired – it’s been such a long week and I don’t know if I can be as excited as Ellie is right now about this trip.’

‘Ellie, come and say goodbye to your mum.’

Ellie came running back out, planted a kiss on her cheek and hugged her tight. Lucy pulled a wad of euros out of her pocket. ‘Have a fabulous time. I want postcards and phone calls. Don’t drink too much and try not to fall overboard.’

Ellie took the money, squeezing her once more. ‘Thanks, Mum. I will, I’ll try not to and I definitely won’t.’

Then her daughter was gone and Lucy couldn’t help but smile. She was nervous at the thought of Ellie going off on her own, but she knew that they were going to have to let her go at some point.

George reached out and clasped her arm. ‘She’ll be fine – try not to worry too much. Thank you for these and thank you for being so good about everything. I’m sorry.’

Lucy stared at him. ‘What are you sorry for?’

‘For screwing up your life. You’re an amazing woman, Lucy. I hope that you find someone who appreciates you for what you are. I’m a stupid old fool.’

She smiled, then turned around. Damn him; this was the very last time she would cry over George. She was going to put all this behind her and start living her life. She walked back to her car, hot tears rolling down her cheeks, and she prayed that no one was watching her from their windows. She didn’t like anyone seeing her in this state, yet he had the same effect on her almost every time she saw him. As she sat in the car and started the engine, she lifted her sleeve to wipe away her tears. No more, Harwin. Your daughter is growing up and George is no longer your husband. It’s gone, done, all in the past, and it’s time to start making some new memories. She took a deep breath and put the car in gear; she was going home for a large glass of wine and something to eat. She wondered how Tom was and hoped he was recovering much more quickly than anticipated because she didn’t know how long she could stand to work with Patrick Baker.