THE HITCHHIKER

Detective Jason Smith book 29

BY STEWART GILES

Copyright © 2024 Stewart Giles

CHAPTER ONE

A spokesperson for Teesside Police is urging members of the public not to accept lifts from strangers. This is following the discovery of the badly beaten body of a local woman a few miles north of the Leven Viaduct. She was seen getting into a white car earlier in the day.

Detective Sergeant Jason Smith wasn’t really listening to the voice on the radio. His attention was focused on navigating the roads through the torrential rain that had come from nowhere in the city of York.

The woman, whose name cannot be released at this point was last seen at the petrol station at the Teesside Shopping Park. Teesside Police is calling for anyone who may have seen the woman or the car to come forward with any information. Teesside Police is following up on a number of enquiries, but they would like to stress once more how important it is not to accept lifts from strangers.

“Fuck this,” Smith said.

He turned left into the car park of a supermarket and parked close to the entrance. The rain was coming down in buckets now and the windscreen wipers were struggling to keep up.

“What have I told you about your language when Andrew is around?”
It was Lucy. Smith’s adopted daughter was sitting in the back of the car with her one-year-old baby, Andrew.

“I’m going to wait until the rain has eased off a bit,” Smith ignored her warning. “Downpours like these rarely last long.”

“They didn’t say anything about what happened to the woman,” Lucy said.

“I wasn’t paying much attention,” Smith said.

“They’re warning people not to get into cars with strangers. What woman in her right mind would do that anyway?”

“If they mentioned hitchhikers,” Smith said. “They must have reason to believe she was killed by the person she hitched a lift with.”
“They didn’t say that. They didn’t say anything about hitchhikers.”
“Why else would they put out a warning?” Smith said.

“Do you know anything about the dead woman?”
“Teesside isn’t our problem.”
“Don’t you even care?” Lucy said.

“We’ve got enough to deal with here in York,” Smith pointed out. “We can’t afford to make murders in other counties our problem too. Looks like the rain is dying down a bit.”

It was wishful thinking. The windscreen cleared for a moment and then the heavens opened again. Smith turned to look at Andrew, safe in his chair in the back. The baby was sound asleep, oblivious to the sheets of water pelting against the windows.

“What would make a woman even think of getting in a car with a strange man?” Lucy wondered. “I didn’t think people even hitchhiked anymore.”
“It’s not as common as it once was,” Smith said. “When I was your age you’d see loads of hitchhikers on the roads, students mostly.”
“And it was safe?”
“There were very few incidents of people getting killed by the person they got a lift from.”

It was late August – Smith’s wife, Detective Sergeant Whitton was at work and he’d offered to take Lucy into town to pick up some books she needed for her second year of sixth form. Lucy’s boyfriend, Darren was fitting some shelves at the house next door to Smith’s. Smith had bought the property when the Smith household had started to feel like a school boarding house. With only three bedrooms the place just wasn’t big enough to accommodate two adults, two teenagers, two eight-year-old girls and a baby boy. Even the dogs had started to complain. Theakston and Fred

weren’t used to so many people, and the Bull Terrier and the Pug hadn’t been sorry when Lucy, Darren and Andrew moved next door.

The sky cleared and the rain stopped as suddenly as it had arrived. The late-summer downpour was definitely over. Smith was about to pull away from the supermarket when his phone started to ring. He looked at the screen and saw it was Whitton.

He answered the call. “Did you see that rain?”

“Where are you?” Whitton asked.

“I had to pull in to the car park at the Sainsburys on Hull Road. Has something happened? I’ve got Lucy and Andrew in the car.”
“Darren hit a water pipe when he was drilling holes for the new shelves in the kitchen.”
“Why is that my problem?” Smith asked.

“Because in case you’ve forgotten, you’re the owner of number 18 now.”
“As are you,” Smith reminded her. “What do I know about leaking pipes?”
“It’s not leaking, Jason,” Whitton said. “It’s burst and the kitchen is busy flooding. I’m working and you’re not.”
“Why didn’t Darren bloody Lewis phone me straight away? He knew I was off.”
“Why do you think?”
“I can’t fix a broken water pipe,” Smith said.

“Then phone a plumber. Being a landlord isn’t just about collecting the rent every month.”

“Rent? What Darren and Lucy pay is barely enough to keep me in beer for the month.”
“Jason,” Whitton said. “Just do something about it.”
Her tone left little doubt that it wasn’t up for debate. Smith told her he would get hold of a plumber, but she’d already hung up.

“Fuck it,” Smith said. “There goes the rest of my day off.”
“Language, Dad,” Lucy warned.

“I assume you heard that?”

“Darren has drilled through a water main,” Lucy said to confirm it.

“I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this landlord lark.”

Three miles away a man and a woman driving home were about to face a much bigger problem than a burst water pipe. They weren’t aware of it yet, and neither was Smith, but he soon would be. It was going to set off a chain of events that would throw him headfirst into a nightmare, the likes of which he wouldn’t have ever imagined was possible.

CHAPTER TWO

“I’m glad that’s over.”
Danielle Swan placed a hand on her husband Ian’s arm. He looked across at her and smiled. The rain had stopped and the water on the road was evaporating in the late-morning sunshine. Steam was rising from the tarmac all around them.

“Summer storms are something else, aren’t they?” Ian said.

He checked his rearview mirror, engaged first gear and drove away from the side of the road. He’d been forced to pull over when it became difficult to see the road up ahead. They’d just turned off the Fulford Interchange when the heavens opened, and Ian had stopped the car as soon as it became safe to do so on the hard shoulder of the A64.

“When did you start wearing new aftershave?” Danielle asked.

Ian cast her a glance. “New aftershave?”

“I haven’t smelled that one on you before. I like it.”
“I’m not wearing aftershave,” Ian told her.

“I can smell it. It’s familiar. Paco Rabanne I think.”
“Nope,” Ian said. “It’s not me. In all the time we’ve been together I’ve only worn Aramis, and I can’t remember the last time I wore it.”

They were crossing the River Ouse in the direction of Middlethorpe when Danielle gasped.

“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Ian said.

Danielle turned her head and screamed.

“Keep driving.”

The man in the back seat said this so calmly he could have been a friend they were giving a lift to.

Ian eased his foot off the accelerator and turned to face him.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“Eyes on the road, mate.”
“What do you want?” Danielle asked. “How did you get inside the car?”
“I’m going to ask the questions. OK?”
     Ian slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to the side of the road. The tarmac was still wet.

“Get out of my car.”
“Not yet. You’ll keep driving and you’ll answer my questions. The firearm I’m pointing at your lovely lady right now is a Ruger Single Seven .327 Federal. This baby peaks out at a mind blowing 45,000 psi. To put some perspective on it, what if I told you a .357 Magnum only generates 35,000?”
“What do you want?” Ian asked.

“I’ll only tell you once more. I ask the questions. I squeeze the trigger now, and the 487 foot-pounds of energy will obliterate your girl’s head and still carry enough force to shatter the windscreen. Are you listening to me now?”
Ian nodded.

Danielle dared to look at her husband. The look in his eyes was a blend of disbelief and terror. She’d never seen this expression before. She was aware of the warmth in her lap and on the seat beneath her. She’d wet herself without realising it. She could pick up the sour stench of her urine inside the car and it disgusted her.

“Drive,” the gunman ordered.

“Where are we going?” Ian said.

“I’ll tell you when to turn off.”
Ian did as he was told.

“How long have you owned the car?”

The faint aroma of the aftershave returned. It was infinitely preferable to the foul stink of piss.

“I asked you how long you’d owned the car.”
“Three years,” Ian managed.

“Do you use it mainly for work, or do you travel extensively?”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Ian would have found it amusing. He felt like he was being asked to fill in a questionnaire.

“Well?” the man in the back seat asked.

“I rarely drive it outside of the city,” Ian said.

“But you have on occasion?”

“Sometimes.”
“Have you ever picked up a hitchhiker?”
“Of course not,” Ian said.

“Are you sure?”
“I can’t remember ever picking up a hitchhiker.”

A sign for Bishopthorpe Road appeared on the side of the road.

“Take the next right, and then the first right after that.”
“But that leads to a dead end,” Danielle said.

“Are you questioning me?”
“Of course not,” Ian answered for her.

He indicated right and took the next turnoff.

The fields on either side of the road were waterlogged. They drove past the spa and the holiday cottages came into view up ahead. Ian knew that the road stopped there, and there was nowhere to go after that.

“Pull off here.”
There was no road. Ian told his unwelcome passenger as much.

“There’s a small dirt track leading down to the stream by Vixmead Greens.”
“What are you going to do to us?” Danielle asked.

“It depends on how you answer my questions.”

Ian had no option but to do as he was told. He spotted the dirt track and engaged first gear. He drove down the small incline and kept going straight. The track wasn’t well used and there were puddles of rain in the middle, but Ian was able to drive on it. He drove as far as he could go and stopped where the track ended.

“Have you ever been to Tadcaster?”
“What” Ian said.

“You heard me. The recoil on the Ruger is virtually non-existent. That’s one of the things I like about it.”
“I’ve been to Tadcaster, yes,” Ian said.

“When were you there?”
“How am I supposed to remember that?”

“There’s a stretch of the A64 in Tadcaster between Colton Haggs Farm and the Travelodge. Do you know it?”
“I think I’ve driven past it,” Ian said.

“Did you pick up a hitchhiker anywhere near there?”
“No,” Ian said. “I didn’t pick up any hitchhikers.”
“OK. That’s it – We’re done.”
“Are you going to let us go?” Danielle said.

She didn’t get an answer to this. Instead, she was aware of a hand grabbing hold of her hair and then she saw something in her peripheral vision. It was the face of her husband. There was a flash of white light and Danielle experienced a strange vibrating sensation in the bones of her face. The shockwaves reached her teeth and spread downwards.

Danielle and Ian Swan’s heads were smashed together three more times, and then everything was quiet. Danielle drifted off with the scent of the familiar aftershave in her nose.

CHAPTER THREE

Smith had managed to find a plumber to come out to fix the pipe Darren had accidentally drilled through but when he saw the mess in the kitchen, he decided that was where his input was going to end. Darren was going to have to sort out the chaos he’d created on his own. Lucy was upstairs putting Andrew to bed. The burst pipe had sprayed water as far as the door and the carpet in the hallway was drenched. Darren had managed to locate the main water cutoff valve quickly or the damage could have been much worse.

“There’s nowt wrong with your water pressure, I see.”
The plumber was a short, stocky man with curly hair and a thick moustache. Smith had taken an instant dislike to him when he’d taken one look inside the kitchen and shaken his head.

“This isn’t going to be cheap.”
Those were the first words he spoke.

Now he informed Smith that he was just about done.

“It’s not the young lad’s fault,” he added. “There’s no reason for the pipe to be where he drilled. Someone, in their wisdom decided it would be a good idea to divert the main inlet pipe with an elbow joint. Probably to save the hassle of chipping out the hard plaster.”
Smith had no idea what he was talking about.

“The main water supply comes in here, you see.”
He traced the location of it with his finger on the wall.

“But whoever plumbed this in clearly didn’t know what they were doing. This looks like the job of a cowboy. Or an Irishman. You’re not Irish, are you?”
“No,” Smith said. “How much?”
“Well, it’s not just the labour and the parts, you see. We have to include the call-out fee.”
“How much?” Smith asked him again.

“One-twenty-five should cover it.”
“A hundred and twenty-five pounds?” Smith thought that was extortionate for a job that had taken less than an hour.

“That’s the cash price.”
“What other price is there?” Smith said.

“Your insurance might be willing to pay for it. In that case I’ll invoice them two hundred. Paperwork and all that.”
     For once Smith actually had some cash in his wallet. He’d withdrawn some money at the ATM earlier that day. He took out two fifty-pound notes and handed them to the plumber.

“This is only a hundred.”
“That’s being generous,” Smith told him. “I could pay the extra twenty-five, but then I might suddenly remember I’m an officer of the law with York Police and I might feel obliged to report you for insurance fraud.”
“A hundred it is then. Always good to stay on side with law enforcement.”

Smith couldn’t wait to see the back of him. Darren Lewis had mopped up the worst of the mess and he was now making a start on cleaning the plaster out of the sink. There was a gaping hole in the wall where the old pipe had been removed and replaced with a new one.

“I’m sorry, Mr Smith,” Darren said.

“The plumber said it wasn’t your fault,” Smith told him.

“I didn’t expect the pipe to veer off to the right. I’ll pay you back. What did Mario charge you?”
“Mario?”

“I couldn’t believe it when he walked in. Not only does he look like Mario from Mario Brothers, but he’s a plumber too.”
Smith vaguely remembered the old video game.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said to Darren.

“Me and my brother can fix up the wall,” Darren said. “He won’t charge you. There’s quite a bit of other stuff that needs doing in this house. The old owner didn’t seem bothered about keeping up with the maintenance.”

“When do you have to go back to college?” Smith asked.

“Not for another two weeks.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You fix up what you think needs fixing, and I’ll take it off the rent. For what it’s worth.”
“We do appreciate the rent you’re charging us,” Darren said. “I wish we could pay more.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”

Lucy came into the kitchen. “Andrew went out like a light. That wall looks terrible.”
She pointed to the exposed pipe.

“Me and Gary can sort it out,” Darren said.

“I’ll see you later,” Smith said.

“What are you up to today?” Lucy asked him.

“I’m going to take advantage of the empty house next door,” Smith said. “Erica is at work and Laura and Fran are at Timothy Green’s house.”
“The Australian kid?”
“They won’t be back for a few hours,” Smith said. “So, I’m going to get reacquainted with an old friend?”
“Your Fender Stratocaster?” Lucy guessed.

“You got it in one. It’s been a while since I played that guitar and I need to do something about it.”
“Just keep it down a bit,” Lucy dared.

Smith grinned at her. “Don’t push it – I can still change my mind about sending Darren the bill for the plumber.”

He left the house and went next door. He still hadn’t got used to this. It was strange to have Lucy living in the house next to his. Theakston and Fred were fast asleep in the living room. Smith opened the guitar case and took out the Fender. He played a simple A chord and grimaced. The guitar hadn’t been played in a long time and it was badly out of tune. He tuned it and plugged it into the amp. His phone started to ring before he got the chance to switch the amp on. The ringtone announced that he probably wasn’t going to get the chance to play the guitar today. It was Elvis Costello’s Oliver’s Army and it told him that the boss was trying to get hold of him.

CHAPTER FOUR

DI Oliver Smyth was waiting for Smith next to his car close to the row of cottages in Middlethorpe. A man and a woman had been found in an abandoned car a hundred metres away. The car had been seen by a man staying in one of the cottages and he’d gone to investigate when it hadn’t moved for a while. What waited for him inside the green Ford Fiesta was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Smith got out of his car and walked over to DI Smyth.

“Boss.”
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” DI Smyth said.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Smith said. “What have we got?”
DI Smyth pointed to where the car was parked. Grant Webber and his forensic team were already going through the motions in and around the vehicle.

“A man and a woman. Both dead and both beaten beyond recognition. I don’t know what happened inside that car, but whoever did this acted with a lot of rage.”
“Do we know who they are?” Smith asked.

“The man is Ian Swan. Webber found a driving license. No ID on the woman.”
“Where’s the man who found them?”
“Whitton and Kerry are speaking to him now. Bridge and Harry are busy talking to the other guests at the cottages.”

“Can I take a look?” Smith said.

“Suit up and boot up,” DI Smyth said. “I’ll come with you.”

Billie Jones was taking photographs of the green car when Smith and DI Smyth approached. Webber’s assistant nodded to them in greeting and carried on snapping away. Pete Richards was examining something on the ground a few metres away from the vehicle. Grant Webber was scraping something from the back seat.

“Afternoon,” Smith said to him.

“Smith,” the Head of Forensics said without looking up.

Smith had seen his fair share of murder victims but the damage that had been inflicted on the man and woman in the front of the car was some of the worst he’d ever seen. The woman was in the passenger seat, facing the driver. Their faces were inches apart, and Smith’s first impression was they’d been caught mid-embrace. Their faces were a mess of bone and pulp. The woman’s mouth was open, revealing a row of broken teeth. One of those teeth was glued to her shirt with the blood that had gushed from her nose. Smith could smell the pungent odour of urine.

“It’s not pretty, is it?” Webber said from the back seat.

“What do you think happened to them?” Smith said. “Blunt object?”
Webber shook his head. “I believe they had their heads repeatedly bashed together.”
“Christ.”
“Indeed,” Webber agreed. “And if that’s the case we’re looking for an individual with unnatural strength.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened,” Smith said.

“Do you have another theory?”
“How is it even possible to smack their heads together?” Smith said. “To do that he would have to have been extremely quick and he would have had to be sitting in the back.”
“I found a lot of hair on both sides of the car in the front,” Webber said. “Different coloured hair – yanked out from the roots by the look of it. He grabbed their hair and got to work – smack, smack, smack.”
“There’s a lot of hatred on display here. I’ll leave you to it.”
     He walked over to Pete Richards. “What have you found?”
“Boot prints,” Pete said. “There was a lot of rain earlier and the ground was waterlogged. I’d guess they’re around size twelve or thirteen.”

“Big feet then,” Smith said.

“It’s possible they belong to someone other than the man who did this,” Pete said. “But it’s highly unlikely. If they were here before, the rain would have washed them away.”
“It was quite a downpour,” Smith remembered.

He had a look around. The car was parked in the middle of nowhere. The trees of Vixmead Greens were visible in the distance. Beyond that was the River Ouse. He could hear the low hum of traffic on the A64 in the distance. “Which way do you think he went?” he asked Pete.

Webber’s assistant pointed towards the river. “This is where the boot prints tell me he was headed.”
     Smith started walking in that direction. The grass was soggy under his feet, and he could feel the damp creeping up his jeans. Once or twice his feet sank into the sodden ground. After walking for only a few minutes Smith had run out of land. The River Ouse was preventing him from going any further. He turned around and sought out an obvious exit route. The only possible place to go from where he was standing now was across the A64 on Bishopthorpe Road and that would mean the killer had doubled back on himself at some stage.

Smith made his way back to the abandoned car. Whitton and DC King were now standing with DI Smyth by the road. Smith wanted to know what the man who’d found the bodies had to say.

“Did you get the pipe fixed?” Whitton asked him when he got there.

“Apparently it wasn’t Darren’s fault,” Smith told her. “The plumber reckoned whoever did the original job cut a few corners. It’s all sorted now, and Darren has offered to fix up whatever else needs fixing in the house. What did the bloke who found the bodies have to say?”

“He saw the car drive past just after noon,” Whitton said. “It wasn’t long after the rain shower. He didn’t pay it much attention.”
“But when it was still parked there two hours later,” DC King said. “He wondered if something was wrong. He thought maybe they’d broken down and he went to see if he could help.”
“Did he see anyone leave the car?” Smith said.

“Like DS Whitton said, he didn’t take much notice after it drove past.”
“It looks like it was definitely a man who did this,” Smith said. “Pete Richards got some fairly decent imprints of some boots. Big ones – size 12 or 13.”
“I’m inclined to think a man was responsible,” DI Smyth said. “The strength that would be required to inflict those kind of injuries is phenomenal, and I don’t believe a woman could have done that to them.”

“Do we know if anyone else saw anything?” Smith asked.

“Bridge and Harry are still busy talking to the other guests at the cottages,” DI Smyth said. “Hopefully one of them will have seen something. Unfortunately, the rain will have kept the hikers and day visitors away from the park, so it will have been quiet here today.”
“I think he made his getaway down Bishopthorpe Road and across the A64,” Smith said. “There’s no place to cross the river for miles if he headed north. I say we put out an appeal. The A64 is a busy road, and someone might have seen him.”
“I agree,” DI Smyth said. “We know roughly what time this happened, so it’s definitely worth a shot.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Ian and Danielle Swan were married, and they were both twenty-six years old.”
DI Smyth had written their names on the whiteboard in the small conference room.

“Ian worked for himself,” DI Smyth continued. “He was a plumber, and Danielle worked at a beauty salon in the town centre. No children. Forensics is still busy with the car, but Webber did find a Sat Nav that might give us some idea of their movements.”
“Did they find anything else?” DC King asked.

“It’s early days. Mr and Mrs Swan were killed inside the vehicle, and the violence that was displayed was brutal. We’ll know more about the exact cause of death after the postmortems but it appears that they had their heads repeatedly smashed together, resulting in extensive injuries.”
“Whoever did this didn’t like them very much,” DC Moore stated the obvious.

“No, Harry,” DI Smyth said. “They certainly didn’t.”

“What else do we know about the Swans?” Smith said.

“Very little,” DI Smyth said. “And that’s the first thing on the agenda. Who were they, and why would someone want to do this to them? We have very little to go on as far as witness accounts are concerned. A guest staying in one of the nearby cottages saw the car arrive and when it was still there two hours later, he went to check if everything was alright. He didn’t see anyone leave the car and he couldn’t see who was inside it, when it arrived. A number of boot prints were found at the scene – size 12 or 13, and it’s highly likely these were left by the killer.”
“It’s definitely a bloke then,” Bridge decided.

“I believe it is,” DI Smyth confirmed. “The method used to kill them would have taken an astonishing amount of strength. Any thoughts?”
“What were they doing there?” Smith said.

“That’s a very good question. We know they weren’t staying in the cottages and as far as we’re aware they weren’t clients of the spa either, so why did they park the car there?”
“It’s in the middle of nowhere,” Whitton said. “The only reason to go there would be for the spa, the cottages or the park at Vixmead Greens.”

“It’s Monday,” DC Moore said. “Why weren’t they at work?”
“It’s the school holidays,” Bridge said.

“And they don’t have any kids,” Smith reminded him. “Whether it’s the school holidays or not is irrelevant.”
“Hopefully the data from the Sat Nav will shed some light on their movements this morning,” DI Smyth said.

“As far as I can see,” Smith said. “There are only two possible scenarios to consider.”
“Go on,” DI Smyth said.

“Either they were parked there by the greens,” Smith said. “And someone caught them unawares and attacked them, or they were forced to drive to that particular spot.”

“I’d put money on the first one,” DC Moore said. “It’s the most likely. How would someone be able to force them to drive anywhere? The evidence suggests that the killer was in the back seat when he attacked them, so how would he be able to make them drive somewhere?”
“He could have threatened them with something,” DC King suggested.

“It’s possible,” DI Smyth said. “He gets in the back and threatens them with a knife or a gun if they don’t do what he says.”
“I still don’t buy it, sir,” DC Moore said. “This is York – it’s not the jungles of Colombia. I reckon they were surprised when they’d parked near Vixmead Greens, and they were attacked straight away.”

“None of the guests at the cottages remembered seeing anyone,” Bridge said. “The witness who saw the car drive up didn’t see anybody else.”
“But he didn’t pay the car much attention until two hours had passed,” DC Moore argued. “The killer could have come from the direction of the A64 and approached the car unseen.”
“I think he was already inside the car,” Smith said. “He forced them to drive to an isolated location and killed them.”
“If that’s the case,” DI Smyth said. “It means this was planned. It wasn’t simply a random attack by an opportunist killer.”
“It certainly wasn’t, boss. This was carefully planned. What he did to them didn’t leave any doubt that he wanted them dead, and that’s why we need to find out everything we can about the victims.”

“Do you think this was an isolated incident?” DC King asked.

“It’s too soon to formulate an opinion on that?” DI Smyth said. “But for now we have no option but to treat it as one. We should have the data from the Sat Nav before the end of the day. That will give us more idea about Mr and Mrs Swan’s movements before the attack. In the meantime we need to look into the lives of the two victims. Speak to their family, friends and work colleagues. Bridge, you and Harry can go and see their family members. Ian was an only child, but Danielle has a sister a year younger than her. Smith, you and Kerry find out everything you can from their places of work. Why were they not working today? It’s possible they’d booked some time off, but if that’s the case what caused them to end up by Vixmead Greens? Did they mention anything about it to their work colleagues?”

“I thought Ian was self-employed,” DC Moore said. “He works for himself.”
“He runs a team of plumbers,” DI Smyth said. “He may have told one of his staff about his plans for today. Whitton, you and I can go and see the parents of Ian and Danielle. Uniforms have given them the tragic news but we need to ask them some questions.”

CHAPTER SIX

“It feels weird to be sitting in this car again,” DC King said.

She and Smith were driving west towards the city centre. Danielle Swan worked as a stylist in a salon on Priory Street.

“There are certain things you cannot kill, Kerry,” Smith said and tapped the dashboard. “And this old Sierra is one of them.”

“I thought DS Whitton said it was definitely time to scrap the thing. It was going to cost too much to fix.”
“I may have overcapitalised a bit,” Smith admitted. “But it was worth it. Where’s this salon again?”
“Priory Street. Do you want me to check on the GPS?”
“I know where it is. Do you hear that?”
“I can’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” Smith said. “This car has been restored to her former glory, and I’m a happy man right now.”
     He parked in the car park on Nunnery Lane, and they set off on the short walk to Priory Street. Smith took out his cigarettes and lit one.

“How are things going with the little girl?” DC King asked.

“Fran?” Smith said. “We’re taking it day by day. She’s got a long road ahead of her.”

“Have the adoption agency given you any news?”
“It takes time,” Smith told her. “We know that from experience.”
“Are Lucy and Darren coping alright at being grown-ups?”
“Apart from drilling through water pipes,” Smith said. “They’re doing better than I thought they would. They’re good kids.”
“It must be strange owning two houses next door to each other. It must be costing you a bit.”
“Not really. My gran left me her house, so we only have one mortgage to pay, but I didn’t realise what a pain in the arse being a landlord was.”
“Do you actually charge them rent?”
“It was Darren’s idea,” Smith said. “He didn’t want charity, so he offered to pay rent. It’s hardly the going rate, but he doesn’t earn much from his IT work. This looks like the place here.”
     Short Cutz looked like an ordinary house. If it wasn’t for the sign outside, it would be impossible to tell it was a hair salon. From the front of the property, you could see the turrets of the Micklegate Bar in the distance.

“Short Cutz,” DC King said. “Very clever.”
“It looks like they run the business from their residential address,” Smith said.

“It’s becoming more and more common. Rental rates in the city are sky high, and a lot of people are making do with what they have. Is someone expecting us?”
“No,” Smith said. “It’s Monday – it ought to be quiet, and I didn’t think we’d need an appointment.”

“You could do with a bit of a trim, Sarge. You can kill two birds with one stone.”
     Smith pushed the door open, and he and DC King went inside the salon. He was surprised by what met him in there. The entire downstairs floor of the house had been converted so it was one huge room. All of the interior walls had been knocked down, and the space was filled with the equipment you’d expect to find in any hairdressing salon. A long mirror ran the length of the back wall, and rows of adjustable chairs were lined up opposite it. All but one of the chairs were occupied and Smith realised the salon must be quite popular.

A tall woman with long purple hair came over to them. She cast a glance at DC King and then her eyes fell on Smith.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“We’re not here for a haircut,” Smith told her and took out his ID. “Can we have a word?”
“What’s going on? If this is about our Barry, I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“What’s your name?” DC King asked.

“Debbie. Debbie Short.”
“Short?” Smith repeated. “Short Cutz. I like it. Can we talk somewhere in private?”

“What about? I have clients waiting.”
Smith looked at the women sitting in the chairs. There appeared to be one stylist tending to each of them.

“I’m sure the other staff can take care of it.”
“I suppose you’d better come through to the kitchen then.”

Debbie opened a door and asked them to take a seat at a table in the middle of the room. She closed the door behind them.

“What’s going on?”
“We believe Danielle Swan works here,” DC King said.

“She’s off this week,” Debbie said.
“I’m afraid Mrs Swan was killed this morning,” Smith told her.

Either this didn’t register with Debbie Short, or she was an extremely cold person. Her facial expression didn’t waver. She stared at Smith with blank eyes.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

Debbie sat down. “I don’t think I heard right. You said Danielle is dead?”
“We’re afraid so,” DC King said.

“How long has she worked here?” Smith said.

“What happened to her?” Debbie said.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss that.”
“But if you’re here it must mean her death was suspicious.”
“It was,” Smith said and left it at that.

“You said Danielle is off work this week,” DC King said. “Did she mention anything to you about what she was planning on doing with the time off?”
“She and her husband were going to get stuck into some DIY,” Debbie said. “They’ve just bought one of those fixer uppers and they were planning on giving the place a lick of paint. She showed me the colour scheme and she was quite excited about picking up the materials from the B&Q. Oh my God, does Ian know?”
“Are you friends with Danielle’s husband?” Smith said.

“I’ve known them both for years. How is he taking it?”
“Not too well. Where is this fixer upper you mentioned?”

“It’s a three-bedroom place in Woodthorpe. It was Ian’s idea. He inherited some money from a relative and he decided to invest it in property. What happened to Danielle?”
“I told you,” Smith said. “I can’t talk about that. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“She was working on a Sunday?” DC King said.

“Of course. We’re open seven days a week.”

“How long has Danielle worked here?” Smith asked again.

