The strip light hummed above them as Adam sat in the same interview room Finn had occupied earlier. His elbows were splayed on the desk and he leant as far across it as possible, staring at Natalie as intently as he could.

‘That’s total and utter bullshit. I did not attack Charlotte. This witness is a lying son of a bitch.’

‘They signed a statement testifying to this claim. They heard Charlotte shout your name and scream, “No!” They’re positive that’s what they heard.’

He spoke slowly through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what was shouted or said and that’s because I… wasn’t… there. If she actually shouted my name, she could’ve been calling me for help. You think about that? She could have been screaming for me…’ His voice trailed and he swallowed. ‘You any idea how hard all of this is for me?’

‘I understand and you must also appreciate our position. A witness—’

‘Screw this witness,’ he said, his fist hitting the table as he drew himself upright. ‘This witness is wrong.’

‘Calm down, Mr Brannon. It won’t help anyone if you lose your temper.’

‘I’m not losing my temper but I sure as hell am frustrated. All you do is keep hounding me and dragging me back here to the station for more questioning when I’m the one who needs support. I ought to be getting help to get through this. I’m a mess. I feel responsible because I wasn’t there to protect her. I can’t visit or speak to my in-laws or even go see my little boy because of guilt I feel that I wasn’t there that night. I certainly can’t face Inge. I’m sitting in a vacuum, waiting for you to unearth the bastard who killed her, and then, and only then, will I be able to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and work out how to move forward. I’ve repeatedly told you I did not kill Charlotte and you know where I was. I wasn’t at home when she was attacked. I’ve wished a million times I could have changed the events that night: that I hadn’t been so pissed off with her I’d gone home with Inge and then hung out at the club. I messed up with the whole alibi business but I’ve always told the truth about Charlotte. I didn’t kill her.’

Natalie couldn’t refute his logic. Charlotte might have been yelling for him rather than at him, a fact she’d already considered, but to not interview Adam at this stage would have been foolish. Finn and Hassan were convinced he’d been in the house, and she had to check out that claim. Besides, she had no one else in the frame. It was a tough call to make. She couldn’t keep him here without more concrete proof. She couldn’t pin this on him merely because she wanted to be able to tell Aileen Melody she’d cracked the case. Adam had never requested a lawyer. He’d come to the station voluntarily every time she’d asked him to. He hadn’t absconded. Although he’d lied about his whereabouts to protect Inge and then Lee, he’d done nothing else to make her suspect he was anything other than cooperative and wanted to prove his innocence, yet her investigation kept leading her back to him, to this man with a prison record and a history of violence. She drew a breath. She had to make the call.

‘Fair enough, Mr Brannon. I accept your point. It isn’t clear why your wife shouted your name. You’re free to leave.’

He stood slowly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. It isn’t over yet.’

Murray waited until Adam had been escorted from the room. ‘Now what?’

Natalie stood up, aware her bones ached, and ran a hand over her head. ‘Fucked if I know. Probably have to wait for the press conference and hope a member of the public can come up with something.’

---

Lucy placed rolled newspaper on Ian’s desk. ‘Got you some cod too.’

‘Brilliant! Thanks. I’m starving. You want any?’

‘Ate mine in the car. The smell of vinegar and warm chips was driving me mental so I couldn’t wait.’

He unwrapped them, releasing the warmth that carried the familiar chip shop smell, and shoved a couple of fat, yellow chips into his mouth. ‘Mm. Heaven,’ he murmured.

‘You find any contacts for Fabia?’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Got a list of them here but this woman appears to be her closest friend.’ He wiped his fingers clean on his trousers and brought up the Facebook page for Louise Roberts. ‘They went to the same university. Louise is also a psychologist, working for the NHS, and lives in Derby. She’s got a profile on LinkedIn and her phone number is on the site.’

‘Great,’ said Lucy, taking note of it. ‘Enjoy those chips. You’ve earned them.’

Punching out the number as she went, she headed outside on the roof to leave Ian to eat in peace. It was chilly on the roof terrace, and as she inhaled, cold air rushed into her lungs. The phone call was picked up and a soft voice answered.

‘Louise Roberts? This is DS Lucy Carmichael from Samford Police headquarters. I’m calling with regards to your friend, Fabia Hamilton. She rang me earlier and I wondered if you had any idea where she might be. I’m trying to trace her and her son. She isn’t at her home.’

‘Who did you say you were?’ The voice was hesitant.

