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  Sandra bit back a sob and collapsed into the armchair while she waited for Lissa to wake properly.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mummy,’ Lissa slurred. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Bit dry though.’ Her tongue felt thick and heavy, her throat dry. She reached her hand out and Sandra rose to place the cup and straw in her hand. She drank deeply and Sandra refilled the cup, trying to push an identical scene from another hospital far from her mind.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, lying back on her pillows. ‘Why are you here, Mummy?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? I said I’d come in a few days before Christmas to see how you feel about coming home for the holiday. The hospital said it should be fine and even good for you.’ Sandra’s words rushed out in a deluge that she was unable to check or halt.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lissa. ‘We’ll see. I’m still struggling to get out in the garden at the moment. I don’t know if I can manage anything too busy. Who else is coming?’

  ‘Oh, just a few people. Granny would love to see you and Great Aunt Dorothy.’

  Lissa stared at her with horror. Her heart began to pound in her chest and her breathing increased. Blood raced through her ears roaring like a river in flood. The idea of leaving the cocoon here in the Brunel unit was anathema; she felt safe here in the hospital and the grounds were peaceful. She was beginning to walk in them with ease, yet the thought of being surrounded by people and noise was too much to bear. Even being touched or having someone close enough to invade her space was still difficult. She’d been told she’d start group therapy in the new year and was already worried about the proximity of other people. Granny and Auntie would want to hug her and Lissa started shivering at the thought of their closeness, being unable to get out of their grip. Her medication and therapy had reduced the nightmares, but, and she had told no one this, the memories were returning. Above all, the pressure of being surrounded by the gang of men, their closeness, and being unable to escape from their grasping hands. She hung her head as the tears began again.

  ‘No, Mum,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to stay here.’

  11th January 2016

  Abbey Hospital, Bristol, Somerset

  Lissa looked around the room at the others in the group; they sat slumped in various positions on comfortable chairs set out in a vague circle. It was a regular part of their routine. For Lissa, however, it would be a break from the routine which had become usual for her since she’d come to the hospital; it was made up of one-to-one consultations, cognitive behavioural therapy, art and occupational therapy. Even those had been hard when Lissa was first admitted. Gradually, as the sedatives were reduced, she was able to focus on the chore of “getting better”. And it was a chore, all she wanted to do was lie in a corner and sleep, but that was when the dreams started. She felt sick, could taste the blood and snot in her mouth. Hands rough on her arms, her neck. Shouts, nothing she could determine but yells of derision? Of triumph? Of encouragement? Sometimes she could see, sometimes flashes of light blinded her. And the smells – sweat, beer, semen and vomit. Then she would wake. Sweating and shivering at the same time. Cocooned in the duvet. Sobbing. But alive, alert and alone. Thankfully alone. On occasions a nurse heard her cries and ran to the room. Often she woke alone and turned on the light, drank some water, and lay looking at the ceiling. Unable and unwilling to go back to sleep. Focusing on the task of getting better.

  Her parents constantly encouraged her to get better. The pressure from them bore down on her, and she felt like a pressed witch. She wanted to escape from their concern, their watchful eyes and their determination that she should get well again and come back to them; to be the old Melissa, bright, confident and cheerful. Lissa knew that person had gone, gone forever and would never, ever return. At times, when she could bear it, she would look at herself in the mirror and see the changes. Everything looked the same on the exterior but she knew underneath the surface of her skin it had all changed. She could not go back to being the old Lissa. That woman trusted people, took them at their word, at face value. That woman had died and would not be reincarnated.

  Suddenly, she realised that the group session had begun. The person from room three was speaking. Lissa had no idea if they were male or female. She remembered that even their name was unisex, not that she could recall the name at all. She watched but felt her eyes sliding from his, or was it her face. Would they ever stop droning on? They nodded at something the therapist said, and sat back in their chair chewing the side of their right thumb.