“Since the beginning,” Debbie said. “I opened the place four years ago. We were at college together, and she’s a really talented stylist.”
“You knew her well then?” Smith said.

“Very well.”
“Do you know if she had any enemies?”
“Of course not,” Debbie said. “Danielle wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Smith sighed inwardly. If he had a pound for every time he’d heard that about a murder victim, he would be able to pay off his mortgage.

He wasn’t sure what else to ask. He didn’t think he was going to get anything useful from Debbie Short.

“Did you socialise with Danielle?” he said.

“Sometimes,” Debbie said. “Not so much in recent years.”
“Why is that?” DC King said.

“I suppose the friendship dynamic was bound to change when I became Danielle’s boss. It’s only natural, isn’t it?”
“Was she particularly friendly with any of the other staff here?” Smith asked.

“Georgia. Georgia Clooney. They seem to have grown close recently.”
“Would it be possible to speak to Georgia?” Smith said.

“She’s off today,” Debbie told him.

“Do you have her details?” DC King said.

“What has Georgia got to do with it?”

“We’d really like to speak to her,” Smith said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bridge and DC Moore were unaware that the man they were sitting across the table from was the same man who had fixed the burst pipe at Smith’s second house. The Mario Brother lookalike was called John Lincoln, and he was instantly on guard when he realised who had come to pay him a visit. Ian Swan ran his business out of a small shop in Rowntree Park.

“It’s common practice you know.”
“What is?” Bridge asked.

“Upping the price for the insurance,” John said. “I didn’t even think he was really a copper. I thought he was just saying that to put the wind up me.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bridge said.

“The house on Greenway Avenue. Number 18. The young lad had drilled through the mains inlet, and I fixed it. His dad paid me less than what I wanted.”
“We’re not here about that,” Bridge told him.

He made a mental note to inform Smith that the plumber had thought Darren Lewis was his son. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Smith’s face.

“We’re here about Ian Swan,” DC Moore said.

“He’s off for a week,” John said.

“He’s the owner of the business, isn’t he?” Bridge said.

“That’s right.”
“It’s an odd set-up you’ve got here,” DC Moore said. “I see you also sell plumbing supplies. Doesn’t that equate to a loss of business? Surely if people can walk in off the street and buy the bits and pieces, they can do the work themselves.”

“It was Ian’s brainchild,” John said. “And it was a genius one. He started out just stocking the fittings we’d need for the jobs we did, but then he realised we could make more money if we supplied to the public. They buy the stuff and think they can fit it themselves. Would you know how to replace a faulty pressure release valve on a hot water pump?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start?” DC Moore admitted.

“Well not everyone thinks like that. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I was a plumber – it took years of training. Long story short, we make money from the sales and then we make more when we’re called out to fix the bugger ups the wannabe plumbers make. Win-win.”
     Bridge knew they were getting side-tracked.

“When was the last time you saw Ian?”

“What exactly are you doing here?” John said.

“I’m sorry to tell you that Ian was killed earlier today.” Bridge said.

“What?”
“Mr Swan is dead,” DC Moore said.

“No way. There must be some kind of mistake.”
“I’m afraid not,” Bridge said.

“What happened to him?” John said.

“We can’t discuss that,” DC Moore said. “When was the last time you saw Ian?”
“We finished a job in Foxwood yesterday,” John said. “An old hotel, together with antique plumbing. We’d been there for a week.”
“And how did he seem?” DC Moore said.

“What do you mean?”
“Did you get the sense that anything was bothering him?” Bridge said.

“He was in a great mood. The hotel job went well, and they paid up right after completion, and Ian had a week off to look forward to. He’s just bought a place in Woodthorpe, and him and his wife were excited about getting started on fixing it up.”

“Do you know if Mr Swan had any enemies?” DC Moore said.

“Of course not,” John said.

He sniffed hard and got up to blow his nose.

“Are you OK?” Bridge said.

John sat back down. “Jesus. It doesn’t feel real. I had a couple of beers with the man yesterday, and now you’re here telling me he’s dead.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt him?” Bridge said.

“You’re saying he was murdered, aren’t you?” John said. “You don’t ask these kinds of questions if someone was knocked down by a bus.”
“He was murdered, yes. I want you to think hard. It’s possible the person who did this knew about Ian’s plans. They may have been aware that he would be off work. Can you think of anybody who might know something like that?”
     John rubbed his impressive moustache and shook his head.

“I don’t know. The only people who knew he was taking a week off are the people who work for him. And his wife, obviously.”
“Who else works here?” DC Moore said.

“It’s just the four of us at the moment,” John said. “Ian gets hold of subcontractors when we can’t handle the workload, but there are only four permanent staff, including Ian.”
“We’re going to need their names and contact details,” Bridge said.

“You can’t think one of them would possibly want to kill Ian?”

“We’ll need their details,” DC Moore said. “If only to rule them out.”

“Where were you earlier today?” DC Moore asked. “Between noon and two this afternoon?”
“Why are you asking me where I was?” John said.

“Please just answer the question,” Bridge said.

The Mario Brother lookalike started to laugh, and Bridge wasn’t expecting it.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I don’t know where that came from. It’s not every day you find out your boss has been murdered and I think the shock is kicking in. I think I have the perfect alibi, don’t I?”
“You tell us,” DC Moore said.

“Ask your mate. Smith, I think he said he his name was. I was at his house, knee deep in water around that time. He’ll tell you the same.”

“Where are the other two employees?” Bridge said.

“Out on a job,” John said.

“We’ll need their details, and we’ll leave you in peace.”

John reached inside his pocket and took out a card.

He gave it to Bridge. “All of us are on there.”

Bridge took the card and thanked him for his time.

“You know I’m going to find out what happened sooner or later,” John said. “There’s nothing you can’t find on social media these days. I’ll find out how Ian was killed eventually.”
“I’m sure you will,” Bridge said and left it at that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Ian and Danielle Swan purchased some painting materials from the B&Q on Hull Road this morning at just after eleven.”
A huge map of the city had been pinned up next to the whiteboard at the back of the room. It had seen better days. The edges were torn, and half of the places on the map were difficult to make out. Smith stuck a pin on the position of the B&Q.

“The time on the credit card slip was 11:13,” he continued. “It will have taken a while to load the stuff into the boot of the car, so let’s say they drove away from the car park somewhere around 11:30.”
The nods from the people around the table told him everyone on the team agreed.

“Mr and Mrs Swan recently bought a property in Woodthorpe,” Smith said. “A fixer-upper, and according to more than one person we’ve spoken to they’d taken a week off to make a start on giving the place a lick of paint. Their logical next port of call would be the new house. They would want to take the paint straight there.”
“The most direct route from the B&Q to Woodthorpe is to jump on the A64,” Bridge said. “It skirts the city, and it would take them almost all the way there.”
“I agree,” Smith said.

He followed the route on the map with his finger.

He stopped at the turnoff to Middlethorpe. Bishopthorpe Road ran off in both directions.

“This is the only access road to Vixmead Greens, close to where the car was found. The witness from the cottages saw the vehicle at around noon.”
“Something doesn’t add up.” It was Whitton.

“You’re wondering what took them so long to get to the Middlethorpe turnoff,” Smith guessed.
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering.”
“I was driving at that time,” Smith said. “The rain came down in buckets, and I had to pull over because I couldn’t see the road up ahead. What if the Swans had to do the same?”
“Makes sense,” Bridge agreed. “How long did the downpour last?”
“No more than fifteen minutes,” Smith said. “So, let’s speculate a bit. Let’s imagine that Ian and Danielle got caught in the rain and pulled off somewhere. We know it was between Hull Road and Bishopthorpe Road, but we can’t be any more accurate than that. I can’t remember the exact time it started to piss it down.”
“It ought to be easy enough to check,” DC King said. “There are loads of cameras we can take a look at.”

DC Moore took out his phone and swiped the screen. Nobody asked him what he was doing.

“I hate to stop you when you’re on a roll,” DI Smyth said. “But we cannot be a hundred percent sure that they did actually pull over because of the rain.”
“It’s all speculation right now, boss,” Smith told him. “I just want to examine all the possible scenarios. The timeline here is a pretty short one. We can put the Swans at the B&Q on Hull Road half an hour before their car was seen heading for Vixmead Greens. That means we shouldn’t have too much trouble getting a good idea of their movements.”

“11:39,” DC Moore said out of the blue.

“Are you feeling OK?” Bridge asked him.

“That was when the rain started pelting down,” the man from London said. “11:39. It eased off a bit a few minutes later, then started again at 11:48. The skies cleared seven minutes later. I’ve got a weather app and it’s pretty accurate.”

“Right,” Smith said. “Don’t quote me on this – it’s not definite, but I reckon the Swans would be somewhere close to here when the rain started to fall.”
He circled an area of the map around the Fulford Interchange.

“We need to find out if there are any CCTV cameras around there.”
“Mapping out their movements before the attack is all well and good,” DI Smyth said. “But I can’t see how it will help. The murders took place in the middle of nowhere, over a mile away.”
“We might get lucky,” Smith said. “We still don’t know how the killer did this – he might have parked a car somewhere close by, or he might have been on foot the whole time, but it’s possible one of those cameras will have picked him up.”
“I’ll put some uniforms on it,” DI Smyth said.

“We didn’t get much from the hair salon,” Smith said. “Me and Kerry spoke to the owner, and she gave us the same old story.”
“Danielle wouldn’t hurt a fly.” DC King did the honours.

“They all say that,” Bridge said.

“She and Danielle were friends at one stage,” Smith said. “But their relationship has been on more of a professional level recently. We’ve got the details of someone Danielle was closer to. She also works at the salon but she’s off today.”
“What does she have to say?” DI Smyth said.

“We haven’t been able to get hold of her. She’s not answering her phone.”
“Keep trying. What about Ian Swan’s colleagues? Anything interesting there?”
“We spoke to a bloke called John Lincoln,” DC Moore said. “He said something similar about Ian. Good boss, and he didn’t think anyone would want to harm him.”
“The business is doing well,” Bridge said. “Ian was looking forward to his week off. It’s not a big operation – three employees plus Ian, and all of them have alibis for the time of the murders.”
“Apparently you’re the alibi for Mr Lincoln, Sarge,” DS Moore said to Smith.

“You’re kidding?” Smith said.

“I’m not. He was at one of your houses fixing the pipe Darren decided to put a hole in.”
“And you’ll never guess what he said?” Bridge said. “He thought Darren was your son.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Smith said. “I knew there was something not right about that man. He tried to rip me off too.”
“He did mention something about that.”

“Can we crack on?” It was DI Smyth.

“What did you find out from the families?” Smith said.

“Both Danielle’s and Ian’s parents were justifiably distraught,” Whitton said. “Ian’s father is dead, but his mother is still alive. She broke down five minutes in, and we weren’t able to get anything else out of her.”
“The poor woman,” DC King said.

“Danielle’s mother and father told us they hadn’t seen her for months,” DI Smyth said. “I got the impression there was some kind of family fall out, but neither of them seemed keen to elaborate.”
“Danielle’s sister was reluctant to talk about it too,” Whitton said. “And I got the feeling she wasn’t particularly upset about what happened to her sister.”
“Is it worth looking into?” DC Moore wondered.

“Of course it’s worth looking into,” Smith decided.

“There’s no need to be rude.”
“I didn’t realise I was being rude,” Smith said. “We have a dead woman with a family who are keeping secrets. What else is there to say about it?”

“We’re still waiting on the Sat Nav from the car,” DI Smyth said. “And we won’t have the results of the postmortems until tomorrow, so I say we wait and see what the CCTV cameras on the A64 have to tell us. It’s getting late and I don’t think we’re going to cover anything else today.”
“What about the appeal?” Smith said.
“The press office will be releasing a statement. We will be asking for anyone who saw the car to come forward.”
“It’s an unusual car,” DC Moore said.

“It’s an ordinary Ford Fiesta,” Bridge pointed out.

“I’m not talking about the car itself. Slug green isn’t a colour I would choose, and I don’t think it’s a popular choice.”

“Let’s hope that will work in our favour,” DI Smyth said. “That’s all folks. We’ll reconvene first thing.”

CHAPTER NINE

Smith checked in at number 18 before he went inside his own house. He opened the door and walked straight in. Whitton had told him not to do that – Lucy and Darren should be allowed some privacy, but Smith did it without thinking.

“Knock, knock,” he shouted as if to excuse his blunder.

“We’re in the kitchen,” Lucy shouted back.

She and Darren were sitting at the table with Andrew. The baby was halfway through a meal of what looked like mashed carrots and potatoes. Quite a lot of it was plastered on his face.

“Aren’t you going to give him a bit of help?” Smith asked.

He rubbed the hair on the top of Andrew’s head and bent down to take in the scent of his scalp.

“He needs to learn how to feed himself,” Lucy explained.

“He’s only a year old.”
“He’s old enough.”
“What is that shit anyway?” Smith dared to dip a finger in to have a taste.

He had to admit it didn’t taste half bad. It just needed more salt.

“It’s potatoes and turnip,” Lucy said. “It’s very good for him. And would you please stop swearing around him. It’s not big, and it’s not clever.”

“I’ll see what I can do. You seem to have cleaned up in here.”
“The carpets are still a bit wet where the spray hit the hallway,” Darren said. “But they’re old and they need replacing anyway.”
“I assume that’s going to come out of my pocket,” Smith said.

“It’s your house,” Lucy reminded him. “Can we help you with something?”
“I just popped in to say hello. Am I not allowed to do that?”

“I know we don’t pay much in rent, but we do pay something to live here, and you shouldn’t be allowed to just walk in when you feel like it.”

“I didn’t think,” Smith said. “I’ll try and make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’ll leave you be. We’ll be next door if you need us.”

He left the house without saying anything further and went next door. Whitton was talking to someone on her mobile phone in the back garden. Laura, Fran and the dogs were outside with her. It was just after seven, but it was still light and very warm. The eight-year-old girls were playing some kind of game with Theakston and Fred. The podgy Bull Terrier and the gruesome Pug were chasing the girls up and down the garden.

Smith smiled as he watched them out of the back window. He knew they still had a long way to go with Fran Rogers – the death of her mother was still fresh in her mind, but Smith was confident this was exactly the environment she needed to help her through it. Even the dogs seemed to have sensed her grief, and they treated her differently. Smith decided that if there was such a thing as reincarnation, when he returned in his next life he definitely wanted to come back as a dog.

He took a beer out of the fridge and joined the rest of the Smith clan outside. Whitton ended her call and put the phone on the table.

“My mum wants to know what we’re up to this weekend.”
“How are we supposed to answer that?” Smith said.

“She wants us to come and see her in her play.”
“What play?”

“The one she’s been rehearsing for the past three months. Her amateur dramatic club is putting on their theatre in the round performance. This year it’s Twelfth Night, and they’ll be performing it outside in Knavesmire.”
“It doesn’t sound like my kind of thing.”
“What difference does that make?” Whitton said. “She’s family and we should go and support her.”
“Has she really been practicing for three months?”
“Don’t you listen to anything I say?”
“Clearly not,” Smith said.

“They’ll have a beer tent there.”
“I suppose we should show our support then,” Smith decided. “Do you want a beer?”
“No thanks.”

Smith took out his cigarettes and lit one.

He nodded to the girls at the bottom of the garden. “Do you think she’ll come right?”
“Fran?” Whitton said. “I really don’t know. She’s hardly spoken a word to us since she came to live here.”
“She talks to Laura. And she spends a lot of time with Lucy.”

“They’re kids, Jason,” Whitton reminded him.

“They’re kids who have been through a hell of a lot. What Laura experienced in Australia is something nobody her age should ever have to go through, and if anyone knows exactly how Fran is feeling right now it’s Lucy. The dogs are a distraction too.”

This was true. Theakston and Fred were now panting side by side on the grass. The girls’ game had clearly been a bit much for them.

“Are you suggesting we tell the adoption agency that?” Whitton said. “They’re going to want to hear how Fran is progressing with us. The next time they interrogate us, do we tell them we’ve got it covered? We’re leaving it in the hands of a teenage mother, an eight-year-old and two lazy dogs.”
“I’d rephrase it slightly differently,” Smith said. “But yes, that’s what we’ll say. That little girl’s whole world has come crashing down around her, and I think we should let her gravitate to whatever can offer her the most comfort. If that happens to be Laura, Lucy, and the dogs, so be it.”

“Have you been taking child psychology classes on the sly?” Whitton asked.

“I don’t need to,” Smith told her. “I’ve got a pair of eyes in my head. What Fran needs right now is right here in these two houses. And speaking of which, I went next door earlier and I got an earful from Lucy because I went it without knocking.”
“We’ve spoken about this. You can’t just barge in when you feel like it. We’ve got a spare key for emergencies, but we have to respect their space.”
“I get that,” Smith said. “It’s just going to take some time to get used to. We’ve got a weird set-up here, haven’t we?”
“You couldn’t make it up,” Whitton said.

CHAPTER TEN

By nine that night the switchboard at the station had received the grand total of two phone calls from people who’d watched the public appeal on the local news two hours earlier. Two people out of a population of over a hundred and forty thousand remembered seeing a green car on the A64 at the time mentioned in the broadcast. PC Victoria Baldwin was tasked with the job of taking the calls and she’d been able to rule out fifty percent of the callers straight away when the person phoning in had given her his name.

Daniel Powell was what the officers who regularly manned the switchboards liked to refer to as a repeat offender. Whenever a public appeal went out Daniel was always one of the first to call in with snippets of information he believed to be relevant to the appeal. He’d been cautioned for wasting police time when his name kept cropping up, but when the officers who’d gone to see him had met him face to face, they hadn’t taken it any further than that. Daniel was in his late-eighties, and he lived alone. He wasn’t any kind of threat, and it became clear that the telephone calls to the switchboard of York Police were something he looked forward to. Everyone knew about Daniell Powell and everyone who took a call from him humoured him. They would keep it as brief as possible, thank him for his help, and move on to the next call.

That’s why when Daniel had phoned in and Baldwin had realised who it was, she’d listened to what he had to say and repeated the procedure she’d followed dozens of times before. She thanked him and told him she appreciated his call. This time, Daniel claimed he’d been in the passenger seat of his granddaughter’s car close to the Fulford Interchange when the heavens opened. He told Baldwin that he’d never seen such a deluge. His daughter turned right onto the road to Fulford but, according to Daniel, it was not before he caught a glimpse of the green car parked on the hard shoulder of the A64 up ahead. Baldwin smiled when she recalled how animated his voice became when he told her what he’d seen.

“Someone got in the back.”

“They got in the back of the car?” Baldwin said.

“They crept up, opened the back door and got in.”
“Are you sure that’s what you saw?”
“I’m nearly ninety, but there’s nowt wrong with my eyes. What are you going to do about it?”
The same thing I always do, Baldwin thought. Smile and thank you for your time.

“It was pissing it down,” Daniel hadn’t finished yet. “And he came up the embarkment and just got into the car. I know what I saw.”

The other caller remembered seeing a car matching the description of the Swan’s at roughly the same time. She’d been driving in the opposite direction to them, not far from Bramley, when the car caught her eye because of its ghastly colour. She told Baldwin that’s the only reason she remembered it.

Two hours had passed since the appeal was broadcast and that was the extent of the response. A repeat offender and a woman who thought the colour of the car was ghastly. As public appeals went, it wasn’t one of their most successful ones.

“Any luck?” PC Simon Miller asked when he arrived to relieve Baldwin at ten.

“Not a sausage,” she told him. “All we’ve had is a call from Daniel Powell and a woman who remembered seeing a ghastly coloured car.”

* * *

Tracy Richards didn’t think her car was a ghastly colour. In fact, it was the colour that had captured her attention first when she saw it on the online advert.

Green Envy.

That’s what the advertiser had called it, and Tracy decided then and there that she had to own that vehicle. She emailed the seller immediately and bought the car without even viewing it.

That was five years ago, and the Ford Fiesta SE looked as good today as it did back then. Tracy had it cleaned once a month, and her phone was full of photographs of very little else.

She got inside the car and noticed that the full moon was reflected beautifully in the paintwork of the bonnet. This was a photo opportunity too good to pass up. Tracy got out again and took out her phone. She opened her camera and took a few steps back until she thought she had the optimal shot. It would have been even better if she was allowed to take the photo from a bit further back but a parked 4x4 was preventing her from doing that. She tried from the side of the Landrover but the angle was now all wrong.

Tracy looked up and down the street. It was almost ten on a Monday night and there wasn’t a soul around. She tried to get further back from her beloved Green Envy but the Landrover was still in the way. She looked the offensive off-road vehicle up and down and wondered if it was alarmed. She put the phone in her jacket pocket with the camera still switched on and stepped up onto the tow bar on the front of the Landrover.

Nothing happened. There was no blazing alarm and no flashing lights. Tracy became bolder. She eased herself up onto the bonnet of the 4x4 and moved back until she thought she was in the position to take the best photograph of the moon on her car.

Now it was perfect. The glow of the full moon was smack bang in the middle of the bonnet and Tracy snapped away, taking photo after photo. The best of these would be posted to her social media when she got back from the nightclub. She was already counting the likes she was going to get. She slid back down the bonnet, and the air was filled with an ungodly wail. The Landrover had an alarm after all.

Tracy quickly got into her car and started the engine. She could feel her heartbeat thumping in her ears, but she was smiling. The photographs she’d taken were worth the effort. She engaged first gear and pulled away from the kerb, oblivious to the passenger she was carrying in the back of the car.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“We’ve got the data from the Sat Nav that was in Ian and Danielle’s car,” DI Smyth began the briefing the next morning. “And I have to say that you were pretty damn close to the mark yesterday, Smith.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks, boss.”
Smith didn’t feel smug at all – the timeline was so brief that it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

“The Swans pulled away from the car park at the B&Q on Hull Road at just before 11:30,” DI Smyth said. “They picked up the A64 and stopped the car just past the Fulford Interchange. They were parked for ten minutes or so, then they carried on until they reached Bishopthorpe Road. They turned right and took the first right after that.”
“How does that help us though?” DC Moore asked.

“I’m coming to that,” DI Smyth told him. “I don’t know how long the Swans have lived in York, but it appears they weren’t too familiar with the roads. The GPS was programmed when they were in the car park at the B&Q. The address they keyed in was the house in Woodthorpe.”
“They were planning on heading straight there,” Smith said.

“Correct. And if that’s the case, how did they end up by Vixmead Greens?”
“Someone forced them to drive there,” Smith said. “It’s the only explanation. They wouldn’t have programmed the Sat Nav if they were planning on taking a detour. The bastard was already in the car with them.”
“But how did he get inside the vehicle?” DC King wondered.

“Perhaps they stopped to give someone a lift,” DC Moore suggested.

“We’ll never know,” DI Smyth said. “But what we do know is somehow the killer managed to gain access to the car, he forced them to drive to Vixmead Greens and then he killed them. I want to know why he did this. There is something in the life of Ian and Danielle Swan that will give us some answers, and we’ll focus on that. Why did someone want them dead?”

“I reckon Danielle’s sister is a good place to start,” Smith said.

“I agree,” Whitton said. “She was definitely holding something back when we spoke to her yesterday. I don’t care how deep a rift in a family runs, when a sister is murdered you feel it. Rachel Hogan displayed no emotion when we gave her the news, and that strikes me as suspicious.”
“Either she’s an extremely cold-hearted individual,” Smith said. “Or she already knew Danielle was dead.”

“Rachel Hogan is our first port of call after the briefing,” DI Smyth said. “We have the results of the post-mortems and it makes for disturbing reading. Both Ian and Danielle suffered severe trauma to their faces and heads. I won’t go into details, but Dr Bean concluded that their heads were repeatedly bashed together. Grant Webber pulled samples of hair from at least two different people from the front seats, and this leads us to believe the person who carried out the attack was sitting in the back seat at the time. He took hold of their hair and smacked their heads together over and over. Considering that they were alive at the time of the attack, we can conclude that the killer possesses immense strength. This wasn’t an easy way to kill someone. There was a damp patch on the passenger seat.”

“It was urine,” Smith said. “I could smell it.”
“Danielle Swan must have been terrified,” DC King said. “Who knows what was going through her mind.”

Nobody said a word. Everyone in the small conference room seemed to be taking a moment to process this.

“I don’t get it.”
Smith was the first to find his voice.

“What are you thinking?” DI Smyth said.

“If we’re assuming the killer forced them to drive to Vixmead Greens,” Smith said. “We can also assume he was in possession of something that made them do exactly as he said – a gun or a knife perhaps. Why kill them like that? I’ve never seen someone murdered in that way. Why not just shoot them or stab them? Killing someone by smashing their head against someone else’s isn’t a guaranteed way to end someone’s life.”
“He might have been high on drugs,” DC Moore suggested. “When I was down in London we were called out to an altercation outside a nightclub. This bloke was zonked out of his brain on some new super drug, and he’d gone mental with the bouncers there. He wasn’t a particularly big bloke, but the strength he displayed was amazing. He put two of the bouncers in hospital, and it took four of us to restrain him.”
“It’s possible,” DI Smyth agreed. “There have been instances where certain narcotics can induce extreme violence.”
“This strikes me as a well-planned murder,” Smith said. “Double murder. I don’t think someone off their trolley on drugs would be able to pull off something like this.”

“Did we get anything useful from the public appeal?” Bridge asked.

“Very little,” DI Smyth said. “A woman remembered seeing a green car at the right time, but she couldn’t tell us anything more than that. And one of our regular callers rang in claiming to have seen someone getting into the back of a green car on the other side of the A64 from the Fulford Interchange. The man has cried wolf so many times before he’s on first-name terms with everyone who works on the switchboard.”
“The boy who cried wolf told the truth in the end, boss,” Smith said.

“Are you saying he did see someone getting into the car?” DC Moore said.

“I think he did. Who is he?”
“His name is Daniel Powell,” DI Smyth said. “And he’s eighty-odd years old. The man has responded to every appeal we’ve ever put out, and none of the information he’s given us has ever been reliable.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Smith argued. “We need to take him seriously this time.”
“Very well. I’ll go and speak to him myself. You can come with me, Whitton. Bridge, I want you and Harry to track down the co-worker of Danielle’s from the salon.”
“Her name is Georgia Clooney,” Smith said. “I have her details. I guess that leaves the evil sister.”
“You’ve guessed correctly. I want you and Kerry to see if you can get to the bottom of the family fall-out.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rachel Hogan was a short woman with pale blue eyes. She didn’t try to hide her displeasure when Smith explained the nature of the visit. She informed him and DC King that she had an appointment with the dentist in an hour, and she asked them to make it quick. Smith told her she might have to cancel the appointment – he had no idea how long this was going to take.

“I won’t offer you something to drink,” Rachel said.

They were sitting in the living room of her two-bedroomed terrace house in Heslington.

“I didn’t expect you to,” Smith said. “I’m very sorry about your sister.”
Rachel shrugged her shoulders.

“Were you and Danielle close?” DC King asked.

“Once upon a time.”
“What happened?” Smith said. “Did you have a falling out?”
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“I’m curious, that’s all. You’re a year younger than Danielle, aren’t you?”
“Why do you ask if you already know?”

“When was the last time you saw your sister?” Smith said.

“I can’t remember,” Rachel replied.

“Can you think harder please? I know it probably seems like we’re inconveniencing you right now, but we’re investigating a double murder, and sometimes we have to ask strange questions. Can we start again? When was the last time you saw Danielle?”
“A few months ago,” Rachel said.

“Did you have a fight?” DC King said.

“You could say that.”
“What happened? What was the fight about?”
“Family stuff,” Rachel said. “Private family stuff. It has nothing to do with Danielle getting killed.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Smith said. “What was the fight about?”
“I don’t have to talk to you, do I?” Rachel said.

“No,” Smith confirmed. “You don’t, but I’d prefer it if you did. We’re in the early stages of a double murder investigation and we have a lot to get through. I could really do without the headache of a formal interview at the station. We’ll need to get lawyers involved and it’s a time-consuming process. It’s up to you though, and you will definitely have to reschedule your dentist’s appointment. It’s nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just a checkup. You want to know why Danielle and I stopped talking to one another?”
“I really do,” Smith said.

“I caught her in bed with my boyfriend,” Rachel said. “That’s why. I came home and found my sister fucking my boyfriend’s brains out. Are you happy now?”
Smith wasn’t, and he really wasn’t expecting this.

“Did Danielle’s husband know about what happened?” DC King said.

Rachel started to laugh. “Ian? Good old Ian? He thought the sun shone out of her arse. I told him about it, she denied it and he believed her. We used to be close, me and Ian, but that fucking sister of mine poisoned his mind against me. She said I’d made it up because I was jealous and he bought it, hook, line and sinker. Mum and Dad believed me at least. They know what she’s like.”
“Is that why your parents hadn’t spoken to Danielle for a while?” Smith said.

“It is.”

“We’re going to need the details of your ex-boyfriend,” Smith said. “I assume he is an ex-boyfriend now.”
“What do you think?” Rachel said. “I don’t have his details.”
“You must have a phone number,” DC King said.