‘Lucy Carmichael. Detective Sergeant Carmichael.’

‘I’ll phone you back immediately.’

‘No. Don’t hang up.’

Too late. The line went dead. She tried the number again but got an engaged tone. She swore then dragged out a cigarette from her pocket. ‘Sorry, Spud. I promise to try harder,’ she said, staring at it before she lit it and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke spread its tendrils inside her chest. She ought to give up the fags. For Spud’s sake. She stared at the cigarette, took one more quick puff then stubbed it out. Her phone rang. It was Louise.

‘I’m sorry I put the phone down on you. I had to make certain you were who you said you were. I checked with Fabia first to see if she had called you. She turned up here a short while ago, with Philippe. She was in a bit of a state.’

‘Can you put her on so I can speak to her?’

‘Wait a sec.’ Lucy could make out a muffled exchange. She tilted her head back. The sky was clear and pinpricks of light were puncturing the night sky. She shivered as cool air wafted around her shoulders. A different voice spoke to her, one Lucy recognised from earlier. It was the woman who’d rung the station.

‘Sergeant, I’m sorry I didn’t ring back. I thought I saw somebody outside the back door and panicked. I drove straight to Louise’s house, then I calmed down and decided I’d been overreacting and shouldn’t have involved the police. Louise and I have talked it through and maybe I’m making too much out of it.’

‘You told me you were scared. You sounded frightened and you must have been really worried to have raced off to your friend’s house.’

‘It seems silly now. I was being melodramatic. I’d had a shock.’

‘Earlier you told me about a patient who you believe to be a killer. Tell me some more about him.’

‘I’ve been treating him at my clinic for a few months. He’s been having recurring bad dreams that were troubling him. At first we discussed these dreams and we established they were linked to or came out of troubled childhood memories. He had abandonment issues. His mother walked out on her marriage when he was very young, leaving him to live in squalor in a caravan park, in the care of his father, a violent and difficult man. His dreams were all linked to this but then things began to take a turn. He introduced details and scenarios that I started to think weren’t fantasies or dreams. He claimed to have what we named episodes, periods when he was unconscious and unable to control his dream self. In these episodes, he would murder women in horrible ways, usually in front of their children. I tried to help him get rid of the aggression, which I felt was directed towards his mother. I employed various techniques to alleviate the episodes but the last time he came to visit me, he was different. The unconscious self was morphing into the conscious self and I suspected the dreams weren’t dreams any longer; they’d turned into realities.’

‘You believe this man to have murdered women?’

‘That’s right. At least, that’s what I began to think.’

‘What made you decide this?’

‘The grotesque detail of the murders. Initially, I thought he had a vivid imagination, but recently he began to describe the smell of blood as he cut or beat the women he murdered, and how he wanted to dip his finger into it and write.’

Icy fingers ran up Lucy’s spine. This man couldn’t have known about the messages on the wall. They’d not released any such details.

Fabia continued, ‘There were children in the dreams too. He didn’t kill them. To his mind, he was setting the children free, much as he wished he’d been set free from the abuse and torture he suffered as a child. It was the women he wanted to punish because they reminded him of his mother.’

‘Did he describe them?’

‘Only to say they had long hair and dark eyes.’

Lucy’s pulse quickened. ‘Do the questions “why?” and “who?” in isolation mean anything to you?’

There was a heavy pause before she replied. ‘They were used in the first paragraph of a letter he wrote one session to his mother. He composed a list of questions as the opening to it. He couldn’t understand why his mother had left him behind and moved on without him. I recall it started with, “Why? Who? Where? What? How?” He expanded on each of the questions, asking his mother first why she’d left them, who she’d left them for, where she’d gone, what she’d done after she’d left and how she’d felt, knowing she’d deserted her son.

‘He was supposed to complete the rest of the letter alone, put down everything he wanted to say to his mother, and then he was to burn it, thus allowing all the frustration and aggression he’d poured into it to disappear in flames. It was supposed to liberate him, and at that stage, I believed once that happened, the dreams would end too.’ Her voice became shaky. ‘He is a killer, isn’t he? He wasn’t describing dreams. He was recounting details of murders he’d committed.’

‘Fabia, I want you to remain where you are with your friend. Don’t open the door to anyone. Police officers will be with you shortly.’

‘Okay.’

‘And, Fabia, I know it breaks patient confidentiality, but this is a truly serious situation. What is this patient’s name?’

‘Robert Cooke.’