  ‘Melissa, how are you today?’ Suddenly all eyes were upon her and her heart began to palpitate, the waves of blood thudding on the shore in her head. Her stomach churning and bowels clenching, the need to rush to the loo growing second by second. She began panting for air; she needed to be free to run back to the safety of her room and the quiet of the solitude there. She dug her nails into the palms of her hand. Somewhere in the distance a voice told her to breathe, a full complete breath, fill her lungs, hold it for a moment and let the breath go. Repeat it, repeat it again. Lissa did as the voice told her. Slowly she calmed and opened her eyes.

  Dave, the bearded therapist was looking at her. His watery, blue eyes looking as if his tears were as close as hers. ‘Better?’ he asked.

  Lissa nodded briefly, then hung her head, focusing on the tissue twisted in her hands.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could share with the group another time?’

  Lissa nodded in agreement, Dave turned his attention to someone else, and Lissa was again alone with her thoughts. Thoughts of the stolen art knife hidden under the mattress in her room.

  Later the same day

  Lissa wasn’t seriously thinking about suicide, it was just that having the knife to hand gave her options; made her feel more in control. Before The Event she had always been in control, always known the next assignment, where she was going, even down to what shots she wanted to take. She’d research and see what others had done and what was missing. Finding the niche shot, the view missed by other photographers, that was her calling card. She was good at it, or at least she had been. Now, well now, she didn’t know what she was good at anymore.

  She held the art knife in her right hand and pressed it against her left wrist. A small bead of scarlet formed on the surface and she started to pull the knife across her skin, biting back a whimper as the knife sliced the delicate flesh. Scratching herself had hurt but it had not often produced such a satisfying surge of colour.

  ‘You’re doing it wrong.’

  Lissa jumped at the sound and caught the blade, sharp as a scalpel, against the base of her thumb. A spurt of blood coloured the sheet.

  ‘Clumsy.’ The voice was calm and gently mocking. ‘You’ve made a right mess now. I’ll get a cloth.’

  The girl walked into her room and at first Lissa looked around in horror at the intrusion but it was a girl from the therapy group. With her hair washed and brushed back, Lissa saw her high Slavic cheekbones, her grey eyes glinting with humour, her shapeless clothes still giving nothing away.

  She grabbed some towels from the dispenser over the washbasin and mopped the sheet and Lissa’s wrist.

  ‘Here,’ she said, and she took the knife from Lissa’s hand and traced it gently down the vein of the inner forearm. So gently that it only traced and scratched the skin, scarcely penetrating and not causing a bleed.

  Lissa looked up at her face, but the girl was looking down at the scratches she’d caused. Suddenly she laughed and, dropping the knife on the floor, she held out her own two wrists which were covered in scars. Some more recent, some so old that the scars had faded to a translucent beauty of glossier texture against the smooth skin. Her hands and wrist joints seemed huge against the width of her forearms. She slipped off the bed and picked up the knife, holding it out to Lissa.

  ‘Another go?’ she asked, but Lissa shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Good,
’ the girl said. ‘I’ll put the knife back in the art room tomorrow. I’m Jen, by the way, anorexic, well obviously you can see that, and self-harmer. Sometimes I get called Jenni, but I prefer Jen. I think Mummy and Daddy put me in here to get me fattened up for Christmas, but I cheated them of that.’ She held her clothes close to her body and looked down. Lissa saw the skeletal frame and the girl smiled at her with something like triumph.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lissa. ‘I’m Lissa.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we all know who you are,’ said Jenni. It wasn’t said unkindly, just a statement of fact. ‘Are you going to come to the groups now? It’s nice to have a new face. We get bored with the same stories over and over again. We had a bet to see if you’d speak today. I won. I knew you wouldn’t. Are you going to speak tomorrow? I’ve bet my fruit ration that you won’t. Don’t let me down will you? Or I’ll have to eat it.’

  Lissa looked at her; the frail body could have floated out of the room and no one would have noticed its passing.