“A name will do,” Smith said.

“Gordon,” Rachel said. “Gordon Green. I’m going to be late for the dentist.”

“When my colleagues spoke to you yesterday,” Smith said. “You didn’t seem very concerned about your sister’s murder. I find it hard to accept that it was because of the thing with your ex. She’s still your sister.”
“She was dead to me when she betrayed me,” Rachel said. “You do not do that.”
“I appreciate your anger towards her, but she was murdered. She was killed in an extremely horrible way. Don’t you feel anything about that?”
“I won’t miss her. If that’s what you’re getting at.”
     Smith was starting to feel a bit ill. He’d spoken to more relatives of murder victims than he could remember, but he’d never encountered a reaction like Rachel Hogan’s before.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Danielle and Ian?” he asked.

Rachel shook her head. “Not off hand.”
“Do you know if either of them had rubbed anyone up the wrong way recently? The way in which they were killed suggests a lot of hatred. Did they owe money to anyone?”
“How should I know?” Rachel said. “I haven’t had anything to do with them for months.”
“Do you think your parents might know more?” DC King said.

“You leave them alone. They’ve just lost a child, and they don’t need to be bothered by the police.”
“We need answers, Rachel,” Smith said. “And we will seek out those answers wherever we think we might find them. Your reaction to the death of your sister makes me suspicious. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No, there isn’t. Danielle and Ian are dead, and that’s all there is to it.”

“There might still be time for you to make that dentist’s appointment,” Smith said. “Depending on how you answer the next question.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you have any idea about who could have done this to Danielle and Ian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Rachel said. “I really have no idea who could have done it. Are you still going to speak to Mum and Dad?”

Smith didn’t answer her.

“We might need to talk to you again,” he said instead. “Good luck with the checkup.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Daniel Powell looked like a man who’d won the lottery. DI Smyth had shown him his ID and explained the nature of his and Whitton’s visit, and Daniel had invited them inside and put the kettle on. He was in his late eighties but he looked much younger. Whitton reckoned that if she saw him on the street, she would guess his age to be around seventy.

“Mr Powell,” DI Smyth said. “I understand you make quite a habit of calling in with information about crime in the city.”

“I get confused sometimes,” Daniel said. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Last month you called in about a woman we were looking for,” Whitton said. “We appealed to the public to find the woman and you claimed to have seen her on your doorstep begging for money.”
“I was wrong,” Daniel said. “I must have dreamt about her or something.”

“We’re not here to talk about the calls you’ve made in the past,” DI Smyth said. “Yesterday evening an appeal went out concerning a green car. You phoned in, claiming to have seen it. You also told the officer on the switchboard that you saw someone getting into the back of the car. Is this correct?”
“Drink your tea,” Daniel said. “You’ve hardly touched it.”
DI Smyth glanced at the mystery liquid in the cup. It looked like dirty dishwater.

“I’m afraid I have an intolerance where tea is concerned,” he lied.

“You should have said something. I can make some coffee.”
“There’s no need.”

“Can you tell us about what you think you saw yesterday,” Whitton said.

“I didn’t think I saw it,” Daniel said. “I did see it.”
“Would you talk us through it?” DI Smyth said.

“I was in the back of my granddaughter’s car. She and her bloke were in the front, and we were on our way home from shopping. Our Tanya always takes me shopping on a Monday. The rain came out of nowhere. One minute the sun was out, and then it started to piss it down. Buckets of the stuff. Tanya had to slow right down, and we were just approaching the Fulford Interchange when I saw the car.”
“You said it was a green car,” Whitton said.

“Snot green if you ask me. Not my choice of colour for a car.”
“Where was this vehicle?” DI Smyth said.

“Across from the interchange. It was stopped on the hard shoulder. I suggested to Tanya that she do the same. You could hardly see out of the windows because of the rain, but she reckoned she was fine.”

“You told the officer on the switchboard that you saw someone getting into the back of the car,” Whitton said.
“Too bloody right I did,” Daniel confirmed. “I had to look twice - I couldn’t believe what the cheeky bastard was doing. He looked like he’d done it before.”
“Could you explain what you mean by that,” DI Smyth said.

“He did it all sneaky, like. Crept up and crouched down. He was inside in a flash with the door closed behind him.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Whitton said.

“Not really. It was cats and dogs and the windows in our Tanya’s car kept steaming up.”
“But you still managed to see a man getting into a car across the other side of the interchange?” DI Smyth said.

“I know what I saw.”
“What about his build?” Whitton said. “And height.”
“He wasn’t that tall,” Daniel said. “Probably a bit taller than you.”
He nodded to DI Smyth.

“But he looked quite well built,” Daniel added. “Stocky, like.”

“We’re going to need you to make a statement,” DI Smyth said. “Would that be alright?”
“Too bloody right it will be,” Daniel said. “When do you need me to come in?”
“I’ll arrange for someone to come and do it here.”

“That would be great. I’ll make sure I offer them coffee instead of tea. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as tea intolerance, but you learn something new every day, don’t you?”

* * *

Bridge and DC Moore had just finished talking to Georgia Clooney at Short Cutz and they were on their way back to the station. Bridge had given Smith a call to let him know how it went. Georgia hadn’t been able to give them anything – she was shocked about Danielle Swan’s murder, but she couldn’t think of any reason why someone would want to kill her and her husband. Smith wasn’t sure where to look next. He asked DC King to find out if the man who cried wolf had been telling the truth this time.

A short phone call later and it was confirmed. Daniel Powell was convinced he saw someone getting into the back of the green Fiesta and Whitton got the impression he was telling the truth.

“You were right, Sarge,” DC King said. “You were sure he was in the car with them.”
“I don’t take any satisfaction in being right, Kerry,” Smith said. “The old bloke didn’t get a decent look at the killer, so it doesn’t really help us. How did he do it?”
“How did he do what?”
“How did he know they would be there? If it hadn’t been pelting down with rain, they would have had no reason to stop. Daniel said he snuck up the embankment and climbed in the back of the car. That part doesn’t make sense.”

He was prevented by pondering on this further when his phone started to ring. It was DI Smyth.

Smith activated the hands-free. “Boss.”
“Where are you?” DI Smyth said.

“Halfway back to the station. We’ve just passed Rowntree Park.”
“A woman has been found beaten to death in her car.”
“Where is the car?” Smith asked.

“Not far from where you are now,” DI Smyth said. “It’s in the car park of the Aldi on Fulford Road.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad,” DI Smyth said. “It looks like we’re dealing with a psychopath. I think it’s the same man who killed Mr and Mrs Swan.”
“We’re on our way.”

“How can he be so sure it’s the same killer?” DC King said.

“She was beaten to death in her car, Kerry,” Smith said. “Odds are it’s the same man.”
He turned onto Fulford Road and carried on until he saw the sign for the Aldi. The car park was already a hive of activity. Three police cars and an ambulance were parked there, as was Grant Webber’s vehicle. A team of uniforms were busy taping off the area around what Smith assumed was the car. The police cars were blocking his view of it.

He parked as close as he could to the police cars and he and DC King got out. They made their way over to the outer cordon and Smith stopped dead. He could see the car now.

“We’ve just wasted a day getting to know everything we can about Ian and Danielle Swan, Kerry,” he told DC King. “This changes things.”

“What makes you say that, Sarge?”
“Look at the car.”
DC King did. “No way…”

“That is not a coincidence,” Smith said.

Not only was the car within the inner cordon the same make and model as the vehicle Ian and Danielle Swan were killed in – it was exactly the same colour. Smith would soon come to learn that the ghastly shade of green was what was known as Green Envy.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“It has to be a coincidence.”
DC Moore was looking at the screen of his phone in the small conference room.

“Well?” Smith pressed him.

“It’s called Green Envy,” DC Moore said. “And according to the Ford website it’s the least popular colour of all.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bridge said. “Who wants to drive around in a car that resembles a sea slug?”

“I still don’t think the colour of the car is relevant,” DC Moore insisted. “How can it be?”

The woman found in the car at the Aldi store had been identified as Tracy Richards. The photograph on her driving license bore no resemblance to the mutilated woman in the driver’s seat. Tracy’s face had been obliterated. There was very little left of it. Grant Webber had seen his fair share of murder victims over the years but even the seasoned Head of Forensics had been sickened by the violence on display. Pete Richards was also an experienced forensics officer, but Webber’s assistant had vomited in the car park next to the vehicle when he saw what had been done to the woman. Webber didn’t chastise him for it.

“If it is a coincidence,” DI Smyth said. “It is a massive one. Do we know how many of those cars are in the city?”

“It’ll be easy to check, sir,” DC King said. “But there can’t be many. I don’t remember ever seeing any.”
“How can it possibly be important?” It was Bridge. “Are we saying there’s a nutjob out there killing people because he doesn’t like the colour of their cars?”
“I don’t know why it’s important,” Smith said. “But it is. What do we know about the victim?”
“Tracy Richards,” DI Smyth said. “Very little. According to her driving license she was twenty-four, and that’s about all we’ve got so far. She didn’t have a Sat Nav in the car, so we won’t be able to check her movements that way.”
“Does the car park at the Aldi have CCTV?” Whitton asked.

“It does,” DI Smyth confirmed. “But there are blind spots, and Tracy’s car happened to be parked in one of those blind spots.”
“He knew about the cameras,” Smith decided. “I think he got into her car and forced her to drive to that specific location. She will have been killed when there was nobody around.”
“It’s looking that way,” DI Smyth said. “According to one of the employees at the Aldi, the car was parked there when she arrived for work this morning. It could have been there all night. Our first task is to track her movements last night. What was she doing out so late on a Monday night?”
     The door opened, and Baldwin came inside the small conference room.

“We’ve managed to track down Tracy Richards’ parents. PC Miller and PC Griffin have gone to speak to them.”
“We need to talk to them too,” Smith said. “They might be able to give us some names. Friends and work colleagues of Tracy’s.”
“I heard it was a nasty one,” Baldwin said.

“That’s an understatement,” DC King told her.

“Take a seat,” DI Smyth said to Baldwin. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have our work cut out with this one and we need all the help we can get.”

Baldwin sat down next to Whitton.

“We’ll come back to Tracy Richards,” DI Smyth said. “Talk to me about Mr and Mrs Swan.”
“Danielle’s sister is probably the most cold-hearted woman I’ve ever met,” Smith said. “And I’ve met quite a few. She’s not in the least bit distraught about her sister’s murder. We managed to get the reason for the rift in the family out of her. Rachel found Danielle in bed with her boyfriend.”
“Bloody hell,” Bridge said.

“Apparently Rachel told Ian about it,” Smith carried on. “But Danielle denied it and Ian believed her. Neither Ian nor Danielle had talked to Rachel since. That was three months ago. The parents took Rachel’s side, and I got the impression that this isn’t the first time Danielle had strayed.”
“What makes you think that?” DC Moore asked.

“Because of the parents’ reaction. Why would they be so quick to take Rachel’s side unless Danielle had a history of infidelity? We got the name of Rachel’s ex, and I’ll be tracking him down today.”

“Danielle’s co-worker didn’t give us much,” Bridge said. “As far as she was aware Danielle didn’t have any enemies. They weren’t having money problems, and things were looking up for them. Ian had come into some money, and they bought the place in Woodthorpe cash.”
“His plumbing business was doing well too,” Smith said. “This isn’t about money.”

“The witness who phoned in is convinced he saw a man getting into the back of the Swan’s car yesterday,” DI Smyth said. “Unfortunately, he didn’t get a good look at the man. All he could tell us was he was of average height, and he was stockily built.”
“That part is bothering me, boss,” Smith said.

“I’d be alarmed if something didn’t bother you,” DI Smyth said. “What’s on your mind?”
“How did he know? How did he know they would park the car on the hard shoulder? If it hadn’t been for the rain, they would have driven straight to Woodthorpe and they would probably still be alive.”

“Perhaps he happened to be in the area,” Bridge said. “He spotted the car and took the opportunity presented to him.”
“No,” Smith argued. “There is nothing opportunistic about this one. He planned to make them drive to Vixmead Greens, just like he planned to force Tracy Richards to park at the Aldi store. But how did he know they would stop the car like that?”

“There has to be a connection between the victims,” Whitton said.

“They owned snot-green-coloured cars,” Bridge said.

“There has to be something else that links them together,” DC Moore said.

“And we’ll be looking for that link,” DI Smyth said. “Harry, I want you to find out how many of those particular-coloured Ford Fiestas have been sold in the past few years.”
“Will do, sir,” DC Moore said.

“Smith, you and Kerry can speak to Rachel Hogan’s ex-boyfriend. Bridge, I want you to come with me to Tracy Richards’ parents’ house. And Whitton, you and Baldwin can make a start with Tracy’s friends. Find out why she was out so late last night.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Smith sensed that Gordon Green was expecting a visit from the police. He and DC King had no sooner showed him their IDs when they were invited in and asked whether they wanted something do drink. Gordon was a stocky man in his thirties. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he needed to get some sleep. A dog was barking incessantly in the back garden.

Smith declined the offer of a drink. “Did you know we would be coming to speak to you?”
“I heard what happened to Danielle and Ian,” Gordon said. “You’d be derelict in your duty if you didn’t track me down. I didn’t expect you so soon though.”
“You seem to know a lot about how the police operate,” DC King commented.

The barking continued. It was a constant, yip-yip bark and Smith deduced it was a small dog.
“Is that your dog making all that noise?” he asked.

“That’s Newt,” Gordon said. “He’s a Jack Russell, and he gets a bit over excited when I have people round.”
“Newt?” DC King said.
“It’s a long story.”

“We were talking about you knowing a bit about police procedure,” Smith said.

Gordon smiled. “I ought to – I’ve been in the job for ten years.”
This was news to Smith. He’d never come across Gordon Green before.

“I work in Tadcaster,” Gordon explained. “I’m a PC there. It’s nowhere near as exciting as your job, but I like the peace and quiet. I can tell you I was gobsmacked when I heard what happened. Are you working on any leads?”
“It’s still early days,” Smith said. “You were in a relationship with Danielle’s sister, Rachel, is that correct?”
“I screwed up there,” Gordon said. “I know I screwed up. It was one drunken mistake, and I’ve regretted it ever since.”
“You’re referring to the thing with Danielle,” Smith said.

“We should have known better. I was having some problems with Rachel, and Danielle was a good listener. We got chatting, had a few drinks and one thing led to another. I didn’t know that Rachel suspected something was up between me and Danielle. It only happened the once, but I later learned that she had history. If I’d known that I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near her.”
“You don’t need to go into the details,” Smith said. “How long were you and Rachel together?”
“About a year.”
“And you got to know her family well in that time?” DC King said.

“I suppose so. Her parents were a bit weird.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Standoffish,” Gordon said. “It was hard to start up a conversation with them. In hindsight it’s clear that they were only like that when Danielle was around.”

“Were you and Danielle close then?” Smith said. “Apart from the time when Rachel caught you with her, I mean.”
“I suppose you could say we were,” Gordon said. “She was a laugh.”
“Did you know her husband well?” DC King said.

“Not really. He was a quiet bloke, and it was obvious who the boss in the relationship was.”
“I presume you’re referring to Danielle?” Smith said.

“She ran rings around him.”

“Danielle lied to him about her affair with you,” Smith said. “Is that correct?”
Gordon yawned. “Sorry. Late night. It was hardly an affair. It was one time. But yes, Ian thought Rachel was making it up when she told him.”
“And you were fine with that?” DC King said.

“What difference would it have made?” Gordon said. “It was one mistake – it never happened again, and what would be the point of wrecking a marriage because of it?”

Smith decided on a change of tack. “Do you know a woman by the name of Tracy Richards?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Gordon said.

“Are you sure?” DC King said.

“I might still be a lowly PC after a decade in the job, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You said you had a late night,” Smith said. “Were you working night shift?”
“That’s one of the things I like about Tadcaster,” Gordon said. “No night shifts. No, I went to a club.”
“On a Monday night?”

“You know what it’s like.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Smith said.

“I don’t work nights, but I do have to do the occasional weekend shift. I clocked off on Sunday at five, and I’m not due back at work until tomorrow. Sometimes Mondays and Tuesdays are my weekends.”

“Which night club are you referring to?” DC King asked.

“Sparks,” Gordon said. “It was pretty dead. It gets a bit livelier during the university term.”
“What time did you go to the club?” Smith said.

“I got there about eleven,” Gordon said. “And I left after a few hours. I must have got back home at around half-two.”
“Did you go out on your own?” DC King said.
“That’s right.”
“You went to a club on your own?” Smith said.

“It’s not a crime, is it?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“I usually bump into someone I know there,” Gordon said.

“So, someone will be able to confirm that you were there last night.”
“No,” Gordon said. “There was nobody that I knew at the club last night.”
“But you still stayed for three hours?” DC King said.

“What is this? Am I being accused of something?”
“Not right now,” Smith decided. “Is there anybody at the club who can corroborate your story? A barman or someone working on the door perhaps?”

“Probably. Don’t you believe me?”
“You know how it goes. Where were you yesterday? Around noon?”
“I was here.”
“Were you alone?” DC King said.

“I live alone. What’s going on?”
“We can’t discuss that,” Smith said.

“What about a bit of professional courtesy? Is that too much to ask?”
“It is. Do you have any suspicions about who might have wanted to kill Danielle and Ian?”
“What?”
“Can you think of anyone who disliked them enough to want them dead?” Smith said.

“Of course not.”
“I think we’ve covered everything for now,” Smith said and got to his feet. “Sparks, you say?”
“Excuse me?” Gordon said.

“The nightclub you went to last night,” DC King elaborated. “You said it’s called Sparks.”
“That’s right. It’s on University Road.”
“Thank you for your time,” Smith said. “Get some rest.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

John Newton said this in jest. The man he’d picked up on the A19 at Deighton was a good few inches shorter than he was. He had a muscular build, but John reckoned it was all gym muscle. He could probably bench press an impressive weight but get him in the ring and he’d be ancient history in no time. John was a champion kickboxer, and he trained three times a week. The man looked harmless enough. Most of his face was hidden by the buff that covered his nose and mouth, but his eyes looked friendly. Facemasks were commonplace and, even though the regulations governing the wearing of them had been lifted, some people still wore them. The oversized headphones he was wearing weren’t something you saw every day though.

“Where you heading?”

The man didn’t reply.

“I’m only going as far as Selby,” John added. “That any good for you? Can you hear me?”
This man slid the headphones down from his ears and nodded.

John gave up. He wasn’t in the mood for a one-way conversation. A song he liked came on the radio and he turned up the volume. It was a tune from a few years ago.

“I haven’t heard this in a while.”

The hitchhiker had found his voice.

“Their new stuff is shite,” John said. “Do you have a name?”
“Of course. Have you ever been to Tadcaster?”
“What?”
“Tadcaster. Have you ever driven around there?”
“Once or twice,” John said.

The man in the passenger seat remained quiet. The song was about to end, and the news would be on next.

“Do you use your vehicle mostly for work, or do you drive extensively?”
“What are you going on about?” John said.

He was tempted to stop the car and tell the man to get out. Something about him was bothering him. It was a creepy feeling he’d experienced before. That was when he’d been sure he was being followed late one night. His gut instincts had been right that night – he was set upon by four men. He put three of them in hospital. The other man had fled the scene.

“Do you know the stretch of the A64 between Colton Haggs Farm and the Travelodge?”

“I think this is the end of the line for you, mate,” John said and slowed down.

They were now passing the Skipworth Common Nature Reserve. John pulled over to the side of the road. A car drove past on the opposite side and kept on going.

“Keep driving. There’s a turnoff half a mile up the road. Take it and drive for another three hundred metres.”
“Out you get,” John said.

“Do you make a habit of picking up hitchhikers?”

“I’ve given my fair share of lifts to them in the past,” John said. “But after you, I might have to reconsider picking up any more in the future. Get out of the car.”

“Do you know what this is?”

The barrel of the gun was pointing right at John’s face.

“What the fuck?”
“This is a Ruger Single Seven .327 Federal. Pound for pound, this girl is one of the most powerful handguns ever produced. One squeeze and you will no longer have a head. Take the next left.”

“Is this some kind of windup?”

“No. Take the next left.”
     John engaged first gear and pulled away from the side of the road. He drove slowly – his hands were shaking, and his heart was beating hard in his chest.

“Is that a dash cam?”

John glanced at the camera on the dashboard. “It lowers my insurance premiums. This is a joke, right? Was it one of the blokes at the kickboxing club who put you up to it?”
“Turn here.”
John did as he was told. The gravel on the road crunched under his tyres as he went.

“Pull off over there. Next to that bunch of trees.”
     John stopped the car and braced himself for an attack.

“What do you want?” he asked. “I’ve got about fifty quid in my wallet.”

“Did you ever pick up a hitchhiker on the stretch of road between Colton Haggs Farm and the Travelodge?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said.

He was starting to sweat.

“But you have picked up hitchhikers before?”
“I already told you I have. Just take the money and go. Please.”

The hand holding the gun moved so quickly John didn’t have time to stop it. The barrel of the gun was now placed against his stomach. He wasn’t aware that the man had replaced the headphones.

It was the explosion of sound that he registered first. The deafening blast of the gunshot resulted in a delay of a few seconds before he was aware of an intense burning sensation in his stomach. The ringing in his ears was soon overridden by a sense of immense pain. John tried to get a look at the damage, but his brain wasn’t playing ball. It was difficult to move his head. His spinal cord had been severed at the base when the bullet made its way out of his back, and he was instantly paralysed. If he survived this, he was destined to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. His kickboxing days were definitely over.

John couldn’t see what was happening in the passenger seat next to him, but he was vaguely aware of movement in his peripheral vision. If he was able to watch, he would realise that his hitchhiker was disconnecting the dash cam and putting it in his pocket. What he thought were normal headphones were actually ear defenders, and these were removed too. The door was opened and slammed, and John Newton was alone in the car again. There was no burning sensation now because John had lost all feeling in most of the nerve endings in his body.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Grant Webber had informed DI Smyth that he had a few things to discuss with the team and DI Smyth had scheduled a briefing on the spot. When the Head of Forensics spoke in this way it meant he’d found something important.

He got straight to the point. “We found these on the undercarriages of the cars.”
He pointed to the two plastic evidence bags on the table. Inside them were two identical disc shaped objects. Webber held one up for the team to get a better look. The discs were roughly four centimetres in diameter and they were grey and black in colour. An apple with a bite taken out of it was displayed on the face of the disc.

“These are Apple Air Tags,” Webber said.

“Tracking devices,” DC Moore said.

“Correct. They were taped underneath the cars.”
“How do these things work?” DI Smyth said.

“Via an app,” Webber said. “You can connect it to your iPad or iPhone and use the Find My app.”
“That’s how he did it,” Smith decided. “That’s how he knew where the vehicles were – he’s been tracking them. Can we trace them back to the source?”
“Unfortunately, not,” Webber said. “All communication with the Find My network is anonymous and encrypted, and the location data and history are never stored on the devices themselves.”
“The only way to find out who put them there would be to locate the owner of the phone the info was being sent to,” DC Moore said. “They’re designed with security in mind. You don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry knowing where your car is at all times.”

“Are they designed exclusively for vehicles?” Smith wondered.

“You can stick them to anything,” DC Moore said. “But I think most people use them to keep an eye on their cars. I could be mistaken.”

“They’re pretty big though,” Bridge said. “Any decent car thief would find one straight away and get rid of it.”

“Not if they’re taped to the undercarriage,” DC Moore argued.
“We’re getting off track,” DI Smyth said. “Did you find any prints on them?”

Webber shook his head. “Nothing.”
“How does it help us then?” DC Moore asked.

“It tells us the murders are definitely connected, Harry,” Smith said. “And it tells us this killer has an agenda. He’s planned this carefully, and there will definitely be something that links the victims together.”

“We found unusual hairs on the back seat of the first victims’ car,” Webber continued. “White hairs that definitely came from a dog. A shorthaired dog to be more precise.”
“Do we know if the Swans had a dog?” DC King said.

A quick phone call confirmed that they didn’t.

“Where did they come from?” DI Smyth said. “Why were there dog hairs in the back of the car?”
“It’s looking likely the person who killed them was sitting in the back when he carried out the murders,” Webber said. “It’s possible the hairs were transferred from him.”
“Gordon Green has a dog,” Smith remembered. “A Jack Russell called Newt.”
“Jackies are shorthaired dogs,” DC King said.

“And Mr Green matches the description of the man seen getting into Ian and Danielle’s car,” Smith added. “Not only that, he has no alibi for either of the murders.”
“And he has motive,” DC Moore pointed out.
“Does he?” Smith said.

“He was shagging Danielle Swan.”

“Eloquently put, Harry.” It was Whitton.
“That’s not even close to a motive,” Smith pointed out. “Why would he kill Danielle and Ian? Danielle denied the affair, and Ian believed her. Gordon was happy to leave it at that. There’s no motive there. And where is his motivation to kill Tracy Richards?”
“He denied knowing her,” DC King said. “But he could have been lying.”
“Gordon Green is definitely a person of interest,” DI Smyth decided. “What do we know about the man?”
“He’s in the job,” Smith said. “He’s been a PC in Tadcaster for ten years. He lives alone here in York. Me and Kerry had just finished speaking to him when you phoned about the briefing.”
“You said he has no alibi for the murders of the Swans, nor Tracy Richards’ killing?”
“The curse of the single man,” Smith said.

“Excuse me?”
“It’s a well-known fact, boss. Men who live on their own are discriminated against in police investigations for the simple fact that they’re more unlikely to be able to provide an alibi in the event of a crime.”

“How is that relevant here?” Whitton asked.

“It’s not,” Smith told her. “I’m just stating a fact.”

“OK,” DI Smyth said. “Now you’ve got that out of your system, what impression did you get of Mr Green, or should we call him PC Green?”
“We’ll refer to him as Mr Green here,” Smith said. “I got the feeling that he’s a bit of a lone wolf.”
“Another loner,” DC Moore said. “Great.”

“We won’t go there, Harry,” DI Smyth said.

“He’s comfortable in his own company,” Smith said. “He went to a nightclub on his own last night, and he stayed there for three hours even though there was nobody there he knew.”
“He went to a club on a Monday night?” Bridge said.

“He sometimes works weekends,” DC King explained.

“The club is called Sparks,” Smith said. “And it opens on Mondays.”

“I know it,” Bridge said. “It’s on University Road. It’s a popular student venue.”
“Mr Green said it was quiet last night,” Smith said. “I suppose it would be without the university students. It needs checking out. Gordon claimed that none of his friends were there but, if he’s a regular there, one of the members of staff should be able to confirm if he’s telling the truth.”

“Let’s recap,” DI Smyth said. “Taking what we know about Gordon Green into consideration. He was in a relationship with Danielle Swan.”
“It was a one off,” Smith said. “It wasn’t a relationship.”
“It’s a connection,” DI Smyth argued.

He noted this on the whiteboard and added the number 1 next to it.

“Number 2,” he carried on. “He has no alibi for the time of the murders of Mrs Swan and her husband. Three – he matches the description of the man seen getting into the car with the Swans.”
“He has a shorthaired dog,” DC Moore said.

DI Smyth wrote this on the board and wrote the number 4 next to it.

“And if nobody at the nightclub can back up his claim about being there last night, we’re up to number 5.”
“That’s more than enough to bring him in,” Bridge said.

“It is,” DI Smyth agreed.

“If he is the killer,” Whitton said. “We can assume he’ll have a Find My app on his phone linked up to the air tags forensics found. We connect that to him – we’ve got him.”
“Hold off on bringing him in for now,” Smith said. “Let’s see what we get from the nightclub. If someone can put him there last night, we need to look closely at the timeline involved. Until we know for certain when Tracy Richards was killed, the time he spent at Sparks is irrelevant.”
“We’ll have a rough time of death in an hour or so,” DI Smyth said.

“I’ll go and speak to someone at that club in the meantime,” Smith said. “And if nobody remembers seeing Gordon Green last night, or, if the time he wasn’t there matches up with Tracy Richards’ TOD, we’ve got five reasons to haul him in and interrogate him.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sparks nightclub was situated on the corner of University Road and Main Street in Heslington. It was a free-standing building a stones’ throw from the main campus of the University of York. Smith parked his car right outside and he and DC King got out. The club was locked up, but Smith knew it would be. It was Tuesday afternoon, and he didn’t expect a nightclub to be open at this time of day, but he’d found the details of the owner and he’d been told that someone would be there to meet them.

All the windows had been painted black and most of them displayed posters advertising upcoming events.

“I feel old, Kerry,” Smith said. “I’ve never heard of any of these bands.”
“Don’t feel so bad, Sarge,” DC King said. “I haven’t either.”

“Look at some of the names,” Smith said. “The Crying Violets, Mannequin Pussy. I’m definitely out of touch.”
“Anyone over the age of twenty-one is out of touch where student life is concerned.”
     They were prevented from discussing this further when the main door opened and a man who looked to be in his late twenties came outside. He introduced himself as Vic and explained that he was the bar manager there.