  ‘Perhaps you should eat the fruit,’ she said.

  ‘Nah,’ said the girl, effecting a Bristol accent. ‘Where’s the fun in that? Then I’d just be like all the others at school. I quite like being the freak. More attention,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘Though, on the other hand, it might be fun to know your story. I guess being an oldie you’ve done much more stuff.’

  ‘I’m not an oldie,’ protested Lissa. ‘I’m only thirty-two.’

  ‘Old,’ said the girl. ‘Ancient. Nearly as old as Dave the hippy and he’s as old as the oak trees in the park.’ She laughed suddenly and held the knife quite close to her face, her features losing their smile and becoming severe. She let the knife slide down by her nose, and the trickle of blood was lost in the threads of her dark cardigan.

  Lissa jumped from the bed and knocked the scalpel out of Jenni’s hands. She thrust the girl into the visitors’ chair and frantically grabbed a towel and held it to the cut.

  ‘Why, Jenni? Oh why?’ she hissed, although she was not angry with the girl.

  Jenni burst into tears and Lissa rocked her while the younger woman sobbed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  30th May 2018

  Gippingford Police HQ

  ‘Hi,’ she said. That was all, but it was enough to turn his stomach over and raise goosebumps over his entire body. He stepped back from the whiteboard and Kirsty Russell gave him a brief smile.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, deciding that the tabletop was a really good place for his coffee right now. Preferably before she could see how much his hands were shaking. ‘You’re here bright and early.’

  ‘You too,’ she replied. ‘I need to give an update and I like to get my breath back beforehand.’

  ‘Why not use the lift?’

  ‘It’s the only exercise I’m getting at the moment,’ she laughed. ‘No time for a personal life in this job. You know that.’

  Poole wasn’t sure if that was a put-down or not. He said nothing and turned his attention back to the murdered men.

  ‘They knew each other,’ Kirsty said. ‘Well enough for the first victim to have been in the second one’s house.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’ As soon as he said the words Poole wanted to kick himself, especially when he saw a flash of annoyance cross her face.

  ‘No, Ben, I spend all my time sitting downstairs thinking what I can make up next. Of course I’m sure,’ she hissed. ‘We found Marchant’s fingerprints in Phillips’ kitchen. On cupboards and the fridge. They have been double-checked, so yes, my team and I are sure.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, it just moves the case on so much if we have a connection between the victims. It’s much more likely we’re looking for one killer. Were his, that is Marchant’s prints, anywhere else?’

  ‘Nope, bedroom and lounge were cleaned. No prints at all. Not even from victim two,’ she replied, face still flushed.

  ‘That’s brilliant news. Thanks, Kirsty,’ he said, giving her a huge grin.

  ‘Why thank you, Ben, that’s really kind of you to say so,’ she said, with no hint of amusement on her face at all.

  Poole realised he had slipped back to first base again and he decided to keep quiet and try to keep his feet out of his mouth.

  DCI Carlson received the information about the fingerprints with enthusiasm; at last something to move this case forward.

  ‘Have we checked social media for connections, Jane?’ he asked. ‘Facebook and the like?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir, but people of that age don’t tend to use Facebook and Twitter. It’s all Instagram, Snapchat, WhatsApp. With those you don’t need to use your real name so finding connections is harder. When we can get into Matt’s computer and phone we can get his account names and now that we’ve got a better idea of what we’re looking for, I’ll get on it.’

  ‘Good. We need to understand what connects these two young men and if it is that connection which led to them being killed. DS Poole and I are going to speak with the parents again today. Hopefully they can give us a bit more information.’

  Carlson gulped his cup of lukewarm tea whilst he waited for Poole to give out further directions to the team. He hoped that there would be no more killings but he knew that it was the desperate dream of the foolhardy. The killer had taken their time with Matt Phillips, and that was not the action of someone who was slowing down anytime soon.