“Come in,” he said. “I have to restock the bar, but we can talk while I work.”
     The interior of Sparks was pretty much the same as any club Smith had ever been in. A long bar stood at the back of the room. In front of it was an open space that Smith assumed was one of the dancefloor areas. There was a decent sized stage off to the right. It was very low – not more than two feet off the ground, and Smith wondered why this was. Anyone performing up there would feel like part of the audience. Perhaps that was the whole idea.

“Tom said you wanted a word about last night,” Vic said.

He removed an empty bottle of gin from one of the optics and replaced it with a full one.

“Tom?” Smith said.

“He owns the place. He phoned me to say you would be popping in. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Smith said. “How long have you worked here?”
“Too long,” Vic said. “I started here when I was in my final year of uni. Got into a bit of financial shit – you know what it’s like for students these days, and I seem to have been stuck here ever since. That was five years ago.”
“What did you study?” DC King asked.

“Sociology. Micky Mouse degree, they called it back then. I applied for a few jobs after I graduated, but can you believe none of them paid as well as the bar manager position here? I like this place too – I like the vibe. What is it you want to discuss?”

“We need to ask you about last night,” Smith said.

“That should take precisely five seconds,” Vic said. “The new semester doesn’t start until next month, and the place has been dead for a while.”
“But you still open during the holidays?” DC King said.

“We still get a decent crowd in here,” Vic said. “Why are you interested in what happened last night? Does this have something to do with what happened to Tracy?”
Smith certainly wasn’t expecting this.

“Could you explain what you mean by that?” he said.

“It’s everywhere on social media,” Vic said. “Tracy’s murder.”
“Tracy Richards?” DC King said. “Do you know her?”
“Known her for years. She’s been coming to the club for as long as I can remember. Always on a Monday or a Tuesday. I think she works a weekend job and only has those two days off.”
     Smith decided he would come back to that. He would stick to the reason they were there for now.

“Do you know a man by the name of Gordon Green?” he asked.

“Gordon Green?” Vic repeated. “The name rings a bell.”
“He was here last night,” DC King said.

“He’s a stocky bloke in his early to mid-thirties,” Smith said. “He told us he comes here quite regularly, especially on a Monday.”
“He’s the police constable,” Vic said.

“That’s right,” Smith said. “Do you remember if he was here last night?”
“He was, yes. He’s alright.”
“What time did he arrive?” DC King said.

“I’m not sure.”
“What time do you open on a Monday?” Smith said.

“Seven,” Vic said. “We started serving food a while ago, so we open a bit earlier than we used to. It paid off, especially during the summer when the students aren’t around.”
“Mr Green said he arrived here around eleven. Isn’t that a bit late for someone to go out?”
“Not at all,” Vic said. “We get a lot of customers after the pubs close. People who want to carry on drinking.”
“I suppose so,” Smith said. “Can you recall whether Mr Green arrived around the time he said he did?”
“It was probably around then.”
“Do you remember what time he left?” DC King said.

“I think it was just before closing time. Two in the morning.”

“Do you have CCTV here?” Smith asked.

“Yes and no,” Vic said.
“Go on.”
“We’ve got a camera outside the entrance, but it was vandalised a few weeks ago. Some Einstein decided it would be hilarious to spray paint a man’s genitalia on the lens.”
“You didn’t think to replace it?” DC King. “Or to clean the lens?”
“Tom’s planning on getting it sorted before the new semester. We don’t get much trouble during the holidays.”

“Is that the only camera you’ve got?” Smith said.

“Sparks isn’t like some of the clubs in the city centre,” Vic said. “This is a place people come to chill, not cause shit.”

“Let’s go back to Tracy Richards,” Smith said. “Did you see her last night?”
Vic shook his head. “I wondered where she was. I suppose now I know, don’t I? I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“She comes here a lot then?” DC King said.

“Most Mondays. She’s sweet, and she’s not your usual clubber.”
“What do you mean by that?” Smith said.

“In all the time she’s been coming here, I’ve never seen her touch a drop of alcohol. Although I suppose she can’t when she’s driving.”
“She drives to the club?”

“Always. She’s in love with that car. Always showing us new photos she’s taken of it.”

“Do you know if Tracy and Gordon knew one another?” Smith said.

“I don’t think so,” Vic said.

“But they must have bumped into each other,” DC King said. “If they’re both regulars.”
“It’s possible. Do you think Gordon Green had something to do with her death?”
“We can’t comment on that,” Smith said.

“You don’t have to. It’s pretty obvious. The warning bells I’m hearing are rather loud. If the Sociology degree was good for anything, it helped me to understand what makes a person tick. I reckon it should be a prerequisite for anyone wanting to work behind a bar.”
Smith laughed. “You’re probably right there. Thank you for your time. We won’t take up any more of it.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Smith and DC King were on their way back to the station when DI Smyth phoned to inform them that the results of Tracy Richards’ post-mortem were in. Tracy’s heart had stopped beating sometime between nine and midnight yesterday. After a phone call to the bar manager at Sparks nightclub, Smith did some quick mental arithmetic. Vic told him that Tracy always arrived at the club around ten – it was a five-minute drive from her house in Heworth, so he decided that she was intercepted somewhere between her house and the club. The Aldi on Hull Road was relatively close to the nightclub, and it would be quite possible for Gordon Green to kill Tracy and make his way on foot to Sparks.

He brought the rest of the team up to date.

“You’re forgetting about the damage that was inflicted,” Bridge reminded him. “Tracy was beaten to a pulp. Her face was destroyed, and she had her head repeatedly smashed against the driver’s window and the dashboard. There was an incredible amount of blood inside the car, and it would have been impossible for her killer to avoid any transfer. If Gordon Green went straight to the club after killing her, he would have been covered in the stuff and someone would have noticed.”
“Did he have any obvious injuries when you spoke to him earlier?” Whitton asked.

“Not that I noticed,” Smith said. “What else do we know from the postmortem?”
“It looks like Miss Richards was subjected to a horrific number of blunt force traumas to her face and head,” DI Smyth said.

“He didn’t hit her, did he? He used the window in the car to do the damage, so he wouldn’t have any injuries on his hands.”
“Some of her blood would have been transferred to him,” DI Smyth said. “The attack took place in close quarters. He was inside the car with her when he killed her, and it will have been impossible for him to come away from that clean.”
“These murders were well planned. He got her to park at the Aldi for a reason. Perhaps he had a vehicle parked close by. He could have had a change of clothes inside that car.”
“He’s a police officer,” DC Moore said. “He knows the score. If it were me there is no way I would park up close to where I was planning on committing a murder. One CCTV camera and it’s game over, not to mention the blood he risked transferring from himself to the interior of the car. We find one drop of Tracy Richards’ blood inside his car and he’s history. He would know this.”

“Look at what we have on him, Harry,” DI Smyth pointed to the whiteboard at the back of the room. “Five pointers with his name all over them. He had an affair with Danielle Swan, he matches the description of the man getting into the Swan’s car, he owns a shorthaired dog, he has no alibi for the time of the Swan murders, and it’s looking like he can’t account for where he was at the time Tracy Richards was killed either. That is five pieces of evidence pointing directly at him.”
“Six,” Smith said.

“What’s number six?” DC Moore said.

“He was acquainted with Tracy. They frequented the same nightclub on the same night. They had to know each other. And the fact that they’d been going to Sparks on a Monday for a while means he’s well aware of her routine. What else do we need – a signed confession? He needs to be arrested.”

“Not yet.”
“What are we waiting for?” Smith said. “Another corpse?”
“I’m not doubting the fact that it’s not looking good for PC Green,” DI Smyth said. “I just want to be absolutely sure. When we’re dealing with one of our own, we need to do things slightly differently. The press is going to get wind of this, and we have to tread carefully. Does anyone disagree with me?”
Nobody said a word.

“Smith?” DI Smyth said.

“Boss?”

“Don’t you have an opinion on this?”

“I’m on the same page as you,” Smith said.

“I think I’ve seen everything now. Not long ago you would have said, to hell with the press.”
“We’ve all got to grow up sometime, boss,” Smith said. “This is the new, improved Smith.”
“God help us all,” Bridge said.

“That’s settled then. I’ll get the ball rolling. I want a warrant to search Gordon Green’s house, and I want his car gone over with a fine-toothed comb. We’ll do it discretely, and we’ll try to keep it as quiet as possible.”
“We need to go through his phone too,” Whitton said. “To see if we can link those air tags to him.”

“How long for the warrants?” Smith said.

“I’ll see if I can expedite the process,” DI Smyth said. “Take a break. Grab a bite to eat – I’ll call you when I know anything.”

Smith went outside and lit a cigarette. The wind had picked up and the clouds were moving quickly in the sky above his head. Summer was almost over and soon the days would become shorter and the temperatures would drop.

His thoughts shifted to how the recent murders were carried out and he couldn’t find a way to rationalise them. All three victims had been subjected to extraordinary violence and Smith knew from experience that when they came across that level of brutality there was almost always a great deal of hatred at play. This killer didn’t just want them dead – he wanted to feel their pain every step of the way. A bullet to the head is immediate – it offers little time to relish in the killing process, but the methods on display recently were different, and this had to be important. This was extremely personal, and the more Smith dared to dwell on the matter the greater his doubts about Gordon Green became. Whichever way he looked at it, the Tadcaster PC just didn’t fit the bill for this killer.

The ringtone of his phone sounded in his pocket, and when Smith retrieved the phone, he wasn’t aware that those doubts were about to be reinforced.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“The car has been parked there for quite a while.”
PC Griffin was standing next to Smith on a stretch of open ground close to Skipwith. The nature reserve was to the north, and to the south were paddocks as far as the eye could see. Horses were grazing in the fields, oblivious to the scene that had played out a stones’ throw away from them. A green Ford Fiesta was parked beneath a cluster of trees ten metres away. The vehicle had already been declared off-limits and a police cordon had been set up around it. Webber and his team were hard at work inside the cordon.

“Who called it in?” Smith said.

“One of the workers at the stud farm,” PC Griffin said. “He didn’t pay it much attention at first, but when it hadn’t moved, he went to check it out. It looks like the man inside was shot.”

He took out his cigarettes and lit one. PC Griffin looked at it and opened his mouth to say something.

Smith beat him to it. “How long are we talking about? You said it’s been there for quite a while.”
“A couple of hours,” PC Griffin said.

“Fuck it.”
“Sarge?”
Smith didn’t elaborate. He walked back to where he’d parked his car.

The car with the dead man in it was identical to the others. The Green Envy paint job was hard to miss. Smith knew this murder was connected to the murders of Danielle and Ian Swan and Tracy Richards. But if that was the case it meant that Gordon Green could be ruled out – the Tadcaster PC was being questioned by Smith and DC King two hours ago. He didn’t quite believe it. So much pointed to Gordon Green that Smith thought it would probably be enough to charge him with three murders. It really was unbelievable. He took out his phone to give DI Smyth the bad news.

Bridge and DC Moore walked over and waited for him to finish talking on the phone.

“What did the DI say?” Bridge said.

“He’s still going ahead with it,” Smith told him. “They’re going to arrest Gordon Green.”
“The evidence against him is pretty damning, Sarge,” DC Moore said.

Smith took a long drag of his cigarette and shook his head. “Have you seen the car parked over there? There is a corpse in the drivers’ seat. Gordon Green was talking to me and Kerry when the car arrived here.”
“I heard the bloke was shot,” DC Moore said. “Different MO, so it’s likely it’s a different killer.”
“It’s the same killer,” Smith insisted. “And it isn’t Gordon Green.”

“What else do we know?” Bridge said.

“Fuck all,” Smith said. “As usual. But what I do know is there is a psychopath out there who likes to kill people who drive bright green Ford Fiestas.”
“Did anyone hear the gunshot?” DC Moore said.

“I don’t know. I’ve only just got here myself.”
He swore again and made his way towards the cordoned off car.

“What’s wrong with him?” DC Moore asked Bridge.

“Why would you think there’s something wrong with him?”
“He’s acting weird.”
“When Smith doesn’t act weird,” Bridge said. “That’s when I’ll be worried there’s something wrong with him. Let’s go and have a chat to the man who found the body.”

Jurgen Weiss had been told to wait by the stables until someone came to speak to him. Bridge and DC Moore found him behind one of the outbuildings, smoking a roll-up cigarette. He quickly put it out when he spotted them. He wasn’t very old – possibly late-teens, early twenties.

“Relax,” Bridge said.

He took out his ID. DC Moore did the same.

“This was unexpected.”
He had a strong accent. Bridge guessed he was German.

“Do you need any medical attention?” DC Moore asked.

“No,” Jurgen said. “I’m OK. It is fine if I smoke now?”
“Go for it,” Bridge said.

He watched as Jurgen opened a pouch of tobacco and rolled a perfect roll-up in seconds. He put it in his mouth and lit it.

“Jurgen,” Bridge said. “Is that German?”
“Austrian,” Jurgen corrected. “Don’t worry – it’s a common mistake.”
“Have you been working here long?” DC Moore said.

“Since the start of the summer. I grew up with horses, and I felt like a different scenery, if that’s the correct way to say it.”
“I know what you mean,” Bridge said. “Can you talk us through what happened? When did you first see the car?”
“It will have been eleven, there somewhere.”
“This is a quiet road,” DC Moore said. “It doesn’t look like many cars come down here.”
“It’s quiet, yes,” Jurgen agreed.

“Did you see where the car came from?” Bridge asked.

“No. I just saw it park by the trees. It’s a strange colour.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing. Then I had work to do.”

“Did you hear anything?” DC Moore said.

“Yes,” Jurgen replied.

“Can you tell us what you heard?” Bridge said.

“I heard the gunshot that killed him”
Bridge was speechless for a moment.

“You heard a gunshot?” he said when he’d managed to make some sense of what the Austrian man had just said.

“Yes,” Jurgen said.

“What did you do then?” DC Moore said.

“Nothing.”
“You heard a gunshot,” Bridge said. “You knew a man had been shot and you did nothing?”
“I don’t mean that,” Jurgen said. “It’s my English. I mean I heard the bang, but I didn’t know then it was a gunshot. I only knew later when I saw the dead man.”

“I see,” Bridge said. “Then what?”
Jurgen’s eyes narrowed, and he sucked hard on his roll-up. “Then what?”
“What did you do when you realised the man was dead?” DC Moore said.

“I checked his pulse to make sure, and I phoned the police.”

“Did you touch anything inside the car?” DC Moore asked.

“Probably. I mean, yes – I touched the seat when I checked to see if he was dead, and I had to open the door.”
“OK,” Bridge said. “We’re going to need you to make a statement. And we’ll need to take your fingerprints too.”
“The forensic team will probably find your prints on the car,” DC Moore explained.

“Of course. I must get back to work now.”
“Someone will be in touch,” Bridge said.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Smith was experiencing mixed emotions again. He was struggling to make sense of what happened to the man in the car in Skipwith. His instincts were telling him the man was the victim of the killer of the Swans and Tracy Richards, but the method of execution was very different in this instance.

The man in the green Fiesta had been identified as John Newton. He was thirty-nine, and that’s all they’d managed to find from his driving license and from what was in the car. It was yet to be confirmed, but it appeared the cause of death was due to the gunshot wound in his abdomen. There was a lot of blood on and around his body and the position of his body inside the car suggested that he’d died instantly. There was no indication that he’d attempted to get out of the car after he was shot and Webber concluded that he'd perished exactly where he was shot.

Uniforms were busy with the task of questioning everyone in the vicinity of where the murder took place, but the task wasn’t a mammoth one because there wasn’t much in that area. Apart from the stables there was very little else there and Smith decided that’s why the killer had chosen that particular spot to carry out the murder.

DI Smyth was adamant that Gordon Green shouldn’t be discounted just yet. Even though his alibi for the murder of John Newton was as solid as alibis got, there were still far too many connections linking him to the first three murders. Smith didn’t question the DI’s logic behind this decision, but he still didn’t think Gordon was involved in any way. Nevertheless, he agreed to join DI Smyth in the interview room with the Tadcaster PC. He’d been informed that a search was being carried out of his house and car, and he would be on his way to the station as soon as that was concluded. DI Smyth had been called into a meeting with top brass to discuss the developments in the case. Smith didn’t envy him – as far as he was aware, there hadn’t been any significant developments, and he knew that the men and women further up the food chain would want to know why that was.

He wasn’t going to wait around for news on the search of Gordon Green’s property, nor did he give a hoot about the opinion of the people in management – he needed to do something. He decided to get the team together to take a closer look at the geography involved in the murders. He got the impression that the killer was local, and he knew the city well, and it wouldn’t hurt to look at the locations he’d chosen in greater detail.

DC Moore had found a map of the city that hadn’t been ruined in previous investigations and this had been stuck next to the whiteboard in the small conference room. Smith was the last to arrive. Whitton, Bridge, DC King and DC Moore were already seated when he came in.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I needed some time to think.”

“Have you come up with any theories?” Bridge asked.

“No,” Smith admitted. “I haven’t been able to come up with anything.”
“Hopefully we’ll have some new ideas when we’ve looked at the locations in more detail,” Whitton said.

“Before we make a start,” DC Moore said. “I managed to get a list of all Green Envy Ford Fiestas registered in the city. There were actually more than I expected. Apparently quite a few people chose that particular colour of car.”
“How many?” Smith asked.

“Thirteen. What do you suggest we do with that list – warn everyone on it to be on the lookout for a psycho who likes to hide in the back?”
“I don’t know what to do about it, Harry,” Smith said.

“I think we need to do exactly what Harry said,” Whitton said.

“So do I,” DC King agreed. “And check to see if there are any more air tags. At least then the killer won’t be able to track the vehicles – we’ll be a step ahead of him.”

“I’ll put some uniforms onto it,” Smith said. “And I think Webber needs to be kept up to date.”

He walked up to the map. “Where did we get this from?”
“Baldwin found it in a box in the storeroom,” DC Moore said.

“Try not to ruin it,” Whitton said.

Smith popped the cap on a marker pen and scribbled on the bottom of the map to make sure it worked.

“I can’t promise anything.”
     He traced the map with his finger until he found the B&Q on Hull Road. He circled it.

“This is the last place Ian and Danielle Swan were seen alive.”
He followed the A64 until just past the Fulford Interchange. He drew another circle on the map there.

“This is where we believe the Swans pulled over because of the rain,” Smith said. “And this is where a witness saw someone getting into the back of their car. They waited for the rain to stop and drove in this direction. They carried on for a mile or so and turned off onto the Bishopthorpe Road. From there they turned right and then took the first right again, finally coming to a stop close to the river by Vixmead Greens. That’s where they were killed.”

“We now know the car was being tracked,” Bridge joined in. “And if we work on the assumption that the killer was monitoring the Find My app constantly it’s possible, he realised they’d stopped on the A64, and set off to find them.”
“What’s down here?” Smith put his finger on the map just to the south of the A64.

“Designer outlet stores,” Bridge said.

He got up and joined Smith at the map.

“I think he was tracking the Swan’s car from his own vehicle,” Bridge carried on. “He could have been following them for all we know. He sees them stop, he pulls off onto St Nicholas, parks at one of the outlet stores, then sets off on foot up to the A64. It’s no more than a two-minute walk from the shopping centre.”
“Can I say something?” DC Moore asked.

“Go on, Harry,” Smith said.

“Isn’t it also feasible that it doesn’t matter where they are in the city? If he’s using a gun or a knife, he could get into the car and make them drive to where he wants them anyway?”
“It’s a good point,” Smith agreed. “It is feasible.”

“And we need to consider something else,” DC King said. “Just because he seems to know the geography of the city, doesn’t automatically mean he’s a local.”
“He’s local.” Smith was convinced.

“A GPS can give you that information, Sarge,” DC King said.
“That’s true,” Smith said. “But a GPS won’t tell you where there are no CCTV cameras. A GPS will not advise the best route on foot if you want to get away from somewhere without being seen. This man has been to the places where he killed his victims many times before. This isn’t simply a case of reconnaissance work – he knows the area like the back of his hand. This one is definitely local.”

“This is where Tracy Richards lives,” he continued.

He circled her address in Heworth.

“And this is where she was found.”
Another circle was drawn around the Aldi store on Hull Road.

Bridge joined in with another circle around Sparks nightclub.

“This is where she was going.”
“The Aldi is on the way to the club,” Whitton noticed.

“Correct,” Bridge said. “You follow Tang Hall Lane all the way to Hull Road and turn left. If you take the next right it takes you to the nightclub.”
“She was intercepted somewhere on the way then,” DC Moore guessed.

“I don’t think she was,” Smith said. “What reason would she have to stop on a journey that takes no more than five minutes? There are hardly any shops open at that time of night. No, I think the killer was in the car from the moment she got inside it. He knew her Monday night routine, and he somehow got into the vehicle and waited.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” DC King said.

“It means he’s definitely familiar with the roads of the city. This man is local.”

“What about the latest one?” Bridge said.

“John Newton,” Smith said. “That’s a tricky one. John was murdered quite a way out of the city. We don’t know much more than that right now, but I know for a fact that the location was carefully chosen. We’re looking for a man who has extensive knowledge of the city. He knows the roads well, and he knows the quickest routes away from where he takes his victims.”

Smith was feeling very animated, but the momentum took a sudden nosedive when Baldwin came inside the room to inform him that Gordon Green had arrived.

“He’s not in the best of moods,” Baldwin warned.

“I don’t suppose he will be,” Smith said.

“His lawyer is talking about pressing charges. Unlawful arrest.”
“I’m not scared of lawyers.”
“PC Green has been suspended from duty, Sarge,” Baldwin said.
“It’s common procedure,” Smith said. “Did the search of his house give us anything?”

“That’s the problem,” Baldwin said. “PC Green was suspended as soon as Tadcaster heard about the impending arrest. But there was nothing incriminating inside his house. Webber took some samples of dog hair to see if they match the ones found in the back of one of the cars, but that’s going to take some time. Everything we have on him is circumstantial, and his lawyer is threatening to go for the jugular.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

“Smith.” DI Smyth found him outside in the car park. “Quick word if you don’t mind.”
“Is Gordon Green ready?” Smith said.

He took a long drag on his cigarette and breathed out deeply.

“He is. That’s not what I want to chat to you about. How would you feel about being the face of a citywide appeal?”
“No,” Smith said without thinking.

“The powers that be want a press conference ASAP. We need to warn the public not to pick up hitchhikers.”
Smith was reminded of the appeal by Teesside Police on the radio yesterday. They’d appealed to the public not to accept lifts from strangers. What top brass were suggesting was the opposite – they wanted to make the people of York aware of a predator who hitched lifts from unsuspecting drivers.

“It’s not going to help,” he said. “This isn’t some sicko who likes to kill people he hitches a ride with – this is a killer with a specific agenda. His victims were carefully selected, and we have reason to believe he was already inside the car with three of them before they even set off. A press conference isn’t going to make any difference. Harry got a list of all the Green Envy Ford Fiestas registered in the city. I’ve arranged for some uniforms to pay the owners a visit.”
“Is that wise?”
“Probably not,” Smith said. “It’s going to cause a bit of panic, but rather that than another body. I’ve also asked them to check the vehicles for air tags.”

“The press is going to latch onto this very quickly,” DI Smyth said.

“Let them. I couldn’t give a fuck. About this press conference…”
“It’s happening,” DI Smyth said.

“Well, you can count me out.”
“It’s not actually up for debate.”
“Why me?” Smith asked.

“Because, like it or not, you’re somewhat famous in this city. People know you, and they trust you. They’re more likely to listen to you than some uniform they’ve never seen before.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered by this?”
“I don’t expect you to be,” DI Smyth said. “You’ll do it then?”
“I didn’t say that. When is this thing happening?”
“Seven sharp.”
“This evening?” Smith said.

DI Smyth looked at his watch. “That gives us approximately seventy-five minutes to tick Gordon Green off the list.”
“He’s the only one on the list right now, boss,” Smith reminded him. “And he’s not our killer.”
“When you’ve finished your cigarette,” DI Smyth said. “We can make a start.”

* * *

The expression on Gordon Green’s face left little doubt about his mood. He looked furious. He was sitting next to his legal representative in one of the interview rooms when Smith and DI Smyth came in.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” DI Smyth said.

He sat down. Smith sat next to him.

“I want it on record that this is unacceptable,” the man on Gordon’s left informed him.

His name was Jerry Turnbill and Smith had come across him before. He had a reputation for being a pig-headed lawyer who never gave up. This wasn’t going to be pleasant.

DI Smyth turned on the recording device and went through the motions for the tape.

“Mr Green,” he began. “Do you understand the reason you were arrested?”
“It’s a mistake,” Gordon said.

“A mistake that will cost you dearly,” Jerry added.

“Could we please stick to the matter at hand,” DI Smyth said. “Gordon, may I call you Gordon?”
“Call me what you want. This is a farce.”

“Do you know Danielle Swan?” DI Smyth said.

“You know I do,” Gordon said.

“That’s a yes then. What is your relationship with Mrs Swan?”
“I dated her sister a while back.”
“Is that all?”
“I slept with Danielle,” Gordon said. “Once, and it was nothing but a drunken mistake. I had nothing to do with her murder.”
“Where were you yesterday?” DI Smyth said. “Between noon and three in the afternoon?”
“I was at home.”
“Can anyone corroborate this?”
“No,” Gordon said. “I live alone.”

“Do you own an iPhone?” DI Smyth said.

“What?” Gordon said.

“An iPhone,” DI Smyth said. “Do you have one?”
“I do.”
“Have you heard of the Find My app?”
“I’m aware of it. It’s where you can use an app to locate something.”
“Do you use that app?” DI Smyth said.

“No.”
“So, if we went through your phone, we wouldn’t find that app on it?”
“Can I ask where you’re going with this?” It was Jerry Turnbill.

“We’re getting to that.”

“They took my phone off me,” Gordon said. “If you go and get it, I’ll prove to you I don’t have the Find My app.”
“We’ll do that,” DI Smyth said.

“I’ll unlock the fucking thing if you want. Anything to get you off my back.”
Jerry placed his hand on Gordon’s shoulder and shook his head.

“When my colleagues spoke to you earlier,” DI Smyth said. “You told them you went to a nightclub last night. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Sparks, is that right.”
“It is. I was there last night between eleven and two in the morning.”
“Isn’t that rather late to go out?” DI Smyth said.

“Not really. They play the best music later on.”
“Where were you before you went to the club?”
“At home,” Gordon said.

“Alone?”
“I live on my own.”
“How did you get to the club?” DI Smyth said. “Perhaps you called a cab.”
“I walked. It’s not far from my house.”
“And you went straight there? You didn’t stop off anywhere on the way?”

“No.”
     Smith nodded to DI Smyth to get his attention. “Can I have a word outside?”
“Interview with Gordon Green paused,” DI Smyth said. “18:22.”
He followed Smith outside into the corridor.

“What is it?”
“We’re wasting our time with Gordon Green, boss,” Smith said.

“It might help if you joined in. You didn’t say a word in there.”
“What is there to say?” Smith said. “He’s not our man.”
“I’m not basing the outcome of a murder investigation on the Smith gut instinct.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Smith said. “Everything we’ve got on him is circumstantial. He isn’t our killer.”
“What do you suggest we do? Go back in and say, sorry Mr Green, we’ve made a terrible mistake – we apologise for the inconvenience?”
“Something like that,” Smith said. “Put it on record that some new evidence has come to light, and he’s free to go. Promise him you’ll do everything you can to make sure his suspension is lifted, and ensure he’s reinstated as soon as possible.”

“You’re putting all this on me?”
“With respect, boss,” Smith said. “It was you who insisted on hauling him in, even when you knew he had a watertight alibi for the latest murder. Smooth things over, and maybe we won’t have his Pitbull of a lawyer making life difficult for us. I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Damn it, Smith,” DI Smyth said. “You’re right of course. I’ll see if I can make things right. Make that cigarette break a short one. I want you to check in with PC Walker before the press conference. I assume you’re still up for it?”
“Do I have a choice?” Smith said.

“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Good luck with PC Green.”

“Same to you with the press conference.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Smith hated press conferences. They were right up there at the top of his list of things he detested about his job, along with DI Smyth’s annual crime statistics presentations. In his opinion, all a press conference served to achieve was to paint York Police in a better light than was originally perceived. They were no more than public relations exercises, and they rarely achieved anything from an investigative perspective.

He didn’t think this time would be any different. Putting out an appeal to warn the general public not to pick up hitchhikers was a waste of time in this instance. This murderer was going to carry on killing regardless of how aware his victims were of his methods. Smith knew that for a fact. He outlined his concerns to PC Neil Walker and the press liaison officer countered with some words of wisdom that took Smith by surprise.

“I hear what you’re saying, but this will probably rattle him a bit.”
Smith couldn’t argue with this.

“It’s possible that with the entire city on the lookout, you’ll stand a better chance of catching him,” PC Walker added.

It was also possible that the switchboard would be inundated with timewasters. Smith kept this thought to himself. That wasn’t his problem.

“I would advise you to keep the Green Envy thing out of it,” PC Walker said.

“The colour of the car is significant,” Smith pointed out.

“Do you know how many of those cars there are in the city?”
“Thirteen.”
“Unlucky for some.”
“Unlucky for four people so far,” Smith said.

“I would definitely keep that information to yourself for now,” PC Walker advised.

“It’s possible that some sharp journo has already cottoned on to it,” Smith said.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It’s almost time.

* * *

DC King had offered to stay to give Smith a bit of moral support, but he told her it wasn’t necessary, so when he walked inside the large conference room and saw her already seated at the front of the room, he couldn’t stop the smile that was forming on his face without his permission. He walked past the people already seated and sat down next to her.

“I thought I told you to go home.”
“Didn’t feel like it,” DC King said.

“Thank you,” Smith said. “The press liaison officer recommended we keep the colour of the cars to ourselves.”
“Surely the press will be onto that already.”
“We’ll just have to hope they haven’t figured it out yet.”
“It’s quite a turnout,” DC King said. “Is Superintendent Smyth joining us?”
“Thankfully, not. The boss managed to distract him with a meal out. The poor bastard.”

“How did it go with Gordon Green?” DC King asked.

“Not great,” Smith said. “His lawyer is still hinting at an unlawful arrest charge.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. It was the CPS who made the call. We had enough to justify it.”
“It’s all going to boil down to what happens in Tadcaster,” Smith said. “What time is it?”
“Show time.”
     DC King wasn’t exaggerating. It really was an impressive turnout. There were some familiar faces and some not so familiar ones. Smith didn’t know it, but DI Smyth had had an ulterior motive for wanting Smith to head up the press conference. Whether he liked it or not, he attracted attention. He was probably the detective who had worked on the most high-profile cases of any detective in the country, and when a press conference was announced with Smith’s name on it, the members of the fourth estate took note.

“Good evening,” Smith began.

He looked out at the men and women who had come to hear what he had to say, and a few dozen phone camera flashes blinded him for a moment. He realised he probably looked like shit, but he didn’t really care.

“Thank you for coming. I’ll keep this brief, and I’ll ask you to keep any questions you have until the end. Yesterday afternoon a man and a woman were found dead in a car close to Vixmead Greens. Their deaths were suspicious. This morning another woman was found inside her car. She had been beaten to death, and a few hours later a dead man was discovered in Skipwith, also inside his car. We have reason to believe the victims were all killed by the same man. We also believe that this man may have gained access to the vehicles using the ruse of wanting a lift somewhere.”

He stopped there. He didn’t believe this to be true, but the silence inside the room told him the press contingent were lapping it up.

“It’s also reasonable to assume that the man threatened them with something,” Smith carried on. “He threatened them and forced them to drive to where they were found. York Police would like to stress how important it is for the people of this city to be vigilant. Do not pick up strangers. Do not stop the car for anyone by the side of the road. This man is extremely dangerous, and it is possible that he may strike again. Thank you. Any questions?”

Smith knew there would be, but he didn’t expect them all to be fired at him at once.

“I’m good,” he said. “But I’m not that good. I haven’t quite mastered this multitasking thing yet. One at a time please.”
“Are you close to catching this hitchhiker?” a man in the front row asked.

He was one of the familiar faces – a local man.

“We’re working through a number of leads.” Smith gave the usual press conference spiel. “And we’re confident we’ll be making an arrest very soon.”

“Is the police constable still in custody?”
This was posed by a woman Smith didn’t know. She was a plump woman in the third row.

“No,” he replied. “He was helping us with our enquiries, and he has since been released.”
“Do you have a name for us?” a man at the back asked.

“Mine or his?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Smith.”
“As he is no longer a part of the investigation,” Smith said. “I would ask you to respect his privacy. Anything else?”
“Do you have any other suspects?” the plump woman said. “You said you were close to making an arrest.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that at this stage. Anything else before we wrap things up?”
“Detective Sergeant Smith,” a shifty-looking man standing at the side said. “Are you planning on adopting any more murder orphans in the near future?”

Smith’s mouth opened wide. He glanced at DC King. Her face was also a picture of utter disbelief.

“Well?” the man urged. “Perhaps you’re waiting to see if any little kiddies are left behind during the course of this investigation. You seem to be making a habit of it.”
“Who might you be?” Smith said.

“Gordon Grout. Daily Mail. Well?”
“I don’t think that’s relevant here, is it?”

Smith could feel the heat from his face when he breathed in. He took a few lungsful of air through his nose and tried to slow his heartbeat. The rat-eyed man was staring right at him, and Smith had to use every ounce of self-control to stop himself from getting up and hitting the man as hard as he could.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

He turned the microphone off and made his way towards the door, ignoring the barrage of questions that were hurled at him as he walked.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

“Who was that obnoxious man?”

Whitton was outside with Smith in the garden. The air had warmed up a bit and there wasn’t a breath of breeze.

Smith took a long swig of his beer. “Some hack from the Daily Mail.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t deck him.”
“I wanted to,” Smith said. “I wanted nothing more than to smack his piggy little eyes further back in his face. It probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. You didn’t let the girls watch it, did you?”
“What do you think? Anyway, boring press conferences are not really their cup of tea. It went pretty well, apart from the dickhead at the end.”
“It’s not over,” Smith said and sighed.

“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been told I’m to be the face of a campaign warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers.”
Whitton started to laugh.

“It’s not funny, Erica. My ugly mug is going to be staring out from posters and public information fliers. It is not funny.”

“Jason Smith, the poster boy of public safety,” Whitton said. “This is priceless.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Smith insisted.

Whitton kissed him on the cheek. “I’m going to relax in front of the box.”

Smith followed her in and took another beer out of the fridge.

“I’m going next door. I want to see if Lucy is OK. She probably watched the press conference. I’ll make sure to knock.”
He went next door and pressed the bell. Lucy opened the door shortly afterwards. Smith could hear music behind her inside the house. It was something he hadn’t heard before.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I was wondering if you watched the press conference. Are we going to have this conversation out here, or are you going to invite me in? I did ring the bell.”

“Darren has taken Andrew to his parents’ house,” Lucy told Smith in the living room.

“Did you watch it?” Smith asked. “Did you watch the press conference?”

“It went alright.”
“Sorry about the prick at the end.”
“It’s not your fault.”

“Are you really OK?” Smith said. “What that journo said was really sick.”
“They get paid to ask questions like that.”

“I can think of better ways to earn a living. What is this music? I like it.”
“It’s an old CD – Wolf Alice.”
“It’s really different,” Smith said.

They didn’t speak for a while. Smith was taking a keen interest in the ethereal sounds coming from the speakers. A woman was singing about being high on curiosity. He wasn’t expecting what she came out with next.

This girl refused to die.

“Very cool. What did you say their name was again?”
“Wolf Alice. They write really deep lyrics.”
“I can see that,” Smith said. “You said it’s an old CD.”
“It’s from 2017.”
Smith started to laugh. “Very old.”
“You can get it on Spotify.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” Smith said. “I’ll buy myself a copy.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Lucy asked.

Smith held up his beer. “I brought my own. How are things? Are you getting used to being a grownup?”

“I like it. Andrew has settled into a nice routine here. Darren is getting in more work, and we’re both looking forward to going back to college in September. Are you going to catch this one? Are you going to catch the hitchhiker.”
“I wish people would stop calling him that,” Smith said. “He’s not a hitchhiker – he’s a psychopath who likes to kill people in cars.”
“But he gets them where he wants them by hitching a lift.”
“He doesn’t,” Smith said. “We think he’s already in the vehicle when the victim drives off.”
“That sounds like some kind of urban legend thing.”
“Urban legend?”
“There’s this one where a woman stops at a roadside shop in the middle of nowhere,” Lucy said. “The only person in the shop is the man behind the counter, and he’s one of those country in-breeds. All rotten teeth and facial features in the wrong places.”
“He sounds like a few people I know,” Smith said.

“Anyway, the woman gets a really bad vibe from him. She pays for her shopping, and she can’t wait to get as far away from him as she can. She’s halfway to her car when the oddball shopkeeper bursts through the door and starts to make his way towards her. He’s trying to say something, but he has a stutter and he’s not making any sense. Then he finds his voice and tells her to come back inside the shop. The woman thinks he’s going to attack her, and she makes it to the car just in time. He’s babbling on about something the whole time. She starts the engine and floors it out of there. She sees the freak in her rearview mirror but she can’t hear what he's screaming at her.”
“What was he screaming at her?” Smith said.

“He’s trying to save her - he’s trying to tell her that there’s someone in the back of her car.”
“Spooky,” Smith said.

“I don’t think it’s a true story,” Lucy said. “It’s just an urban legend.”
“Well the recent murders are very real.”

The haunting vocals on the speakers caught his attention again. The woman was singing the same line again.

This girl refused to die.

Smith didn’t know it then, but soon he would come to realise how poignant those words would turn out to be. A few miles away a woman was on her way to a friend’s house. She wasn’t going to make it there. The man hiding in the back of her car had other plans for her, but what he wasn’t aware of was: she had other plans for him too.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Smith knew something was happening when he went back next door. Whitton was packing some things for Laura and Fran Rogers.

“I was just about to call you,” she said to Smith.

“My phone’s on charge in the kitchen,” he said. “What’s going on?”
She gave a subtle shake of her head. “Laura, why don’t you and Fran go next door. I’ve packed your pyjamas in case you need to stay over.”
The girls didn’t need to be told twice. A sleepover with Lucy and Darren wasn’t something they were going to pass up.

“What is it?” Smith asked when they’d gone.

“A woman was attacked in her car in Rowntree Park,” Whitton told him.

“A green Ford Fiesta?”

Whitton nodded. “She’s in a bad way, but she’s still alive.”

“Do you know if she’s well enough to speak to us?”
“She’s still unconscious,” Whitton said. “But it’s been made very clear that it is extremely important that we speak to her. The hospital has promised to let us know when she wakes up. Let’s go. I’d better drive.”

Neither of them said a word during the short drive to Rowntree Park. Smith found himself gazing out of the window. He watched the traffic on the opposite side of the road. He wondered whether he would see any Green Envy Ford Fiestas. He didn’t think so. There were only thirteen of them in the city – four were definitely off the road indefinitely, so that left nine. Nine potential victims. Smith prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that the woman would survive the attack. This could be the break they’d been waiting for.

The car was parked on the path that circled the football pitch. The River Ouse was flowing slowly to the east. The space-aged Millenium Bridge was lit up in the glow of the moonlight. Grant Webber was already there, of course. The Head of Forensics was examining something in the back of the car. Billie Jones wasn’t at the scene. Smith and Whitton made their way over to a bench on the side of the path. Bridge and DC Moore were speaking to a woman with a dog.

“What do we know?” Smith asked them.

“Would you be able to stay here, please?” Bridge said to the woman. “We won’t be long.”
Smith crouched down and scratched the dog’s head. It was a black Bull Terrier.
“Stan seems to like you,” the woman said.

“I’ve had one of these buggers for years,” Smith said.

“She was the one who found the woman,” Bridge told him ten metres away from the bench.

“She survived,” Smith said. “Why did he let her live?”
“I don’t think he knew she was still alive,” DC Moore said. “It’s lucky the woman who found her is a trained nurse. She checked for a pulse and when she realised she was still alive, she called an ambulance and tried to keep the victim stable. She probably saved her life.”

“Let’s hope she pulls through,” Smith said. “This could be the break we need.”

The black Bull Terrier jumped up at Smith when he returned to the woman.

“Easy, Stan,” he said and helped him down.

“He’s still a youngster,” the woman said. “He needs a bit of training.”
“Good luck with that,” Smith said. “I gave up trying to train my lazy thing a long time ago. I’m Detective Sergeant Smith. What’s your name?”
“Jo. Jo French.”
“Can you talk me through what happened?”
“It was Stan who sensed that something was wrong,” Jo told him. “I thought it was odd for a car to be here so late at night, but when Stan made a beeline for it, I knew something had happened. I thought she was dead when I first saw her. She’d been beaten so badly.”
“What did you do then?” Smith asked.

“I checked for any sign of life, and I felt a weak pulse.”
“You’re a nurse, aren’t you?”
Jo nodded. “When I realised she was alive, I called an ambulance and tried to make her as comfortable as possible while we were waiting. She suffered extensive head injuries and there was a deep laceration in her neck. Luckily nothing important was damaged. There was a shirt in a bag on the passenger seat, so I used it to stem the bleeding. I hope she’s going to be alright.”
“It’s possible you saved her life,” Smith said.

His phone beeped inside his pocket to tell him he’d received a message. He ignored it.

“Did you see anyone else during your walk?” he asked.

“A couple of teenagers,” Jo said. “A boy and a girl.”
“Nobody else?”
“Stan and I had the place to ourselves. Is this connected to the appeal on the news earlier?”
“It is,” Smith confirmed. “But your prompt actions might have changed things in our favour. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Anybody else would have done the same thing.”
“No,” Smith said. “Sadly, I don’t think they would. We’re going to need you to make a statement. I’ll arrange for one of our officers to do that now if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
“And we’ll need your fingerprints,” Smith added.

Stan was now passed out on his feet.

Smith stroked his back. “I don’t think it’s necessary to get your paw prints, mate.”
“He really does like you,” Jo said.

“I get that a lot,” Smith told her. “I’m not so popular with humans, but I’ve always had a thing with dogs. Thank you again.”
     He walked away and took his phone and cigarettes out of his pocket. He lit a cigarette and swiped the phone to see who’d sent the message. It was Billie Jones. Webber’s assistant had written just five words.

Take a look at these.

Smith opened the first attachment. It was a photograph of a green Ford Fiesta. The photo had been taken at night and the full moon was reflected beautifully in the paintwork on the bonnet. The other two photographs were of something similar, and Smith wasn’t sure why Billie had sent them to him. He brought up her number and pressed call.

She answered immediately. “What do you think? If that isn’t creepy, I don’t know what is.”
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Smith said.

“The photos were on Tracy Richards’ phone,” Billie explained. “And they were taken just before ten last night. Those photographs were the last ones she ever took.”
“I suppose it is creepy,” Smith said.

“Take a closer look,” Billie said. “Focus on the back seat of the car. Then you’ll understand why it’s creepy.”
     Smiith rang off and opened the attachments again. The third photograph was the best one. He concentrated on the back seat of the Fiesta and zoomed in.

“Holy shit.”
There was someone in the back of the car. It was impossible to make out the features of the figure, but there was little doubt about it – somebody was lurking in the back. Unbeknown to her, Tracy Richards had taken three photographs of the man who killed her.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

“From an identification perspective, the photos are useless.”
Smith had shown the photographs to Whitton, Bridge and DC Moore.

“But they’re proof that he’s already in the vehicles when the victims drive away.”
“It’s possible the tech team can enhance them,” DC Moore said. “They have advanced programs at their disposal.”
“Why did she even take the photos?” Bridge wondered. “Who takes a pic of the moon reflected on their car?”
“According to the bar manager of the club Tracy used to frequent,” Smith said. “She was obsessed with that car. He said she was always showing him new photos of it. Where’s the boss?”
“At the hospital with Kerry,” DC Moore said. “He wanted to be there when the latest victim wakes up.”

“There’s not much more we can do here,” Smith decided.

“I agree,” Bridge said. “Uniforms are busy with a door-to-door for what it’s worth. I don’t think he would have made his getaway through the housing estate. If it was me I’d leave via the bridge.”
“Are there any cameras on the Millenium Bridge?” Smith asked.

“Not as far as I know.”

“Everything rests on the latest victim,” Smith said. “We’ve got to pray that she wakes up. I’m going to find out how she’s doing.”
He took out his phone and walked away.

DI Smyth was expecting the call.

“She’s stable,” he said. “But she’s not out of the woods yet. According to the doctors she sustained severe trauma to her face and head. They’ve done some scans and luckily there’s no swelling on the brain - it’s possible she suffered concussion during the attack but it’s too early to tell.”
“Do they know when she’s going to wake up?” Smith asked.

“They don’t think it’ll be anytime soon. It looks like it’s a case of wait and see.”
“It’s vital we speak to her.”
“Her wellbeing is their priority right now.”
“Have you explained how important it is that we talk to her?”
As soon as the words left his lips Smith regretted them. Of course DI Smyth had stressed the urgency.

“Sorry, boss,” Smith said. “My mouth was working before my brain there. It’s just so fucking frustrating. That women could be the key to this investigation.”
“Our hands are tied. You’ll be the first to know if there’s any change in her condition. Did you get anything useful from the scene?”
“A woman walking her dog found her,” Smith said. “She’s a nurse and she made her comfortable while they were waiting for the ambulance. She didn’t see anything. A door-to-door is underway, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that six air tags were removed from slug green Ford Fiestas in the city. That’s something at least.”
“What about the other three?” Smith said. “There are thirteen of the vehicles registered in York – four are now in evidence, so there are three unaccounted for.”
“We were unable to locate them. It’s possible they’re out of town, but we’ll keep trying.”
“How did the owners of the cars take it?” Smith said. “How did they react when they realised, they were on the radar of one of the worst psychopaths this city has ever seen?”
“We didn’t tell them that, of course.”
“It’s going to get out sooner or later. I’m heading home – there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“I watched the press conference,” DI Smyth said. “You showed remarkable restraint at the end. I half expected you to react to the comments from the Daily Mail man.”
“I wanted to crack his face open,” Smith said. “But what good would that have done?”
“It was a cruel comment.”
“It is what it is. I’m not stressed by a lowlife hack. Lucy took it well too. I’d better go.”

He ended the call and took a good look around. The Millenium Bridge spanned the river on his left.

“That’s where you went,” he decided.

He started to walk in that direction. Whitton caught up with him after a minute or so.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to get an idea of which way he went,” Smith told her. “If it was me, I would have crossed the bridge and headed for the Millenium Fields. I don’t think he would have risked heading into the housing estate on the other side.”

He stopped halfway across the bridge. Pleasure barges were moored on either side of the river bank. One of them caught his eye – it was a large vessel and the lights were on inside it. Voices could be heard from the deck of the boat.

“How do we get down there?” Smith asked Whitton.

“There’s a path that runs the whole length of the riverbank,” she said.

They stepped down from the bridge and followed the path until they reached the barge with the lights on. A man and a woman were enjoying a drink on the deck.

“Can we have a word?” Smith said.

“What is it?” the man asked.

Smith took out his ID and held it up for him to see.

“We’ll move on in the morning,” the woman said.

“I’m not bothered about that,” Smith said. “Have you been here all night?”
“Since this morning,” the man said.

“Did you see a man crossing the bridge earlier?”
“About an hour ago,” Whitton added.

“What’s going on?” the man said. “We saw the flashing lights on the other side of the river. What happened?”
“A woman was attacked,” Smith told him. “Did you see anyone walking across the bridge?”
“I did.” It was the woman.
“Can you describe him.”
“It was pretty dark, and I didn’t really pay him much attention. He was a bit shorter than you and stocky. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“Did you see where he went?” Whitton asked.

“I didn’t, no. Is the woman alright?”
“We hope so,” Smith said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
     They made their way back to where Whitton had parked her car.

“He made her come here for a reason,” Smith decided.

“I think so too,” Whitton agreed.

“He may have even had a vehicle parked somewhere on the other side of the river. He kills her, crosses the bridge and drives away. He could be anywhere by now.”
“Let’s just hope and pray that the woman pulls through,” Whitton said.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

DI Smyth made the call just before midnight. He decided it would be pointless waiting for the latest victim of whom the press had now dubbed The Hitchhiker to wake up. It was possible they could be at the hospital all night, and the medical experts they’d spoken to hadn’t been able to give them any idea of how long it would be before she was up to talking to them. DI Smyth told DC King as much. They weren’t going to achieve anything by waiting around for the victim to wake up.

They were halfway to the exit when a man in a nurse’s uniform rushed over to them.

“You’re the police detectives, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” DI Smyth said. “Has something happened?”
“Dr Frank asked me to find you. The woman who was brought in with the head injuries has regained consciousness.”
“How is she doing?” DC King asked.

“She was very lucky. She’s going to have a thick head for a week or so, but there’s no reason why she shouldn’t make a full recovery.”
“Can we have a word with her?” DI Smyth said. “We’ll keep it brief.”
“Come with me.”
     DI Smyth and DC King followed him down a corridor. They had to walk quickly to keep up. He stopped by a private room and opened the door.

“Please try not to upset her,” the nurse said. “She needs to rest.”
“Thank you,” DI Smyth said. “It’s much appreciated.”
     They’d since learned that the woman was Annabel Platt. According to her driving license she was thirty-one. DI Smyth and DC King pulled up a couple of chairs and sat next to the bed. Annabel had bandages on her head and neck. A tube was feeding something into her wrist via a drip next to the bed. Her eyes were open, but there was a blank expression in them that suggested that she’d been given some kind of sedative.

“Annabel,” DI Smyth said. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” she croaked.

“My name is Oliver and this is Kerry,” DI Smyth said. “We’re detectives with York Police. Are you up to answering a few questions?”
Annabel nodded and her eyes screwed up as though she was in severe pain.

“Try not to move,” DC King said. “We’ll keep this as brief as possible.”

“Can you remember what happened?” DI Smyth said.

“There was a man,” Annabel said.

She coughed and raised a hand to her head.

“Are you OK?” DI Smyth said.

“Everything hurts.”
“You’re going to be just fine,” DC King said.

“We’re going to catch the man who did this to you,” DI Smyth promised. “Can you talk us through what happened tonight?”
“I was on my way to a friend’s house,” Annabel said. “She lives in Bootham.”
“Where do you live?” DC King said.

“I’ve got a flat in Heworth. It’s a five-minute drive to Bootham. I’d been driving for no more than a minute, when I heard something in the back of the car. Then I saw him in the mirror.”
She stopped, and her eyes fixed on something on the opposite wall.

“It’s OK, Annabel,” DC King said. “He can’t hurt you now.”
“I didn’t know what was happening. There was a man in the back of my car, and I had no idea how he got there.”
“What happened then?” DI Smyth said.

“He spoke to me. His voice was so calm. He told me to cross the river on Bridge Street and turn left onto Skeldergate. I asked him what he wanted, but he just told me to keep driving.”
“You’re doing very well,” DC King said. “What happened next?”
“I slowed down,” Annabel said. “There were a few people on the bridge, and I thought I could stop and get out of the car there. But it was like he could read my mind. He told me if I stopped, I would die. He said he had a gun pointing at me and he would use it if I didn’t do what he said. The way he said it made me believe he was telling the truth.”

“Can you describe him?” DI Smyth said.

“Not really,” Annabel said.

“You said you saw him in the rearview mirror,” DC King said.

“But he wasn’t looking directly at me. He was wearing a buff that covered his mouth and nose, and I only saw him in profile, so I couldn’t see his eyes.”
“What about his accent?” DI Smyth said.

“He was definitely local. He had a local accent. His voice was so creepy.”
“What do you mean?”
“He seemed so calm,” Annabel said. “It was like he was making small talk in the back of the car with someone he’d known for years.”

“What happened then?” DI Smyth said.
“He ordered me to turn onto Bishopthorpe Road and take the turnoff for the Rowntree Park recreational ground. That’s when I really started to panic. I know that area, and I knew there would be nobody around at that time of night. Then things started to get really weird.”
“Weird?” DC King said.

“He started asking strange questions,” Annabel said.

“What sort of questions?” DI Smyth asked.

“He wanted to know how long I’d owned the car. I told him, and then he asked something about whether I used the car mostly for work, or if I often drove it outside of the city.”
“That is odd,” DI Smyth agreed.

A nurse came into the room. It was the same man who’d escorted them in. He checked the drip and asked Annabel if she was in any pain.

“It’s better than it was,” she told him.

“We won’t keep her much longer,” DI Smyth said.

“A few more minutes if you could,” the nurse said and left them to it.

“We were almost by Rowntree Park,” Annabel said. “When he asked me if I’d ever picked up a hitchhiker.”
DI Smyth and DC King turned to look at each other.

“Then things got really surreal,” Annabel carried on. “He asked if I’d ever been to Tadcaster. He wanted to know if I was familiar with the stretch of the A64 between Colton Haggs Farm and the Travelodge. I asked him what he was talking about, and he asked me again. Did I know that particular stretch of road? Had I ever picked up a hitchhiker there? I told him I hadn’t, but I’d driven it a few times, and he stopped talking until he told me to park by the football field. That’s when he…”
“It’s OK,” DC King said.
“I think that’s enough for now,” DI Smyth said. “We’ll let you get some rest. You’re in good hands, and you don’t have to worry about the man who did this to you. We will find him, and we will make him pay for what he did. That’s a promise.”

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

“We’ve had a number of breakthroughs in the investigation,” DI Smyth began the morning briefing.

“How is the woman doing?” Bridge asked.

“Annabel Platt,” DI Smyth said. “She’s expected to make a full recovery.”
“Did you manage to get anything out of her?” Smith said.

“A lot more than I expected. We’ll discuss that in a minute. First I want to bring you up to date on the new developments from a forensics perspective. John Newton died as a result of a single gunshot wound to his abdomen. The chances of surviving a bullet to the stomach are around fifty-fifty, but in this instance the damage was extensive. The bullet entered his lower abdomen, made its way through his body and exited out of his back via the base of the spinal column. If Mr Newton had lived to tell his tale, he would have been confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.”
“That must have been quite a bullet,” DC Moore commented.

“That’s an understatement, Harry,” DI Smyth said. “Webber found the slug in the back of the car. After boring its way through John Newton, it still carried enough energy to pierce the driver’s seat.”
“Do we know what sort of firearm we’re looking at?” Bridge said.

“Not yet, but we can narrow it down a bit. The cartridge Webber found was either a .30 or a .32. He still has to carry out some further tests, but judging by the damage this bullet did Webber believes it to be of a high calibre – possibly custom made.”
“Where would someone even get hold of a gun like that?” Whitton wondered.

“Dark Web,” DC Moore suggested. “If you’ve got enough money and you know where to look, you can organise anything on there.”
“Forensics will keep us updated,” DI Smyth said. “But one thing is for certain – this man doesn’t play around. You shoot someone with a gun that holds such high calibre bullets, you want them dead.”

“Why did he shoot him?” DC Moore said. “He changed his MO with John Newton. The other victims were beaten to death.”
“Necessity,” Smith said, matter-of-factly. “I think he carried out a risk assessment, and realised the only way to make sure John Newton died was to shoot him.”
“Smith’s right,” DI Smyth said. “Danielle and Ian Swan were both slightly built people as were Tracy Richards and Annabel Platt. This man is extremely strong, but he didn’t want to risk things going wrong. We’ve since learned that John Newton was a champion kickboxer. He knew how to look after himself.”
“It’s possible The Hitchhiker knew this too,” Bridge said. “He wouldn’t take the chance of going up against someone with John’s skills.”
“Will people stop calling him that,” Smith said. “He’s no more a hitchhiker than any of us.”
“It’s what the press are labelling him,” DC Moore said.

“It doesn’t mean we have to call him that too.”

“So far we’ve managed to locate six of the nine remaining Green Envy Ford Fiestas registered in the city,” DI Smyth continued. “All of them had air tags taped to the undercarriages, and these tracking devices have since been removed. He is no longer able to track the vehicles and that will put him at a distinct disadvantage.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Smith said. “Maybe it would have been better to leave the tags alone.”

“But then he would still be able to track the location of the vehicles,” DC Moore said.

“Exactly.”
“No,” DI Smyth said. “Absolutely not.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know exactly what you were about to suggest,” DI Smyth said. “And it’s far too risky.”
DC Moore raised a hand in the air. “Could someone explain what it is I’m missing?”
“A sting,” DC King guessed.

“That’s right,” Smith confirmed. “We let him track the vehicles and we nail him when he strikes.”
“No,” DI Smyth said once more. “Not only is it extremely risky, but from an operational point of view it just isn’t viable. We simply don’t have the resources to put together something like that. He’s no longer able to keep track of the cars, and that will help us.”
“I don’t mean to put a downer on things,” Smith said. “But what’s to stop him getting hold of some more air tags and repeating the procedure? He’s out to prove a point, and this is a minor hitch at best.”
“The owners of the vehicles have been warned to be vigilant.”

“That isn’t going to stop him, boss.”

“Moving on,” DI Smyth said. “Annabel Platt is doing well. I spoke to someone at the hospital earlier – she’ll be in hospital for a while yet, but she’s expected to make a full recovery. When Kerry and I spoke to her last night she mentioned something peculiar. She was on her way to a friend’s house when she realised there was someone in the back seat of her car. He told her he had a gun, and he ordered her to drive to the football pitch in Rowntree Park. Just before they arrived, he started to ask irrational questions.”
“He wanted to know how long she’d owned the car,” DC King said.

“And he asked her if she’d ever picked up a hitchhiker,” DI Smyth added. “Specifically on the stretch of the A64 between a farm and the Travelodge in Tadcaster.”