  Later

  Arlington Drive, Gippingford.

  Arlington Drive was one of the roads that Carlson knew his wife, Marguerite, lusted after. It swooped around in a lazy S-shape with wide grassed borders either side of the road. Oak and plane trees created cover with their, still delicate, new leaves. It was a community which announced its wealth with high walls, wrought iron gates and the house name inscribed on brass plates. The style balanced cautiously between discretion and impertinence.

  ‘Which number is it?’ asked Poole, staring at the name plates on the pillars.

  ‘Oh, I think we’re beyond mere numbers here, Ben,’ Carlson replied. ‘It has a name. Hang on. Yes, here it is. Chantalle. Strange name for a house.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Poole and he swung the car towards the gates, spoke into the comms box and the gates swung open with a lackadaisical slowness which bordered on insolence.

  The front door was opened by a smartly dressed woman in a shift dress and lightweight cardigan. She introduced herself as Mrs Phillips’ sister.

  ‘Rosie is still very upset, you understand. The doctor has prescribed some sedatives but she’s not keen on taking them. She says they made her too spaced out after Chantalle and felt like it was a betrayal.’

  ‘Chantalle?’ said Carlson, eyebrow mid-raise.

  ‘Yes, their daughter. Stillbirth, but they gave her a name and a proper funeral. You’ve never seen such a tiny coffin.’ She touched the corner of her eye with a tissue. A movement so rapid Carlson nearly missed it. ‘When they found this house they decided to name it after her. So sad. Anyway here we are.’ She pushed the door to the sitting room open and ushered them in. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  Both officers declined and walked into the spacious room. A florid-faced man jumped to his feet and strode towards them. ‘Chief inspector, any news?’ he asked as he pumped Carlson’s hand like a water pump.

  ‘Some, yes,’ said Carlson. He introduced DS Poole and, once handshakes and introductions were completed, they sat down, the Phillips clinging together on a sofa facing Poole and Carlson’s.

  ‘Do you have children, chief inspector?’ asked Rosie Phillips.

  ‘I had two daughters,’ he replied. ‘Now I just have one.’

  ‘Then you understand,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s good.’

  Carlson nodded, closing his eyes momentarily to mask his own pain, there was nothing useful which could be said in return. Rosie Phillips, however, was clearly used to receiving sympathy rather than offering it and if she saw his reaction she made no mention of it.

  ‘Y
ou said you had news?’ said Owen Phillips.

  ‘You may have seen in the papers that another young man’s body was found around Easter?’

  The Phillips shook their heads.

  ‘We were searching for an identity for him. We have that now and we also believe he may have been known to your son. His name was Steven Marchant.’ Carlson let the name hang in the space between the two sofas while he watched their faces. ‘Is that name familiar to either of you?’

  They turned to each other frowning with puzzlement. ‘I’m afraid we don’t really know his friends, Mr Carlson. Not since he left school. I’m sorry.’ Owen shook his head. ‘He’d become something of a stranger to us, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about social media?’ Poole asked gently. ‘Would you know which platforms he used perhaps? Any user names?’

  ‘Isn’t all that on his phone? Or his iPad? Can’t you check those?’

  ‘Yes, we will do that of course, Mr Phillips. We have both, and our techies are working on the passcode,’ replied Poole.

  ‘Try one, nine, oh, seven, one, nine, eight, eight,’ said Rosie. ‘The day we had Chantalle. Matt never knew her. He came later, but he knew all about her, and that’s why we doted on him so much.’ She whimpered, stifling a sob, and turned to her husband, burying her head in his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carlson. He ensured that Poole had jotted down the number and rose to leave. ‘As soon as I have more news, I will let you know. Marchant’s fingerprints were in your son’s kitchen so there’s a good chance they knew each other, but they may have just been left there from a party or he may have delivered the fridge-freezer. But we will find out and we will let you know.’

  They went through the hand shaking ritual again and left.