“Colton Haggs Farm,” DC King said.

“Why would he ask her that?” Whitton said.

“Why indeed?” DI Smyth said.

“He sounds like a real nutjob,” DC Moore said.

“No,” Smith said. “This is important.”
“How?” Bridge asked. “What kind of murderer asks questions like that?”
“One who wants answers. What did Annabel tell him when he asked her about this?”
“She said she’d never picked up a hitchhiker on that stretch of road,” DI Smyth said. “She told him she’d driven on that road and that’s when he attacked her. What are you thinking?”
“Something about that stretch of road is important to him, boss,” Smith decided.

“It’s an ordinary road,” Bridge said. “I’ve driven it loads of times. It sounds to me like he’s delusional.”
“Everything he’s done so far has been the work of a determined individual with a specific agenda, and I have a feeling that stretch of road is at the heart of this agenda. We need to focus on it.”
     The discussion was cut short when PC Neil Walker came into the room. The press liaison officer apologised for interrupting.

“I was told to come and find you, Sarge,” he said to Smith.

“We’re in the middle of something,” Smith told him.

“What is it?” DI Smyth said.

“I’ve got the photographer and a woman from one of the local radio stations waiting.”
This was news to Smith. “What are you talking about?”
“I did send you an email,” PC Walker said.

“I haven’t checked my emails this morning.”
“We need to get the campaign rolling, Sarge.”
“Am I missing something?” It was DC Moore.

“My handsome husband is to be the face of a campaign warning people not to pick up hitchhikers,” Whitton explained.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” DC Moore said. “Are you saying that that face is going to be the face of a road safety campaign.”
“It’s a bit more than that,” PC Walker said.

“This is bloody brilliant,” Bridge said.

“Get it done,” DI Smyth said. “Quickly.”
“Do I have any say in this?” Smith said.

“None at all.”

“They’re waiting for you, Sarge,” PC Walker said.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

“Detective Sergeant Smith,” Yasmin Finch began.

The photo session wasn’t as painful as Smith had expected. It was over within five minutes and now Smith was sitting opposite a woman who didn’t look much older than Lucy. Yasmin was a short woman with smooth pale skin. Her brown eyes had never left his during the introductions, and Smith found her stare rather unnerving. Smith had suggested they conduct the interview in his office, and that is where they now sat. Yasmin had explained that the interview would be recorded and sent out via a live feed.

“What advice do you have for people who may be tempted to pick up hitchhikers?” she asked.

“Don’t,” Smith replied. “It’s as simple as that. It is unsafe.”
“Men especially?”
“Anyone,” Smith said.

“But you believe the person you’re looking for is a man, is that correct?”
“It is,” Smith confirmed. “But until we’re absolutely sure what we’re dealing with, I would advise people not to stop for anyone on the side of the road, and I would also warn people about hitching lifts from strangers.”
He was reminded again of the appeal by the police in Middlesbrough. The victim in that instance was a female hitchhiker.

“Are you any closer to closing in on this man?” Yasmin said.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Smith said.

“Is that going to be enough? Another woman was attacked last night, wasn’t she?”

“I can’t discuss that.”
This was very true. He and DI Smyth had talked about it at length, and both of them agreed that it would be best not to announce it to the world that the latest victim of The Hitchhiker had survived the attack. It was possible he would find her and finish off what he started.

“Is the fact that all the victims were driving the same make, model and colour of car significant?” Yasmin said.

“We believe it’s relevant, yes,” Smith said.

“How is it relevant?”
“I can’t comment on that. I suggest we wrap things up now. I’m sure you understand the workload we’re dealing with right now, and I need to get back to it. I’ll stress once more how important it is not to stop for hitchhikers.”
“Can I ask you one more thing before we conclude?” Yasmin said.

“Make it quick.”
“Will you catch him? Will you catch this man?”
“Yes,” Smith said. “We’ll catch him.”

* * *

“I wonder how Smith is getting on,” DC King said.

“This is torture of the worst kind for him,” Whitton said. “He’s still recovering from the press conference last night.”
“Did you watch it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“What that Daily Mail man said was beyond cruel,” DC King said.

“That’s the press for you.”
“How’s it going with the little girl?”
“Fran?” Whitton said. “I really don’t know. She hardly says a word to us. She spends a lot of time with Laura and Lucy though, and that husband of mine thinks they’re better equipped to help her get through this than we are.”
“He might have a point.”
“He has a very valid point,” Whitton said. “Speak of the devil.”

Smith came into the canteen and headed straight for the coffee machine. He chose a strong blend and joined them at their table.

“How did it go?” Whitton asked.

“Not as bad as I expected,” Smith said. “I still don’t know why I had to do it. Does this look like the face of a public campaign to you?”
He placed both hands on his cheeks.

“Not really,” Whitton said.

Smith took a sip of his coffee. “What are you up to?”

He nodded to the laptop on the table.

“We’re just taking a break,” Whitton said.
“The DI suggested we retrace the route Annabel Platt and her uninvited passenger took last night,” DC King told him. “We might get lucky and get some CCTV footage.”
“Uniforms can take care of that,” Smith said. “I want to look more closely at the questions he asked her.”
“You really think that’s important, don’t you?” Whitton said.

“Definitely. He asked those particular questions for a reason. Something happened on that stretch of road and whatever that is, is the key to why he’s doing this.”
“What though?” DC King said. “I had a quick look and as far as I could see, it’s a bit of a minor road no more than a couple of miles in length.”
“Have you looked on Google?” Smith said.

“No. Where would we even start?”
Smith rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

He pulled the laptop towards him. “What was the name of that farm again?”
“Colton Haggs Farm,” DC King said.

Smith keyed it in the task bar. “It says here that it’s a working farm and there’s also a B&B. It’s approximately seven miles from here.”

He typed in Tadcaster Travelodge.

“That’s another mile and a half further down the A64. There’s nothing between the farm and the Travelodge. Why did he mention this part of the road?”
“I don’t think it’s important, Sarge,” DC King said.

“It has to be, Kerry. Are you sure that’s what Annabel Platt said?”
“Positive,” DC King said. “She told us he asked her if she’d ever picked up a hitchhiker and he mentioned that stretch of the A64.”
“Something happened there.”
     He tried combining the names of the Farm and the Travelodge with recent incidents and nothing of interest came up.

“Fuck it. What am I missing?”
“Why don’t you just ask Google what happened?” Whitton suggested.

“I thought that’s what I was doing?” Smith said.

“Let me try.”
     She slid the laptop across the table and cleared Smith’s search.

“What happened between Colton Haggs Farm and the Travelodge on the A64,” she said as she typed. “Here we go, I think this is it.”
“What have you found?” Smith said.

Whitton clicked on the link and read what was written on the screen. Smith came and stood behind her.

“This is it,” he agreed.

There was a photograph of a young woman at the top of the page. Below it was a single word written in block capitals.

MISSING.

According to the article, Ingrid Harrison disappeared from Tadcaster in July 2017. She was twenty-one and she’d left work at five o’clock one afternoon and disappeared into thin air. Her parents opened a missing person’s file but nothing came of it. A witness claimed to have seen a woman matching her description the day after she disappeared. She was walking on the side of the A64 close to the Travelodge. Another man came forward later with something Smith thought Tadcaster Police had no option but to take seriously. His car had broken down on the stretch of road between the farm and the Travelodge and his dashcam had picked up a woman getting into a car up ahead. The footage wasn’t very clear – it was impossible to make out the registration number, but the make, model and colour of the vehicle was mentioned in the article. It was a Ford Fiesta SE, and the colour was called: Green Envy.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Why didn’t PC Green mention this?” Smith said.

He and DC King were on their way to Tadcaster. Smith found it highly suspicious that a police officer working there wouldn’t put two and two together.

“Perhaps he can’t remember,” DC King said. “Maybe he’s forgotten about the missing woman.”
“I don’t buy it. He knows that Danielle and Ian Swan drove a snot green Fiesta, and he will have known that Tracy Richards had one too. He’s a police officer for fucks sake. You don’t miss connections like that.”
     They’d called ahead and someone in Tadcaster had informed them that PC Green was on duty today. DI Smyth had been reluctant to authorise it – he was always wary of making waves with other police departments, but Smith had been adamant. This was the connection they’d been waiting for.

“There’s something I don’t understand, Sarge,” DC King said. “Tadcaster falls under the remit of York, doesn’t it?”
“They deal with the mundane shit themselves,” Smith said. “But anything more serious gets passed on to us. You’re wondering why we didn’t get wind of this?”
“I am. Plenty of people are reported missing, but when you’ve got a woman who was last seen getting into a car on a road not used by pedestrians surely you take it seriously. There should have been a full enquiry, and if Tadcaster didn’t think they could handle it, it should have been given to York.”
“Something’s going on here, Kerry,” Smith said. “That woman has been missing for more than four years. If she’d turned up it would be on record somewhere. Why has Tadcaster decided to bury it?”

“Let’s hope there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

The police station in Tadcaster was an L-shaped building right on the main road. Smith pulled into the car park and parked next to a patrol car. He didn’t care if the parking space was reserved. They got out of the car and headed for the entrance. A middle-aged man intercepted them before they got there.

“You can’t park there.”
Smith wondered if they had CCTV cameras. The angry looking man had acted quickly. He took out his ID and showed it to him.

“Oh,” the man said. “I suppose it’s alright then. Can I help you? The name’s George. PC George Abbot.”
“Do you work here?” Smith said.

“Been here for thirty years. I’ll be retiring next year.”
“Can we talk inside?”

“Of course.”

PC Abbot opened the door for them and told them to take a seat in the first room on the left. He would rustle up something to drink.

Smith and DC King obliged him. They went inside what looked like some kind of staff room. There was nobody else in there.

“This place is weird,” DC King commented. “Are you sure this is a police station?”
“There are loads of places like these in Yorkshire,” Smith said. “They don’t really have to deal with anything more serious than a drunk driver or maybe a robbery or two.

PC Abbot came in with a tray of coffee. He placed it on a table at the side of the room and told them to help themselves to milk and sugar. Neither Smith nor DC King did.

“What’s this all about?” PC Abbot asked.

“Can you remember a case four years ago?” Smith said. “A missing persons investigation – Ingrid Harrison?”

PC Abbot nodded. “I was the one who filed the report.”
“Who reported her missing?” DC King said.

“I think it was her parents. I’d have to check to make sure – we’re going back a bit.”
“It was four years ago,” Smith reminded him. “She went missing in July 2017.”

PC Abbot stirred some milk into one of the mugs of coffee. “Aren’t you going to have one?”
“Not right now,” Smith said. “Can you remember the details of Ingrid’s disappearance?”
“Not off hand. Like I say, I’d have to take a look at the report.”
“Could you do that please?” DC King said.

“Now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Smith said.

“You could have done everything back in York,” PC Abbot reminded him. “It’s all on file.”

“We’re aware of that,” Smith said. “But we wanted to speak personally to someone involved in the investigation – often, things get left out of reports.”

“I remember it now,” PC Abbot said. “She was reported missing when she disappeared after a birthday bash.”
“That’s correct,” Smith said. “And she was last seen on the A64 between Colton Haggs Farm and the Travelodge. A dashcam got footage of someone matching her description getting into a green Ford Fiesta. Can you remember if you followed up on that?”
“Probably.”
“Could you think harder? That dashcam footage was a vital piece of evidence. As far as I’m aware it was the last sighting of Ingrid Harrison. You couldn’t make out the registration number, but the colour of the car is very distinctive. You must have followed it up.”
“If we did, nothing came of it.”
     Smith was starting to get annoyed.

“Is there someone else we can speak to,” he said. “Someone who might remember more about the missing woman?”
“Anything you want to know about it, you can get from the file.”
PC Abbot’s tone told Smith that he wasn’t the only one who was finding the conversation painful.

“Is PC Green around?” he said.

“He was called out to a burglary,” PC Abbot said.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” DC King said.

“He’ll be out for as long as it takes. Why are you so interested in an old missing person’s case?”
“Because it’s looking like it wasn’t handled very well,” Smith said.

“Then I suggest you have a look at it and see if you can handle it any better,” PC Abbot said. “If you ask me, she never went missing in the first place.”
“What makes you think that?”
“She disappeared off the face of the earth, and that’s pretty easy to do if you set your mind to it. There was nothing to suggest she came to any harm, and that’s probably why it didn’t go any further.”
“From what you’ve told me,” Smith said. “It didn’t even get started.”
“You know as well as I do, we can’t afford to waste time on every single Tom, Dick, or Harry who decides to disappear – there aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“Not every Tom, Dick and Harry remain missing for four years,” Smith said. “But I suppose you’re right – you looked rushed off your feet here. We won’t keep you any longer. You say it was the parents who came in to report Ingrid missing?”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll get their details from the records.”
“You do that.”
“Thank you for your time,” Smith said. “We’ll probably be back.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

“There’s nothing in here about them making any attempt to follow up on the dashcam footage.”
Smith had brought what they knew from Tadcaster to the attention of the rest of the team and he’d found the missing person’s report on file.

“There’s a brief mention of the green Ford Fiesta, but that’s where it ends.”

“Nothing about checking out the registered owners of those particular cars?” Bridge said.

“Not a sausage. It looks to me like they didn’t even bother to look.”
“Why wouldn’t they follow it up?” Whitton said. “That dashcam footage is proof she was alive the day after the birthday party.”
“What about witness statements?” DC Moore said. “Were her family and friends questioned?”
“This file is about as thin as the Super’s hair, Harry,” Smith said. “The report was created on the 18th July 2017. That was the day after Ingrid disappeared. A few days later there’s a record of the parents returning to the Tadcaster police station with the info about the dashcam footage, but not much else.”
“It was the parents who got hold of the footage?” Whitton said. “How did they manage that?”
“It doesn’t say,” Smith said. “Possibly an appeal on social media. However they got hold of it, they did a better job than Tadcaster Police.”
“Are the parents’ details on there?” Bridge said.

“Of course. They’re our first port of call. It looks like Tadcaster dropped the ball in a rather spectacular manner, so I think liaising with them any further would be pointless.”

“Are you absolutely certain this missing woman has some bearing on the hitchhiker murders?” DI Smyth spoke for the first time.

Up until now he’d been a silent observer.

“Positive, boss,” Smith confirmed. “A woman disappears four years ago. She’s last seen getting into an unusually coloured car, and now we have a spate of murders of people who happen to own the same type of cars. I don’t know how the missing woman ties in with the hitchhiker killings, but they are definitely connected.”

“This is good,” DI Smyth said. “We have another avenue to explore. Before we head to Tadcaster, all guns blazing I want to do a bit of leg work. Get our ducks in a row before we storm in and upset anyone.”
“I’m not bothered about upsetting anyone,” Smith said.

“I’m well aware of that,” DI Smyth said. “But we’re not all like you. Harry, do you think you can find out if there actually was some kind of appeal on social media?”
“Easily, sir,” DC Moore said. “It’s becoming more and more popular. When people go missing their family and friends reach out on Facebook, Twitter and the like. If that’s what happened I should be able to find it, even if it’s been shoved into the archives.”

“Bridge,” DI Smyth said. “I want you to take a closer look at the missing woman.”
Smith held his hand up.

“We will be speaking to those closest to her in due course,” DI Smyth cut him short. “But before then we have to make absolutely sure she didn’t disappear of her own accord. Tadcaster didn’t dig very deeply by all accounts, and it’s possible they missed something as simple as a plane ticket. Find out if she left the country at all in the past four years. Go through the usual channels. It’s not easy to simply disappear these days, but it has happened in the past.”
“Are we reopening the missing person’s investigation?” Whitton said.

“Officially, no. What we’re doing is treating Ingrid Harrison’s disappearance as part of the current investigation. There are similarities we can’t afford to ignore.”
“The boss is right,” Smith agreed. “We’re going to be opening a big enough can of worms by bringing it all back to the family and friends, and we don’t want to make that can of worms any bigger than it needs to be.”

“Could you repeat that once more in English, Sarge?” DC Moore asked.

“What Smith is saying is we keep things simple, Harry,” DI Smyth translated. “Ingrid’s disappearance is currently a line of enquiry we’re following, nothing more nothing less. Whitton, you and Kerry can give Bridge a hand. Smith, I’ve got an assignment for you. How would you feel about tackling a profile on this murderer?”
“Are you going all American on us, boss?” Smith said.

“Something like that. You seem to have a knack when it comes to what makes a killer tick.”
“You’re asking me to come up with a motive?”
“That too,” DI Smyth said. “But I also want an idea about how he thinks. Try and figure out what his next possible move might be.”
“I’m not a criminal profiler,” Smith said.

“Get some help. You seem to be friendly with that psychologist – the one who helped us with The Loner investigation.”
“Is this really necessary?” It was Whitton.

“I think the boss might have a point,” Smith said. “I’ll make an appointment with Dr Vennell.”

“Off the books if you can arrange it,” DI Smyth said. “I’m not sure we have the budget for an expensive consultation fee.”
“I’m sure I can twist her arm.”

“Found it,” DC Moore said out of the blue.

“Harry?” DI Smyth said.

“There was an appeal on Facebook just two days after Ingrid Harrison went missing,” DC Moore said. “It was posted by a Graham Harrison – must be a relative, and there’s a couple of photos of her.”
“It’s not her father,” Smith said. “According to the report the people who reported her missing were Jack and Nellie Harrison. They’re Ingrid’s parents. Perhaps it’s a brother.”
“Anyway,” DC Moore said. “There was quite a response. The bloke who got the dashcam footage posted three days after the appeal went out.”
“The parents took the footage to Tadcaster Police,” Smith said. “And they did absolutely fuck all with it. There’s something rotten in Tadcaster, and I want to know why that is.”

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Dr Fiona Vennell informed Smith that she had a free morning. She had no appointments until one that afternoon, and they agreed to meet at her practice at eleven. Smith was surprised that DI Smyth had suggested this, but he didn’t think it would hurt to get a professional opinion on the man the whole city were talking about. The Hitchhiker was big news and there was very little else in the press and on social media right now.

Dr Vennell was waiting for him in the reception area. She wrapped her arms around him and Smith was worried she was going to kiss him. She didn’t. She broke the embrace and asked him to come through to her office. He recalled the first time he’d set foot inside Dr Vennell’s consultation room. He’d been injured on duty and part of his rehabilitation was a series of sessions with the young psychologist. He’d been clinically dead for a minute and a half, and a prerequisite to returning to active duty had been a professional confirmation that his mind and body were fit for duty. Smith had passed with flying colours, and a friendship of sorts had developed with the pretty doctor.

“I must admit, I wasn’t expecting your call,” Dr Vennell said. “Take a seat. Unless you’d feel more comfortable on the couch.”
“Very funny,” Smith said. “I’m not here to have my head shrunk. I need to pick your brains.”

“I’m intrigued. I assume you’re here to talk about The Hitchhiker.”
“You’ve been following it on the news?”
“You’d have to be living in outer space not to have heard about it. How can I help?”

Smith went on to explain what DI Smyth had suggested. He was reluctant to use the term criminal profile, but he told her that’s what he was after in essence.

“Is this an official consultation?” Dr Vennell asked.

“The boss asked if you could do it out of the goodness of your heart,” Smith told her.

She smiled and looked Smith in the eyes. “I thought so. Talk to me. What can you tell me?”

Smith told her everything. He knew he could trust her, and he knew that nothing that he told her would go any further.

“What are your thoughts on this man?” he said when he was finished.

“I think he’s driven by something deep seated,” Dr Vennell said. “The violence he’s displayed suggests a mind that disassociates itself from the human aspect of the killing. He’s driven, and his goal supersedes everything else.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“Killing those people was necessary to him.”

“He didn’t just kill them,” Smith said. “He mutilated three of them. The one who was shot was killed that way because he was considered more of a formidable opponent.”
“The level of aggression on display strikes me as something born of frustration. He transfers this frustration into the act of killing and that’s why the victims were subjected to somewhat unnecessary violence.”
“What is he frustrated about?” Smith asked.

“He’s a man on a mission. He has a specific goal, and I get the impression the people he’s killed so far are not his intended victims.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Smith said. “How can they not be his intended victims when he’s demonstrated that they are. He attacked them.”
A mobile phone started to ring on the table. Dr Vennell glanced at the screen and rejected the call.

“Where do we start looking for this psychopath?” Smith asked.

“Firstly, I don’t believe this man is a psychopath,” Dr Vennell said.

“He’s slaughtered four people. He subjected them to extreme violence. What else would you call him?”

“His behaviour is more typical of someone with sociopathic impulses. You said he spoke calmly to the woman who survived?”
“He asked his questions as though he was a close friend of hers,” Smith said. “It was like it was something completely normal for him.”

“Why did he let her live?”

“I don’t think he realised she was still alive,” Smith said. “She was beaten really badly, but I think she simply refused to die.”
He was reminded of the words of the song Lucy was playing.

This girl refused to die.

“Tell me what they spoke about,” Dr Vennell said.
“He asked about a particular stretch of road,” Smith said. “The A64 between a farm and a Travelodge. We’ve since learned that a woman disappeared on that bit of road four years ago. She was caught on dashcam getting into a green Ford Fiesta.”
“I assume you’ve made that the focus of the investigation.”
“It’s only just come to our attention,” Smith said. “But yes, that’s what we’ll be concentrating on. All of the victims were in the same make, model and colour of car.”
“I believe what you’ve got here is a simple case of retribution. He truly believes the missing woman was harmed by the driver of one of those cars. He doesn’t know the identity of the person who inflicted that harm so he’s leaving nothing to chance.”
“By killing everyone who owns one of those cars?” Smith said. “That’s completely insane.”
“Is it though? I think it displays a certain logic.”
     Smith was finding this hard to digest. He’d contemplated it, but the idea that someone would be willing to kill so many innocent people to get his revenge was preposterous.

“Collateral damage,” he said. “Is that what you’re saying, these people were collateral damage?”

“Something like that. He’s not going to stop until you make him stop.”
“I’m aware of that,” Smith said. “How do you suggest we catch him?”
“Your hitchhiker has a deep emotional connection to the woman who disappeared four years ago. That’s how you’re going to catch him.”
     Smith rubbed his eyes. “I need a drink.”
“How are you? How are you doing?”
“Same as always,” Smith said.

“How is the little girl?”
“Fran?” Smith said. “She’s got a long road ahead of her. She hardly says a word to me and Erica, but she gets on well with Laura and Lucy. Lucy knows what she’s going through – their circumstances are very similar, and I think the girls are better equipped to deal with helping Fran get through this than we are. I’m starting to have doubts about buying the house next door though.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Our house was starting to get a bit crowded,” Smith said. “So I bought the place next door. It’s the house where Fran’s mother was murdered. Maybe that was a dumb idea. Fran doesn’t seem to mind being there, but I’m not sure if she really understands everything that happened there.”
“Did she see her mother?” Dr Vennell asked. “Did she see the body?”
“Of course not,” Smith said.

“Then the memories she has of that house are good ones – positive ones. It’s possible her spending time there will speed up the healing process. She’s a little girl and she won’t fully understand for a long time, but you buying that house could be beneficial.”

Smith realised he’d got side-tracked. He wasn’t here to talk about his own problems.

“I’d better go,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”
“It’s always a pleasure,” Dr Vennell said.

She got to her feet and opened the door. Smith followed her out.

“Someone truly loved that missing woman,” Dr Vennell said by the door.

“That’s a sick, twisted kind of love,” Smith said.

“Love comes in all shapes and sizes – you of all people ought to know that.”

Smith didn’t know what to make of that.

“Thanks again,” he said.

“Don’t be a stranger, Jason.”

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

“There’s nothing to suggest that Ingrid Harrison left the country,” Bridge told the rest of the team. “Her passport expired in 2016 and it was never renewed. It’s possible she could be somewhere else in the UK but until we know more about her, we won’t know where to start looking.”
“It’s also possible she was murdered,” Smith said. “The missing person’s case wasn’t conducted well at all, and from what I’ve seen, Tadcaster didn’t try very hard to find her, but we can’t discount the possibility that she vanished because she was no longer alive.”
“Why didn’t the parents take it any further?” Whitton wondered. “If they suspected that Tadcaster weren’t taking it seriously, why didn’t they lodge a complaint?”
“Perhaps they did,” Smith said. “Perhaps they complained to the wrong people.”
“We should have been informed about it,” DC Moore said. “I mean York Police should have been notified.”

“It’s looking to me like this was handled badly from the onset,” DI Smyth said. “And I believe we need to do something about that.”
“I agree,” Smith said. “The dashcam footage wasn’t even considered. The woman disappeared into thin air – Tadcaster had evidence of life the day after she went missing, and they didn’t even bother to follow it up. Why do you think that is?”
“Someone in Tadcaster Police was involved in her disappearance?” DC King speculated.

“No,” DI Smyth disagreed. “For that to be the case it would involve more than one person. We need to conduct our own investigation into Ingrid Harrison’s disappearance. We go back to the very beginning and treat it as a fresh case.”
“And we do not liaise with Tadcaster,” Smith said.

“Agreed. The part of the county where Ingrid was last seen falls under the jurisdiction of York Police, so there’s no reason why they have to be involved. The file on Ingrid Harrison is paper thin and we’ll disregard the information in it. I want this done properly. It’s going to mean a lot more work, but it needs to be done.”

“Have we got anything more from forensics?” Smith asked.

“We have,” DI Smyth confirmed. “The bullet that Webber retrieved from John Newton’s car was definitely a .32. It was either fired by a .357 Magnum or a Ruger .327 and Webber is inclined to lean towards the latter. The damage Mr Newton sustained suggests an extremely powerful firearm was used – possibly a custom-built Single Seven. To put some perspective on it, the .357 Magnum is considered one of the most powerful handguns on the market but the Ruger outpowers it immensely. We’re talking around 45,000 psi.”
DC Moore whistled. “That is a serious weapon.”
“It is,” DI Smyth agreed. “Mr Newton didn’t stand a chance.”
“Where does someone get hold of one of those things?” Bridge said.

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Smith said. “He won’t have bought the gun legally – he’ll have covered his tracks. We haven’t got time to waste on a wild goose chase. He’s going to kill again, and he’s going to do it soon. I had a productive conversation with Dr Vennell and she reckons the missing woman is the key to this case.”

“We already know that,” DC Moore said.

“This hitchhiker, or whatever you want to call him has a strong emotional connection to Ingrid Harrison. Dr Vennell believes he’s under the impression that she was harmed by the driver of one of those green Ford Fiestas. That’s all he knows. He has no idea which one of the Green Envy Fiesta owners was responsible for whatever happened to Ingrid, so he’s targeting all of them.”
“That’s absolute madness,” Bridge argued.

“That’s what I said,” Smith told him. “But Dr Vennell is adamant that that’s what this is all about.”
“So, we find the people closest to Ingrid,” DC King said. “And we get closer to The Hitchhiker?”
“Something like that,” Smith said. “We look at her family and friends. Ingrid’s disappearance affected this man deeply.”

His phone started to ring. The screen told him it was Lucy, and he rejected the call. Whitton’s phone sounded a few seconds later. She looked across the table at Smith.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this.”

The call lasted less than half a minute. Whitton spent most of the call listening to what Lucy had to say.

“We’ll be right there,” she said and ended the call.

“What is it?” Smith said.

“It’s Fran,” Whitton said. “Lucy said Laura is in a right state. She ran next door in a real panic. Fran’s disappeared.”

* * *

“When did you last see her?” Smith asked Laura.

He’d driven straight home when Whitton had told him about Fran Rogers.

“She’s gone,” Laura said.

She was breathing quickly. Tears had dried in streaks on her face. Smith put his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

“It’s OK,” he said. “We’ll find her. She can’t have gone far. When did you last see her?”
“We were watching Peppa Pig,” Laura told him. “It was the one with the Mummy’s and Daddy’s race. Fran just got up and left the room. I thought she’d gone to the toilet, but she didn’t come back.”
“Let’s go and look for her, shall we?”

It didn’t take long to discover that Fran wasn’t inside the house any more. Smith checked every room in the house and the little girl was nowhere to be seen. He went outside into the back garden but she wasn’t there either. Laura had gone next door when Fran had been missing for five minutes, and Lucy had phoned him immediately. That was fifteen minutes ago, and Smith knew that if Fran had left the house she could be far away by now.

He needed to think.

“Has Fran ever mentioned anything about a place she likes to go when she’s sad?” he asked Laura.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why did she leave?”
“I think the episode of Peppa Pig reminded her of her mum, and it made her feel sad.”
“But she’s got a new mum and dad now.”
     The front door opened, and Lucy and Darren Lewis came inside. Fran Rogers was standing behind them.

“Where did you find her?” Smith asked.

“In the cupboard under the stairs,” Lucy said.

“She wouldn’t tell us what she was doing in there,” Darren added.

Smith looked at Fran. She was holding onto Lucy as though her life depended on it.

Smith crouched down in front of her. “Are you OK?”

She didn’t reply.

“You gave us quite a fright there,” Smith said. “That was a cool hiding place though. Do you want to carry on watching television?”
Fran remained silent.

“You can choose what to watch,” Smith said.

“The Wizard of Oz,” Laura suggested.

Fran let go of Lucy and the two girls raced inside the living room as if nothing had happened.

“Is she going to be alright?” Darren asked.

“It’s going to take time,” Smith said. “I think Peppa Pig brought back a few memories. We’re going to have to be mindful of stuff like that in future.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?” Lucy offered. “I can tell her about my dad.”
“Thanks,” Smith said. “I think that might help. How do you make an eight-year-old understand something like this?”

“I’ll speak to her,” Lucy said. “When she’s finished watching The Wizard of Oz.”
“I’d better get back to work,” Smith said.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Smith knocked on the door of number 3 Blackburn Terrace and he and DC King waited. The house in Woodthorpe was where Ingrid Harrison’s parents lived. Nellie and Jack Harrison hadn’t been forewarned of the visit.

The door was opened by a woman who looked to be in her early forties. She was dressed in a green tracksuit and her face was heavily made up.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Mrs Harrison?” Smith said.

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”
Smith took out his ID. “I’m DS Smith and this is DC King. Can we come in and have a chat?”
“What’s our Graham done now?”

“We’re here to talk about Ingrid,” DC King told her.

“Oh. I suppose you’d better come in then.”
     She told them to take a seat in the living room.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No thank you,” Smith said. “We’re sorry to come here unannounced, Mrs Harrison.”
“Call me Nellie, please. Mrs Harrison makes me sound old. I’m not yet forty.”
Smith did some quick mental arithmetic. Ingrid had been twenty-one when she disappeared. That was four years ago – if Nellie Harrison wasn’t forty yet it meant she’d given birth to Ingrid when she was very young.

“Is your husband home?” Smith said.

“He’s just popped to the shops,” Nellie said. “He shouldn’t be long. Why are you here? Please tell me it’s good news.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Four years we’ve waited for the knock at the door. The one where people like yourself are standing there, waiting to tell us our Ingrid isn’t coming back. She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Smith said.

“Why else would you be here?” Nellie said.

“We were hoping to speak to you and your husband about Ingrid,” DC King told her.

Right on cue the front door slammed, and the sound of footsteps could be heard in the hallway.

“That’ll be Jack,” Nellie said. “I’ll go and tell him you’re here.”
She got up and left the room. She was gone for quite some time. Smith could hear the low hum of voices, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” DC King whispered.

“It’s odd,” Smith said. “What have they got to talk about. Something’s going on here, Kerry.”
     Nellie came back inside the room with a man with a shaved head in tow.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I had to make sure Jack put the shopping in the right cupboards. Men.”
“What do you want?”
Jack Harrison looked to be around the same age as his wife. He was a serious-looking man with suspicious eyes. Smith got the impression that he wasn’t a big fan of the police.

He wasn’t mistaken.

“Four years,” he said. “It’s been four years since our Ingrid disappeared, and your lot have done sweet FA about it.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mr Harrison,” Smith said. “The investigation into your daughter’s disappearance wasn’t handled well.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Jack,” Nellie said. “Let him speak.”
Jack sat down and folded his arms.

He focused his eyes on Smith. “Go on.”
“It’s come to our attention,” Smith said. “That a number of leads were not followed up after Ingrid went missing.”
“You’re with York Police,” Jack said. “Is that right?”
Smith nodded. “It is. We knew nothing about the missing person’s report you filed. It was handled entirely by Tadcaster, and we weren’t informed. You’ll be glad to know that the case is far from closed.”
“Too little too late if you ask me. It’s been four years. Four long years not knowing if our baby girl is alive or dead. Do you know what that feels like? Do you have kids?”
Smith didn’t reply.

“We’re going to do everything we can to find out what happened to your daughter,” he said instead. “But to do that we need to start from the very beginning, and that involves speaking to everyone who knows Ingrid. Can you tell us a bit about her.”
“She was our whole life,” Nellie said. “I was very young when I had her, but we managed, didn’t we, Jack?”
“We did our best for her,” he confirmed.

“Can you remember the last time you saw her?” DC King asked. “I know it’s a long time ago.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Nellie said. “It was her birthday. She was twenty-one, and I wanted to hold a party for her.”
“She was having none of it,” Jack continued. “She said she’d rather go out with some of her mates.”
“That’s understandable,” Smith said. “Twenty-one is a funny age.”
“We settled on a compromise,” Jack said. “She could go out with her friends if she agreed to a birthday meal here first.”
“Sounds fair,” DC King said.

“She didn’t have a choice,” Jack said. “You live in my house you abide by my rules.”
“Ingrid still lived at home with you?” Smith said.

“She did,” Nellie said.

“And that was the last time you saw her?” DC King said.

Nellie nodded. “We had steak and kidney pie. I haven’t been able to touch one since.”

“Did you mention this to the police in Tadcaster?” Smith asked. “When you filed the missing person’s report, did you tell them she was going out with friends?”
“Of course we did,” Jack said.

“Do you know if they spoke to Ingrid’s friends?”
“I don’t think they did. They did sod all if you ask me.”

“We went there every day,” Nellie said. “To Tadcaster.”
“And every day we were given the same brush off,” Jack added. “The case is ongoing. We’ll let you know about any developments. Bullshit.”

“You set up a Facebook appeal,” Smith said. “Is that right?”

“It was our Graham’s idea,” Nellie said.

“Graham is your son?” DC King said.

“He’s eighteen. He was only fourteen when Ingrid went missing. It nearly broke him.”

“Where is he now?” Smith said.

“Out at a mate’s house,” Jack said.

“We’re going to need to talk to him,” Smith said.

“What for?”
“We’d like to get a full picture of Ingrid,” DC King said. “And that means talking to everyone who knows her.”

“A man came forward with some dashcam footage,” Smith said. “A woman matching Ingrid’s description was seen getting into a green car. Can you remember that?”
“Of course I remember it,” Jack said. “We took it to Tadcaster, and they said they would look into it.”
“Do you know if they did?”

“God knows. If they did, nothing came of it.”
“Do you still have that footage?” DC King said.

“You’ll have to ask our Graham about that,” Nellie said. “He set up the Facebook page, and he dealt with all the stuff on it.”

“Do you think it was definitely Ingrid in the clip?” Smith said.

“Without a shadow of a doubt,” Jack said.

“We really need to see it. And we’re going to need a list of the people she was supposed to be meeting the night of her birthday.”
“It was the bastard in the car,” Jack said. “He’s the one you need to be looking for.”
“We’ll speak to Ingrid’s friends,” Smith said. “We will do everything we can to get to the truth.”
“I’ll believe that when it happens,” Jack said.

“Jack,” Nellie said. “They’re trying to help.”
“I’ll believe it when it happens,” Jack said once more.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Ingrid?” Smith said.
“Of course not,” Nellie said. “Everybody loved her.”
“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?” DC King asked.

“No,” Jack replied without hesitation.

“Are you sure?” Smith said.

“I’m sure. We told her – boys are a distraction you don’t need until you’re older.”
“She was twenty-one,” Smith said.

“And she was about to do her final year at university,” Jack said. “Priorities apply. My house, my rules.”

Smith wasn’t sure what else to ask them. It was clear from the short time he’d been in their company that Jack was in charge in the Harrison household.

“If you can give us a list of Ingrid’s friends,” Smith said. “That would be great. And we’d like to speak to your son too.”
“Graham isn’t a big fan of the police,” Nellie said.

“Not many people are,” Smith said. “We’ll arrange a time for him to come in and speak to us.”

“Why now?” Nellie said. “Why are you suddenly so interested in what happened to Ingrid after all these years?”
“Like I said,” Smith said. “It’s come to our attention that her disappearance wasn’t handled very well, and we’re going to give the case the attention it deserves.”

“You’re not telling us everything,” Jack said.

Smith got to his feet. “We’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Greg Jarvis was running late. Again. Greg ran a Wednesday play group during the summer holidays, and he’d been late for all of them so far that summer. He never seemed to be able to get there on time. Something always held him up. Last week it was an Amazon delivery that had arrived at his house just as he was about to drive away. The delivery driver had kept Greg waiting for twenty minutes while he searched for the package in the back of the van.

Today, Greg was going to be late because he’d misplaced his car keys. He’d recently returned from a holiday in Greece and in his wisdom, he’d hidden the keys while he was away. He reasoned that if someone broke into his house while he wasn’t there, they wouldn’t be able to steal his car too. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Greg cursed himself for it. He’d searched the house from top to bottom, but the car keys remained elusive. He really couldn’t remember where he’d hidden them.

He looked in all the obvious places. Then he tried some more obscure ones. They weren’t in the laundry basket, nor did he find them in the fruit bowl. He checked the plant pots, inside and out with no success. He looked under the beds and he searched behind the sofa in the living room. He was going to be very late today.

It came to him when he walked into the kitchen. The door on the microwave was closed. Greg always kept it open. He’d read somewhere that it was a good idea to keep the microwave aired out when not in use. He wasn’t sure if the advice was good or not, but he always kept the door slightly open when it was switched off. He walked up to it and opened the door. The keys were on the glass tray inside.

The clock on the wall told him he was already thirty minutes late, so he quickly locked up the house and headed for his car. The green Ford Fiesta needed a clean. It was obvious that it had rained while he was in Greece and the paintwork was streaked with grime. Greg wasn’t aware that the police had come to visit him while he was away. He had no idea that they were there to warn him about being vigilant when driving the car, and he didn’t know that, if he’d been home, they would have asked him if they could give the vehicle a once-over. They would have found the small disc-like object underneath the car, and they would have removed it.

That’s why, when Greg Jarvis pulled away from the kerb, he was blissfully unaware that the location of his car was being monitored on a mobile phone less than a mile away. The dot on the screen of the phone was getting closer to the man observing it, and soon Greg would be forced to pick up an unwelcome passenger.

He wasn’t going to make it to the play group.

* * *

Smith had distributed the list of Ingrid Harrison’s friends to the team, and they were busy ticking the names off it. Smith and DC King had gone straight from Mr and Mrs Harrison’s house to an address close by. Karen Middleton shared a house with two other women in Foxwood and she’d told Smith that she was currently at home. She was happy to speak to them.

Karen was a chubby woman in her mid-twenties. The thick glasses she was wearing made her eyes look much bigger than they were. She invited Smith and DC King in and led them to a small living room.

“I must admit it was a bit of a shock hearing Ingrid’s name again,” she said.

“Were you and Ingrid friends?” Smith said.

“We were in the same year at Uni,” Karen said. “We used to hang out quite a bit.”
“What did you study?” DC King asked.

“Economics. I’m still there - I’m in the middle of my PhD.”
“Was that what Ingrid studied?” Smith said.

“Hell no,” Karen said and laughed. “That’s far too square for Ingrid. She was doing some fine arts degree.”
“But you were still friends?”
“Like I say, we hung out. We’d go for drinks every now and then.”
“What was she like?” DC King said.

“She was probably the most free-spirited person I’ve ever met. Which is odd when you think about it.”
“Why is it odd?” Smith said.

“She was a free soul even with a father like hers. He was a bit controlling if I recall.”
“He was overly strict?”
“I only met him the once,” Karen said. “I might have misread him, but I didn’t like him much. My dad is the total opposite, so I could be a bit biased. Why are you asking about Ingrid after all these years?”
“We’re just following up on some new information,” DC King said.

“Were you there for Ingrid’s twenty-first birthday celebrations?” Smith said.

“We went out for a few drinks,” Karen said.

“That was the night before she disappeared,” DC King said. “Can you remember where you went?”
“We did a few pubs in town, and I think we went to a club afterwards.”
“How did Ingrid seem to you?” Smith said.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you get the impression that anything was bothering her?”
“Not that I recall,” Karen said. “She was her usual, chilled self. Have you found her?”
“No. Do you know if she had a boyfriend at the time?”
“I think she’d just broken up with someone,” Karen said.
“Do you have a name for us?”
“Peter something,” Karen said. “No, it was Ian. Ian Peters.”
“Do you know why they broke up?” DC King said.

“He was a bit full on.”
“Full on?” Smith repeated.

“Possessive. He was obsessed with her. He would turn up, uninvited wherever she went. I remember he was quite creepy.”
“And Ingrid broke it off?” Smith said.

“I think she got sick of him always following her around,” Karen said. “He was not right in the head, if you ask me. I heard he’d been discharged from the army on medical grounds. Psychological grounds, more like it.”
“Do you know what car he drove?” Smith asked.

“What?”
“It doesn’t matter. Did the police question you when Ingrid disappeared?”
“Yes,” Karen said. “I think they spoke to all of us who were at the twenty-first. They think it’s the last time she was seen.”

“Can you remember what questions they asked.”

“Not off hand. I think they just wanted to know if anyone would want to hurt Ingrid.”
“Do you think she could have disappeared on purpose?” Smith said.

“Of course not,” Karen said. “Who would do such a thing?”

Smith wasn’t quite sure what to think about what Karen Middleton had told them. It was looking more and more likely that Ingrid Harrison had been killed soon after she got into the green Ford Fiesta. Everything they’d dug up was pointing in that direction.

“Did Ingrid have a best friend?” he asked. “It seems like you and she were not really close.”
“We weren’t,” Karen confirmed. “We just hung out every now and then. I think her best friend was called Bobbie. Bobbie Davis.”
Smith thought back to the list Ingrid’s parents had compiled – Bobbie Davis’s name wasn’t on it.

“Was Bobbie also at university with you?” he said.

“No,” Karen said. “I think they knew each other from school, but they kept in touch. Why are you bringing this back up after four years?”
Smith didn’t reply.

“We won’t take up any more of your time,” he said instead. “Thank you for your help.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

“I still think about her every day.”
Bobbie Davis was a tall, pretty woman with unusual amber eyes. She worked at a café in the city centre, and she agreed to speak to Smith there during her break. They were sitting at one of the outside tables. The lunchtime rush was over and only one of the other tables was occupied.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Bobbie asked.

“Feel free,” Smith said.

Bobbie took out her cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply.

“That’s better. It’s been a busy day. You’ve gotta love the tourist season in this city.”
She took another, long drag. “I’d better enjoy it while it lasts. They’ve already banned smoking outside in most of the northeast, and it won’t be long before York follows suit.”

“Can you tell us about Ingrid Harrison?” Smith said.

“She was a beautiful person,” Bobbie said. “A real old soul. I can’t believe what happened to her.”
“What do you think happened to her?” DC King said.

“I think she was killed by the man who gave her a lift.”
“What makes you think that?” Smith said.

“It’s the only logical explanation. She’s been gone for four years. You hear about it all the time, don’t you? Bodies being found years after the person disappeared.”

“You and Ingrid were friends, weren’t you?” Smith said.

“Since senior school,” Bobbie said.

“You stayed friends even when she went to university?” DC King said.

“She studied here in York. I wanted to go to Uni too, but I couldn’t afford it.”
“She lived with her parents when she attended university,” Smith said. “Is that right?”
“She didn’t have much choice.”
“Money?”
“Her dad. He’s a bit of a control freak. He didn’t want her messing around when she should be studying, not that she didn’t do that anyway.”
“What do you mean by that?” DC King said.

“She was old enough to make her own mind up about stuff like that,” Bobbie said. “Her dad couldn’t control her twenty-four-seven.”
“You didn’t like him much then?” Smith said.

“We hardly spoke. His rules didn’t help Graham, did they?”
“Ingrid’s brother?” DC King said.

“Golden Graham,” Bobbie said. “They think the sun shines out of that kid’s arse. They’re too blinded by their delusions of his virtue that they can’t see what he really is.”
“And what’s that?” Smith said.

“A common criminal.”
“He’s only eighteen.”
“He’s been picked up by the police on and off since he was thirteen years old. Of course, it’s never his fault. The police are just picking on him. Give me a break.”

“Do you know a man by the name of Ian Peters?” Smith asked.

“Persistent Peters,” Bobbie scoffed.

Smith wondered if she had a nickname for everyone she met.

“Were Ingrid and Mr Peters serious about each other?” he asked.

“At first.”
“Then what happened?” DC King said.

“He got a bit intense,” Bobbie said. “Ingrid wasn’t up for a serious, long-term relationship. She just wanted a bit of fun, and she was committed to her studies. She broke it off, and Ian wasn’t happy about it.”
“How do you mean?” Smith said.

“I think stalker is the word I’d use to describe Ian Peters.”
“He was ex-military, wasn’t he?”

“God help us all,” Bobbie said. “If that’s what we’ve got defending the country. He was discharged on medical grounds, but we all know what that means, don’t we?”
“He was medically unsuitable for the army?” Smith guessed.

“Mentally unsuitable more like it. That man isn’t right in the head.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr Peters?”
“The night before Ingrid disappeared,” Bobbie said.

“At her twenty-first birthday?” DC King said.

Bobbie nodded and lit another cigarette.

“Was he invited?” Smith asked.

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I knew.”
“He wasn’t invited,” Bobbie said. “He just appeared. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was tracking Ingrid’s phone.”

“Did you speak to the police after Ingrid disappeared?” Smith said. “Karen Middleton said the police spoke to all the people at the birthday thing.”
“They did ask me a few questions,” Bobbie said. “But I got the impression they weren’t taking her disappearance very seriously. It was like they thought Ingrid was wasting their time. They even suggested that she’d done a runner on purpose.”
“Did you believe she had?”
“Of course not. She would have told me if she was planning on leaving. I was her best friend.”

“Did Ingrid tell you anything about her plans for the day after her birthday?” Smith said.

“She was pretty drunk,” Bobbie said. “Who wouldn’t be on their twenty-first? I imagined she’d be sleeping off a mother of a hangover.”
“She didn’t make any plans to go anywhere?”

“Not with me, she didn’t.”

“Can you think of why she would be on the A64 close to Tadcaster?” DC King asked.

“I really have no idea,” Bobbie said.

Smith’s phone started to ring. The sound of Elvis Costello singing about Oliver’s Army told him it was DI Smyth. Smith stood up and walked away from the table.

“Boss,” he answered it.

“There’s been another one,” DI Smyth said.

Smith sighed. “I was expecting there to be.”

“A man was found in a green Ford Fiesta in almost exactly the same place as the first victims. Half of his head has been blown off.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

The man who had been unfortunate enough to stumble across something he would remember for the rest of his life wasn’t available for comment. After the initial shock, he’d regained sufficient composure to take out his phone and call the police but when the first officers arrived on the scene, they found him unconscious on the ground next to the car. An ambulance had taken him to hospital.

“You can’t blame him for fainting.” It was PC Griffin.

The beak-nosed constable had been one of the first officers to get there.

“Is it that bad?” Smith asked him.

“I’m not squeamish, Sarge,” PC Griffin said. “But I must admit I felt a bit funny when I saw what was left of his head.”
Smith reckoned he didn’t need to see the carnage in the car.

“Do we know who he is?” he asked.

“Gregory Jarvis, Sarge,” PC Griffin said. “According to the driving license in his wallet. His name was on the list of the people who owned the green Fiestas but he wasn’t home when we went there to warn him. His neighbour told us he’d gone on holiday. He’s ticking them off a list, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Smith confirmed. “How many other Green Envy Fiesta owners are still unaccounted for?”

“Two. We managed to locate most of them, but we were unable to get hold of three. The bloke missing half his head was one of them.”
“Find the other two,” Smith said.

“We’ve tried, Sarge.”
“Try harder. Unless you want two more corpses on your conscience.”
     He walked away and lit a cigarette. The Green Envy Ford Fiesta was parked only a few metres from where Ian and Danielle Swan’s car had been found, and Smith found this difficult to believe. The Hitchhiker was getting brazen. The police tape from the scene of the Swan double murder was still flapping in the breeze, and Smith wondered if the killer was now taunting them. Did he believe himself to be invincible?

Grant Webber and Billie Jones walked over.

“I’m not carrying on until the body has been removed,” the Head of Forensics said.

“I’ve got plenty of photographs,” Billie added.

She didn’t look remotely fazed by the damage that had been inflicted to Greg Jarvis.

“Is it the same weapon that was used to kill John Newton?” Smith asked.

“Without a shadow of a doubt,” Webber confirmed. “Ruger .327 Federal Single Seven. Not many handguns can almost take a man’s head off.”

“Do you think he’s finished?” Billie said. “Do you think he’ll carry on killing?”
“He will,” Smith said. “He truly believes someone driving one of those particular cars is responsible for killing a woman who disappeared four years ago, and he’s not going to stop until he’s eliminated all of them. He came back to the scene of the first murders, and that’s extremely unusual, not to mention risky.”
“He got away with it once,” Webber said. “Why not try his luck again?”
“This one’s really starting to get under my skin.”
“All of them get under your skin.”
“Not like this,” Smith said. “We know why he’s doing it, and we know how he does it, so why does he keep getting away with it?”
“That’s a question only you can answer,” Webber said. “About time.”
An ambulance pulled up and two paramedics got out. Webber made his way over to them.

Smith took out his phone and brought up Bridge’s number. He and DC Moore had found the address for Ingrid Harrison’s ex-boyfriend, and they’d gone to speak to him. Smith wanted to know what Ian had to tell them. He pressed call, and soon afterwards a monotone voice told him the person who he was trying to contact was not available at present.

* * *

Ian Peters was a well-built man with short brown hair. He was wearing a tight T-shirt that showed off his impressive biceps. It was clear that he spent a lot of time in the gym. He scrutinised Bridge’s and DC Moore’s IDs and invited them into his house in Foxwood.

Bridge explained what they were doing there, and he got the impression that Ian had been expecting a visit from the police. He didn’t seem surprised to see them at all.

“When was the last time you saw Ingrid Harrison?” DC Moore asked.

“The night before she was abducted,” Ian said. “Four years ago.”

“What makes you so sure she was abducted?” Bridge said.

“I saw the footage of her getting into the car.”
“You and she were in a relationship,” Bridge said. “Is that correct?”
Ian nodded. “We were in love.”
“And I believe she was the one to end it.”
“She didn’t exactly break it off,” Ian said.
“That’s not what some of her friends have told us,” DC Moore said.

“They’re wrong. Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bridge said. “You went out for drinks with her on her twenty-first birthday, didn’t you?”
“I was there, yes.”
“Was that the last time you saw her?”
“Probably.”
“It either was or it wasn’t,” DC Moore said.

“It was.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Bridge said.

“She was abducted and killed.”
Bridge wasn’t expecting this.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

“I saw the dashcam footage on the Facebook appeal,” Ian said. “She was captured on camera getting into that green car. That was the last time anyone saw her. It doesn’t take a genius to fill in the gaps.”
“There is nothing to suggest that she came to any harm,” Bridge said.

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t. Bodies turn up years after the person has been killed – you hear about it all the time.”
“So, you think someone murdered her?” DC Moore said.

“It’s the only logical explanation.”

“You spent some time in the armed forces, didn’t you?” Bridge said.

“Army,” Ian said. “I joined up straight out of school, and I left in the summer of 2016.”
“Why did you leave?” DC Moore asked.

“Health reasons.”
“What was wrong with you?” Bridge said.

“I’d rather not say.”
“Fair enough. We can find out from your army records.”
     Ian stood up so abruptly it caught Bridge by surprise.

“What the fuck has my time in the army got to do with Ingrid’s murder?”

“Calm down, Mr Peters,” DC Moore said. “Sit down.”

Ian walked up to the TV unit and ran his hands through his hair. He turned around and sat back down on the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Ingrid’s murder really affected me, and you being here has brought it all back.”
“We still don’t know if she was murdered, Mr Peters,” Bridge said. “Her disappearance was investigated, and there was no evidence that she came to any harm.”
“It wasn’t investigated very well, was it?” Ian said. “The police in Tadcaster knew about the green car, and they didn’t even bother to follow it up. It was a strange coloured car, and there aren’t many of them about so why did they not bother to check?”
“We don’t know if that was the case,” DC Moore said.

“I know. I followed their investigation. I hounded them every day, and in the end, I was warned to back off.”

“Who warned you to back off?” Bridge said.

“Someone in Tadcaster.”
“And did you? Did you back off?”
“A woman I loved was killed,” Ian said. “Of course I didn’t back off. Nobody seemed to give a shit, and that wasn’t right. I did some digging of my own. You couldn’t make out the registration number on the dashcam footage, but the colour of the car was very clear. It’s called Green Envy and there aren’t many of them about. I went to Tadcaster with this information, and they said they would look into it. But they didn’t, did they?”
“How can you be so sure of that?” DC Moore said.

“I just know.”
“Did you carry on digging?” Bridge said.

“I didn’t know where else to look. All I had was the colour of the car.”

“What do you do for a living now?” DC Moore asked.

“This and that,” Ian said. “I do odd jobs for people.”
“Were you working on Monday?” Bridge said.

“No. I haven’t had much on for a while.”
“Where were you on Monday?”

“At home.”
“All day?” DC Moore said.

“I was here all day.”
“You didn’t go out at all?” Bridge said. “What about later that night?”
“I was at home.”

“Were you at home yesterday too? Between ten and noon?”
“Am I being accused of something?” Ian said.

“Could you just answer the question, please?” Bridge said.

“I didn’t go out yesterday,” Ian said. “I haven’t left the house in almost a week.”
“Can anyone confirm this?” DC Moore said.

“I live on my own, so no. What is this?”

“Were you expecting a visit from the police, Mr Peters?” Bridge said.

“No,” Ian said. “Why would I be?”
“Most people would react when they realised it was a couple of detectives on their doorstep, but you didn’t seem fazed at all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Very well. Have you been following the news recently?”
“I don’t watch the news,” Ian said. “It’s all doom and gloom these days.”
“You’re not wrong there,” Bridge said. “We won’t take up anymore of your time.”

He got to his feet. DC Moore did the same.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Bridge said.

“It wasn’t me,” Ian called out when they were halfway to the door.

Bridge turned around. “What wasn’t you?”
“It wasn’t me who killed the people in the green Ford Fiestas.”
“I thought you said you didn’t watch the news.”
“I heard about it on Facebook. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Bridge said.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

“Ian Peters was hiding something,” Bridge said.

“That’s Ingrid Harrison’s ex?” DI Smyth said.

“It is. He wasn’t surprised to see us, and he said a few things that made me suspicious. He spoke about the green Ford Fiestas like they were important to him.”
“He discussed it with Tadcaster,” DC Moore said. “And when they didn’t take it seriously, he set off on his own personal crusade. He’s convinced that Ingrid was killed by the driver of the car in the dashcam footage.”
“He has no alibi for the times of any of the murders,” Bridge added. “He’s built like a brick shithouse, and he has a strong connection to Ingrid Harrison.”

“When me and Kerry spoke to some of Ingrid’s friends,” Smith said. “They mentioned something about him being mentally unstable. They seemed to believe that he was discharged from the army on these grounds.”
“How easy is it to get hold of army records?” Whitton asked.

“It’s time-consuming,” DI Smyth said. “Under normal circumstances.”
“I’m not following you, boss,” Smith said.

“Usually, we’d have to put in a formal request to access official military personnel files, and that’s quite a process, but there are ways around that?”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Smith said.

“I’m glad you do.” It was DC Moore. “Because I have no idea what the DI is talking about.”
“Let’s just say I still have friends in the military, Harry,” DI Smyth told him.

“Ah,” DC Moore said.

“Pete Richards has concluded the forensic analysis of the hairs found in the back of one of the cars,” DI Smyth said. “Analysing animal hairs is different from the examination of human hairs in that the results are far from conclusive without carrying out a DNA test, but the samples of hair taken from the car are a damn close match to those taken from Gordon Green’s property.”
He opened up a file in front of him.

“Two individual tests were carried out,” he carried on. “The medulla test consists of analysing the central canal in the hair sample under a light microscope. Two samples can be compared and matched using a comparative light microscope and we’ve got a match in this instance. The chemical analysis examination confirmed it further.”
“Are these tests any good as evidence?” Smith asked.

“Unfortunately, not,” DI Smyth said. “As I said, without a full DNA analysis, it’s circumstantial at best.”

“And a full DNA analysis can take weeks,” Smith said.
“But it’s enough to look at Gordon Green again,” DC Moore said.

“It is,” DI Smyth confirmed.

Smith agreed. He didn’t believe Gordon Green was The Hitchhiker, but there was something else they needed to consider.

“Gordon Green isn’t The Hitchhiker,” he said.

“How do you explain the dog hairs?” Bridge said.

“Simple transfer. My dogs don’t shed as much hair as some dogs, but they do lose quite a bit, and our furniture gets dog hair on it. You can’t help getting some of the stuff on your clothes when you sit on the sofa.”
“Gordon Green knows the killer,” DC King said.

“He’s been to Gordon’s house, Kerry,” Smith said. “He’s sat down in the living room. That’s how he got the dog hairs on his clothes. We know that Gordon had a perfect alibi for the time of one of the murders. He was enjoying the pleasure of our company, but we haven’t considered the possibility that this killer isn’t working alone.”
“It makes sense when you think about it,” Whitton said. “Having a police officer on board gives you a number of advantages.”
“It could have been Gordon who looked into the owners of the greed Ford Fiestas,” DC King suggested. “I don’t think a member of the public would have easy access to that kind of information.”
“That’s correct,” DI Smyth said. “But we need to ask ourselves why? What is PC Green hoping to achieve out of this? We know he was working in Tadcaster when Ingrid Harrison disappeared, and we know he worked on the missing person’s report. Why would he condone what’s happened in the past few days?”

Smith thought hard about this.

“We’ve neglected something,” he said after a while.

“It won’t be the first time,” DI Smyth said.

“If we’re reopening the Ingrid Harrison disappearance from scratch,” Smith said. “We have to look into the Green Envy Ford Fiestas from four years ago.”
“It’s likely quite a few of them will have changed owners since then,” DC King said. “Not everybody likes to keep hold of the same car for decades.”
“Are you referring to me?” Smith said.

“She has a point,” Whitton said. “But you’re right – it’s very possible some of the Fiestas from 2017 will have changed hands since.”

“The Hitchhiker doesn’t seem to think so,” DC Moore said.

“It needs checking out,” DI Smyth agreed. “Harry, that’s a job for you.”
“I’ll get onto it straight away, sir,” DC Moore said.

He retreated to the back of the room and opened his laptop.

“I need to make a few phone calls,” DI Smyth said. “I still have some contacts from my army days.”
He got up and left them to it.

“Let’s hypothesise a bit,” Smith suggested. “Let’s say Gordon Green is in league with The Hitchhiker. He was involved in the missing person’s case four years ago, and by all accounts it didn’t really gain any momentum. Ingrid Harrison disappeared and not much was done about it. Why is that?”
“Lack of evidence?” Bridge said.

“The green Fiesta was never investigated,” Smith said. “That footage was gold as far as a missing person’s case is concerned. There’s nothing on record to suggest they even bothered to look into it, and that’s bothering me. Either Tadcaster Police are unbelievably incompetent or the car was overlooked for a damn good reason.”
“Why though?” Whitton said. “Why ignore it?”

“There has to be an explanation, but I can’t think of one.”

“I think I can, Sarge,” DC Moore said from the back of the room.

“Harry?” Smith urged.

“You’ll never guess what car Gordon Green used to drive?”
“You’re kidding me?” Bridge said.

“It’s all here in black and white,” DC Moore said. “He bought it in 2015 and it was sold in August 2017.”
“That was a month after Ingrid Harrison disappeared,” Whitton worked out.

“And there’s more. The Green Envy Ford Fiesta SE was sold to none other than Tracy Richards. PC Green sold his car to the third victim of The Hitchhiker.”

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Smith informed DI Smyth about the revelation about Gordon Green’s old car and he was told to hold off before arresting him again.

“What more do you need, boss?” Smith said. “Why didn’t he tell us he’d sold a car to one of the victims?”

“Perhaps he wasn’t aware of it,” DI Smyth said.

“Come on,” Smith said. “He knew all about it, and I’m starting to think it was his car in the dashcam footage. That’s why it was buried. It’s looking like he killed Ingrid Harrison.”
“Hold your horses. We don’t know if Miss Harrison was actually murdered, and without a body, you know how hard it is to prove. You’re also forgetting something else.”
“What am I forgetting?”
“We’re assuming that this murderer is killing people to avenge the death of Ingrid – why would the person who killed her do that? It makes no logical sense.”
“Nothing about this investigation has made any logical sense,” Smith said. “And it’s eating away at me. Who the hell is this maniac?”

“Naturally, we will be speaking to PC Green again,” DI Smyth said. “But there are a few other people we still need to talk to first. My contact in the military has promised to get back to me later this afternoon with the details about Ian Peter’s time in the army, and we’ll see where that leads, but I want you to have a word with Ingrid Harrison’s brother in the meantime. He was the one that set up the Facebook appeal, and he might be able to give us something new.”

“This bastard needs to be stopped,” Smith stated the obvious.

“I believe what he did to the latest victim was like something out of a zombie apocalypse video game.”

“I didn’t know you were into video games.”
“I’m not, but the description of the damage done by the bullet didn’t sound pleasant.”
“I didn’t have a look,” Smith said. “I don’t know what to make of this one, boss.”
“It’ll come to you,” DI Smyth said. “It usually does.”

* * *

Nellie Harrison didn’t seem especially pleased to see Smith and DC King again so soon. Nevertheless, she invited them in and told them to take a seat in the living room while she went to fetch her son. Smith had taken a chance that Graham Harrison would be home, and he was in luck. The eighteen-year-old was upstairs in his room.

Graham looked older than his eighteen years. He was a tall, thin young man with brown, greasy hair. He looked like he’d made an attempt to grow a beard and failed miserably. Patches of facial hair sprouted randomly from his chin and under his nose. Smith knew he’d had his fair share of run-ins with the law and expected him to be on guard.

“Do I need to be here?” Nellie asked.

“That’s not necessary,” Smith told her. “Graham is eighteen, and it’s better if we speak to him alone.”
Nellie shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll be outside in the backyard if you need me. The roses need some attention.”
She left the room and Graham sat down on the single-seater armchair.

“I haven’t done nothing.”
“Anything,” Smith corrected. “I haven’t done anything. We’re not here about what you may or may not have done. We’d like to talk about your sister.”

“I haven’t seen her for four years.”
“We’re aware of that. Were you and Ingrid close?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I’m some kind of perv?”
“I’m saying nothing of the kind,” Smith said. “You’re her brother – did you get on well?”
“I suppose so.”
“It was you who organised the Facebook appeal, wasn’t it?” DC King said.

Graham nodded. “I thought it might help.”
“Someone posted some dashcam footage,” Smith said. “It showed a woman who looked like Ingrid getting into a green car on the stretch of road between Colton Haggs farm and the Travelodge on the A64. Your parents took the footage to the police, but nothing came of it.”

“I was with them. I went to Tadcaster Police station with them.”
“I didn’t know that,” Smith said. “What did you think about the way they handled the dashcam footage?”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the last time Ingrid was seen,” Smith said. “And the police didn’t seem to take it seriously. Did that piss you off?”
Graham’s mouth opened wide, but no words came out.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your sister?” Smith asked.

“No.”
“Did she have any enemies? People who didn’t like her?”
“Probably,” Graham said. “Look, I was fourteen when she left. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Did Ingrid mention anything to you about wanting to get away?” DC King said.

“Get away from what?”
“I don’t know,” DC King said. “From home, from your parents.”
Graham shook his head.

“How did Ingrid get on with your father?” Smith said.

“What kind of question is that?” Graham said.

“A pretty simple one. Did she and your dad get on well?”
“Not really.”

“Why was that?” Smith said.

Graham turned his head and looked at the open door. Smith got up and closed it.

“Talk to me, Graham,” he said. “Your mum can’t hear you.”
“The answer to your question is no,” Graham said. “Ingrid hated Dad. He treated her like a kid even though she was twenty-one.”
“He was a bit overprotective?” DC King said.

“Way too much.”

“Did you meet Ingrid’s boyfriend,” Smith said. “Ian Peters?”

“I heard about him,” Graham said. “But I never met him.”
“Why not?”

“Why do you think? Ingrid wasn’t stupid enough to bring him round here. Dad would have killed him.”
“Even though she was twenty-one?” DC King said.

“Ian was quite a bit older than her,” Graham said. “Almost thirty I think.”
“But you never met him?” Smith said.

“He sounded alright. He was in the army.”
“So I believe. Did Ingrid talk about him a lot?”
“Not really,” Graham said. “She made me promise not to tell Dad about him.”
“Did your mother know about the relationship?” DC King said.

“I think so.”
“But your dad didn’t?” Smith said.

“Why are you asking me about Ingrid’s ex?” Graham said. “I never even met the bloke.”
     The door opened, and Nellie Harrison came back in.

“Our Jack is on his way back from the pub,” she said. “You’d better make yourself scarce.”
“Why would we want to do that?” Smith said.

“Because he won’t be best pleased to see you here talking to Graham.”
“It can’t be helped,” DC King said.

“Please,” Nellie begged. “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s had a few.”
“OK,” Smith said. “I think we’re finished here anyway. Just one more thing. When you went to Tadcaster Police with the dashcam footage, can you remember who you spoke to?”
“It wasn’t the same man who helped us open the missing person’s case,” Nellie said.

Smith remembered the old PC who’d told them they couldn’t park where they’d parked. He said he was the one who opened the case.

“Was it a stocky man?” Smith said. “He would have been in his mid-twenties back then.”
“I think so,” Nellie said.

“PC Green,” Graham said out of the blue. “It was PC Green.”
Smith looked at DC King.

“Are you absolutely sure?” he asked Graham.

The teenager nodded. “I remember him.”
“And you gave him the dashcam footage?” Smith said.

“I remember him because he acted weird when we brought it in.”
“What do you mean?” DC King said.

“He asked if we were still running the appeal on social media, and when I told him we were he told me to take down the footage. He said it was a police matter, and the dashcam footage was now official evidence in a missing person’s case. He said the police would take it from there.”

CHAPTER FORTY

It was getting late, and everyone on the team was dog-tired. It had been a draining day, and the new information they’d received hadn’t made anything any clearer. If anything, the mystery surrounding The Hitchhiker had deepened and they were even further away from figuring out who he was. Smith brought the team up to date on how Gordon Green had reacted when the dashcam footage was brought to his attention, and everyone agreed it was extremely suspicious. Why had he wanted the footage removed from social media?

“Before we discuss that,” DI Smyth said. “I managed to get hold of Ian Peter’s military records.”
He’d printed them out and they were on the table in front of him.

“Mr Peters joined up in 2005, when he was eighteen. After his basic training he was shipped straight off to battle in Afghanistan. 2006 was a bad year in Helmand – I know from experience, and the soldiers were drawn into heavy firefights in Musa Quala and the like. Ian was stationed in Camp Bastian and he saw his fair share of carnage over there. Not an ideal situation for a teenager.”

“Why was he discharged?” DC Moore asked.

“I’m coming to that,” DI Smyth said. “Ian left Afghanistan in 2008 only to be deployed again the following year. He’d reached the rank of corporal by then and he was sent to take part in Operation Panther’s Claw. It was a major operation, and the objective was to provide security for the upcoming elections. Nobody expected what happened next. The British troops came under heavy fire, and it was the bloodiest time in the campaign. More than a hundred British soldiers died in 2009 alone.”
“Ian must have seen some terrible things,” DC King said.

“He did,” DI Smyth confirmed. “All in all, he completed six tours of Afghanistan, the last of these being in 2014, two years before he was discharged. Camp Bastian was handed over to the Afghan forces and British troops began to withdraw from the country in that year. A handful remained for training and advisory purposes, but Mr Peters did not. He returned to England and served the rest of his time in the army on home ground.

“In 2015 there was an incident in a pub in Northallerton. Mr Peters was stationed at the Command and Staff Training barracks in nearby Catterick, and he was involved in a brawl at the pub one night. According to witnesses Mr Peters snapped and set upon a total stranger for no reason. Fortunately, for everyone concerned he was prevented from inflicting much damage when the men he was drinking with stepped in, but for Mr Peters it was the beginning of the end of his career in the army.”

“He has a history of violence,” Smith said.

“It’s very common,” DI Smyth said. “When you’re trained in combat and deployed to the ends of the earth to make use of that training, often when the war is over, the mind doesn’t fully comprehend it. There are a few other incidents in the file, and Mr Peters was evaluated in 2016. He was diagnosed with PTSD and discharged on medical grounds. Post traumatic stress is more common than people think in military veterans, and it has only recently been taken seriously. Mr Peters wasn’t alone in his diagnosis.”
“But not everyone with PTSD go on to become serial killers,” DC Moore commented.

“We don’t know if Mr Peters is involved yet,” DI Smyth said.

“He’s looking promising though,” Bridge said. “He was obsessed with Ingrid Harrison – he has no alibi for the times of any of the murders, and he’s a trained killer. He has the skills to carry out what was done to the Swans and to Tracy Richards.”
“And he’ll be familiar with firearms,” DC King added.

“I agree,” DI Smyth. “There are a lot of elements pointing to Mr Peters, but we need to consider where Gordon Green fits into the picture.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Smith decided. “Arrest them both and haul them in and interrogate them.”
“I’m with Smith,” Bridge said. “We’ve got enough on both of them to justify it. We interview them concurrently and give them enough rope to hang each other.”

“Are we assuming that Ian Peters is the one responsible for the actual murders?” DC Moore asked.

“Unless they’re taking it in turns,” Smith said. “It’s the logical assumption to make. Both men are physically fit, and both of them are more than capable of killing, but Gordon Green has an alibi for one of the murders. I think the ex-army man is more likely to be our hitchhiker, with Gordon Green helping him out behind the scenes.”
“If that’s the case,” Whitton said. “He will have the gun hidden somewhere.”

“We’ll be searching his house,” DI Smyth confirmed. “According to the register there are no firearms registered in his name, but I wouldn’t expect him to use a gun that can be linked back to him anyway. Smith, you and I will interview Ian Peters and Bridge and Whitton, I want you to tackle Gordon Green. I’ll organise a couple of dawn raids – experience has taught me, that’s the optimum time to catch a suspect unawares.”
Smith disagreed. “It needs to happen now, boss.”
“It’s late,” DI Smyth said. “And there’s a lot to organise. I for one don’t feel like interviewing a suspect in the early hours of the morning.”
“He’s not going to stop,” Smith said. “He’s going to kill again, and he won’t stop until we catch him. It needs to happen now.”
“No,” DI Smyth was adamant. “Both of those men will be rattled. They know we’re closing in on them, and that’ll make them tread carefully.”
“It won’t,” Smith argued. “If anything, it’ll speed things up for them. The Hitchhiker is going to kill again.”

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

If Carl Jones could have been a fly on the wall at the briefing, he would have cancelled his plans for the evening. He would have stayed in with his girlfriend at her house in Murton instead of getting ready to go to his regular Wednesday evening five-a-side game. Carl had been playing five-a-side with the same group of men for three years – they had a big tournament coming up, and he couldn’t afford to miss this practice session.

He kissed his girlfriend goodbye, and she lingered on the doorstep for a bit longer than she usually did. She would later explain to the detectives who came to speak to her that she didn’t really know why she did this. Something made her watch as Carl got into his car and drove away. She only went back inside the house when the car was out of sight.

Carl picked up the Hull Road and headed west in the direction of the city. He turned left at Grimston Bar and carried on towards the Sports Village. He slowed down by the small row of shops and stopped outside a florist he knew stayed open late. He went in and selected a bunch of pink roses. These were Emma’s favourites, and he always bought some for her when he played football. He paid the cashier and went back outside to his car.

The Sports Village was a short drive from the florists. Carl engaged first gear and pulled away from the side of the road. He was fifty metres from the entrance to the village when he heard the voice.

“Keep on driving.”
Carl looked in the rearview mirror, straight into the eyes of the man in the back.

“What the fuck?”
“Don’t turn into the Sports Centre. Keep driving and take the first right. Look at me.”
Carl did. The man was holding the gun next to his face. There was a large pair of headphones around his neck.

“Are we on the same page now?”
“What do you want?” Carl asked.

He drove past the entrance to the Sports Village and carried on towards the university campus. He was driving slowly, and his hands were shaking on the steering wheel.

Fifteen minutes later they’d left the city behind them and were heading west in the direction of Tadcaster.

“Have you ever been here before?” the unwelcome hitchhiker asked when they were passing the turnoff for Colton Haggs Farm.
“A few times,” Carl said.

“Did you pick up a hitchhiker here?”
Carl knew exactly what was happening now. He’d been following the news about the murders closely. He could feel that his face was heating up, and his breathing was becoming erratic.

“I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker around here,” he said.

“But you have given a ride to someone?”
“Once or twice,” Carl said.

“There’s a dirt road coming up on the left.”
“Please,” Carl said. “I don’t want to die.”
“Turn left.”
Carl did as he was told. He turned onto the dirt road and kept driving at ten miles per hour.

“Stop here.”
Carl pulled up next to an old oak tree.

“Please,” he said again. “I won’t tell anyone about this.”
“I know. Who are the roses for?”
“What?” Carl said.

“The roses on the passenger seat. They smell exquisite.”
“They’re for my girlfriend.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Please, don’t kill me.”
“You’ve seen my face.”
“You told me to fucking look at you.”
The man in the back chuckled. “I like you.”
     Those three words were the last words Carl Jones heard. There was a delay of a few seconds before the blast, but that was because The Hitchhiker was putting on the ear defenders. Carl experienced an explosion of pain and then an absolute absence of anything as the bullet from the Luger .327 Federal bored its way through his brain and exited out his right eye.

The Hitchhiker removed the headphones and got out of the car. He opened the passenger door and reached inside for the pink roses. He knew someone who would appreciate these.

* * *

Smith raised his pint of Theakston into the air and made a silent toast to nothing in particular. He took a long drink and rubbed his eyes. He realised that an old man on the table next to him was watching him.

“Rough day?” the man said.

“Something like that,” Smith told him.

The man nodded, raised his own beer into the air and turned his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

The Hog’s Head was quiet. It was Wednesday evening and only half the tables in the pub were occupied. Smith had had a sudden craving for a steak and ale pie, and nowhere in the city were the pies as tasty as in the Hog’s Head. Whitton didn’t feel like going out, so Smith was alone.

A familiar figure approached the table. Marge was the owner of the pub and Smith had known her for years. She was over seventy now, but she was showing no signs of slowing down.

“Penny for them.”
“Evening, Marge,” Smith said.

“You don’t mind if I sit down for a minute?” Marge said.

“Of course not. Take a seat.”
“You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
“You could say that,” Smith said. “Nothing one of your steak and ale pies can’t sort out.”
“Do you want to talk about it? Is it Erica, or the girls?”
“It’s not them,” Smith said.

“Work then?” Marge said. “It’s always work with you, isn’t it?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You always do.”

“How are you?” Smith asked. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You always seem to be in the back when I come here.”
“Having a manager has helped,” Marge said. “Pete has taken a bit of the pressure off.”
“How is he working out?”
“Fine, I suppose.”
“You don’t sound too convinced.”
“I’m probably just being a silly old woman,” Marge said.

“That’s definitely not how I would describe you,” Smith said. “What’s up?”
“It might be just me being paranoid, but I think he might be helping himself to the takings.”
“Have you confronted him about it?”

“I wouldn’t know how to go about it. I can’t just come out and accuse him, not without proof.”
“What makes you suspect that he’s stealing from you?” Smith said.

“I’ve had this place for years,” Marge said. “I know roughly how much we take on busy nights and slow nights, and lately the figures haven’t been adding up. I might be mistaken – I’m not as young as I once was, and my mind isn’t as sharp.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your mind, Marge. How is he doing it though? I thought everything went through the computer.”
“It’s easy enough. Someone orders a beer and tells you to keep the change. The money is pocketed instead of going in the cash register, and it’s easy to write off the beer that was poured as spillage. We can’t keep an accurate stock check on beer from the kegs.”
“Don’t you have CCTV in here?” Smith asked.

“The cameras are not pointing at the area behind the bar. I could be mistaken – I might just be paranoid.”
“In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to make a mistake. I would suggest setting up a secret camera that captures the bar.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Only a little bit,” Smith said. “And any footage will be inadmissible in a court of law, but this is more for your peace of mind, isn’t it? When you have proof, you can confront him about it.”

“I’ll give it some thought. I’d better get back. You look after yourself now.”
     Twenty minutes later, with an empty plate on the table in front of him, Smith felt much better. He didn’t know why, but he sensed that they were close to the breakthrough they needed in the investigation. They were closing in on The Hitchhiker – he could feel it.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

Smith was halfway through his first cup of coffee of the day when his phone started to ring. The ringtone told him it was DI Smyth, and Smith answered it immediately.

“There’s been another one, hasn’t there?” he got in first.

“How did you know?” DI Smyth said.

“I knew he would kill again. Fuck it.”
“You were right,” DI Smyth admitted. “The man was killed close to where Ingrid Harrison was last seen, and we could translate that as indication that he’s finished.”
“He’s not finished,” Smith disagreed. “He will kill everyone who drives one of those cars. What’s the score with Ian Peters and Gordon Green?”
“Both men were arrested early this morning,” DI Smyth said. “They’ll be booked in, and we’ll speak to them when their respective legal representatives arrive.”

“Have they said anything?” Smith asked.

“Not a sausage.”
“How do they seem?”
“What do you mean?”
“One of them killed that man last night,” Smith said. “I know it was one of them.”
“We’ll be speaking to them later this morning.”

“What do we know about the dead man?” Smith asked.
“His name is Carl Jones. He was found inside his car by a farmer an hour ago. The farmer had the presence of mind to stay well away from the car. He'd been following the news, and the details of the Green Envy Ford Fiestas are public knowledge. We don’t know how long the car had been parked there, but it must have happened sometime yesterday evening.”
“Was he shot?” Smith asked.

“Looks like a single bullet wound to the back of the head. The bullet exited through the eyeball and made its way through the windscreen. It’s going to be tricky trying to locate it. Webber and Billie are already at the scene, and I don’t see any point in getting in their way. I’ve got the details of Mr Jones’s girlfriend. I want you to go and speak to her.”
He gave Smith the address and ended the call.

Smith and Whitton left the house ten minutes later. Lucy and Darren were more than happy to keep an eye on Laura and Fran, and the two girls were now glued to the television screen next door.

Carl Jones’s girlfriend lived in Murton. Her name was Emma Noble, and she had no idea that her boyfriend was dead. Smith introduced himself and Whitton and asked if they could come inside the house.

“What’s going on?” Emma asked.

“It would be better to speak inside,” Whitton said.

Emma was a short woman with red hair. She had blue eyes and pale skin. She led them to a small living room and took a seat.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid we’ve got bad news,” Whitton told her.

“Bad news? No – is it my mum?”
“It’s not your mum,” Smith said. “Carl Jones was killed last night.”
Emma’s blinked her eyes a few times.

“Miss Noble,” Whitton said. “Did you hear what my colleague said?”
“No, I mean yes. There must be some mistake. Carl isn’t dead. I saw him last night – he went to play five-a-side.”
“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it,” Smith said. “I know this is hard, but we need to ask you some questions if that’s alright.”
“No,” Emma said. “This can’t be true.”
“It is,” Whitton said. “Is there someone we can call for you? A friend or a relative, perhaps?”
“What happened to him?” Emma said.

“We’re not sure yet,” Smith lied.

He didn’t think it would be a good idea to let her know the details.

“You said Carl went to play five-a-side,” Whitton said. “What time was this?”
“He left at about half-seven,” Emma said.

“Where does he play?” Smith said.

“At the sports village next to the university campus.”
“Is this a regular thing?”

“Every Wednesday.”
“That’s not far from here, is it?” Whitton worked out.

“It’s a ten-minute drive,” Emma said.

“Do you know if he drives straight there?” Smith said.

“I think so. No, he always buys me flowers. Carl is an old romantic. He always brings me a bunch of pink roses when I see him the day after five-a-side. Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?”
“We’re afraid not,” Whitton said.

“Can I ask you why you didn’t think it was strange that he didn’t come home last night?” Smith said.

“Carl doesn’t live here,” Emma said.
“But he was here before he set off to play football?”

“He’s been here all week. He had a few days off work, so he stayed here.”
Smith realised then that that was why the officers who went to warn him about The Hitchhiker hadn’t been able to find him.

“This isn’t happening,” Emma said.

Whitton left the room and returned with a glass of water.

“Drink this.”
Emma took a small sip. “Was it the man who’s been all over the news?”
“We think so,” Smith told her. “You said Carl always buys you roses when he plays five-a-side.”
“Always a bunch of pink roses.”
“Where does he get them from?” Whitton said. “

“There’s a florist on Hull Road just before the park and ride,” Emma said. “They stay open until eight.”
Smith made a mental note to check this out.

“Is there someone we can call for you?” Whitton asked again.

“I can give my sister a ring,” Emma said.

“I can do that for you,” Whitton offered. “I just need her number.”
Emma gave it to her. Whitton left the room to make the call.

“Why is he doing this?” Emma asked Smith. “Carl never hurt anyone.”
“I’m afraid your boyfriend was just very unlucky,” Smith said. “He was killed because of the car he drives, that’s all it boils down to. We will catch this man. Have you noticed anyone hanging around recently? Somone who seemed out of place?”
“No,” Emma said. “Are you saying he’s been watching Carl?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“I knew something bad was going to happen,” Emma said.

“I don’t understand,” Smith said.

“Last night, when Carl left for football, I knew something was wrong. I felt it. I even waited until his car had turned at the end of the road before I went back inside the house. I knew something was going to happen to him.”

“I’m really very sorry,” Smith said.

“I know you,” Emma said. “I thought I recognised you – you’re the one from the press conference. You did the public appeal. Hold on…”
“Emma?”

“You said Carl was killed because of the car he drives.”
“It appears so. We did try to find him to warn him, but he wasn’t home.”
“No,” Emma said. “He was here with me. You knew he was in danger, but you didn’t mention the thing with the car on the news.”
“We didn’t want to create widespread panic.”
“You knew,” Emma said.

Whitton came back inside the room.

“Your sister is on the way.”
“Get out,” Emma said.

“Miss Noble…”

“Get out of my fucking house,” Emma cut Smith short. “You knew Carl was in danger, and you said nothing. Get out before I throw you out.”
“Calm down, Emma,” Whitton said. “You need to calm down.”
“You need to get the fuck out of my face,” Emma said. “This is all your fault. Get out.”

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

“She’s right,” Smith said.

He’d told the rest of the team about Emma Noble’s outburst.

“It’s not your fault,” DI Smyth said.
“I wanted to mention the colour and make of car,” Smith said. “But I was shut down. Carl Jones might still be alive if he’d been aware of the danger he was in.”
“Enough,” DI Smyth said. “What’s done is done, and we need to focus on how we’re going to proceed with the interviews of Gordon Green and Ian Peters.”
“Have their lawyers arrived yet?” Bridge asked.

“Mr Peter’s legal representative is running late. He’ll be here after lunch. While we wait, I want to discuss Carl Jones’s murder. Mr Jones died from a single gunshot to the back of his head. It’s yet to be confirmed, but it looks like it was the same weapon that was used to kill John Newton and Gregory Jarvis.”
“He’s used the gun on all the male victims apart from Ian Swan,” DC King said. “Why did he do that?”
“I thought we’d had this discussion,” Bridge said. “He uses the gun when he’s unsure whether he can overpower the victims.”
“Why not just shoot all of them?” DC King said. “It would be much simpler.”
“We don’t know, Kerry,” DI Smyth said.

“I’ve been thinking about the shootings,” DC Moore said. “We know he’s in the car with the victims when he shoots them. The bullet wounds were inflicted from close range.”
“How does that help us?” Whitton said.

“I’ve only fired a gun a few times,” DC Moore said. “And that was at a range, and we had to wear ear protection. I remember when I removed the ear defenders the noise of the other gunshots almost deafened me.”
“You’ve raised a very good point there, Harry,” DI Smyth said. “You shoot someone at close range and you’re in danger of causing temporary damage to your ears. When I was in the army it was a regular problem. Some of the soldiers would be unable to hear properly for days afterwards.”
“We can put it to the test,” Smith said. “We’ll be speaking to Ian Peters and Gordon Green later – we’ll conduct the interviews quietly.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Bridge said. “If you’ll excuse the pun.”

“What about residue?” DC King put forward. “Someone who has recently fired a gun will have powder residue on their hands, won’t they?”
“Not necessarily,” DI Smyth said.

“I thought that was how CSI proved someone had discharged a firearm.”
“Contrary to popular belief,” DC Moore said. “Gunpowder residue can be washed off quite easily. This isn’t an episode of CSI – this is the real world.”
“It’s hours since Carl Jones was shot,” Smith joined in. “I doubt we’ll find any residue after all that time. A couple of showers would get rid of it altogether.”

“Forensics are still busy with Carl Jones’s car,” DI Smyth carried on. “And that will take time, but Webber did find an air tag taped to the undercarriage. He also noticed something very odd. Inside Mr Jones’s wallet was a receipt and a credit card slip from the florist on Hull Road. Carl purchased a dozen pink roses at 19:42, but there was no sign of the flowers inside the car.”
“That is odd,” Smith said.

“Perhaps he dropped them when The Hitchhiker approached him,” DC King said.

“Which florist is it?” Smith asked.

“York Flowers,” DI Smyth said. “They’re in the middle of a row of five shops.”
“Do any of the shops have CCTV?”

“Do you think that could be where The Hitchhiker got into the car?” Whitton said.

“His girlfriend told us he bought her roses every Wednesday evening,” Smith said. “Carl wasn’t home when the officers went to warn him – he was at his girlfriend’s house, and that’s why the tracking device was still attached to his car. The killer has probably been tracking the vehicle for some time, and he knows that Mr Jones stops at that flower shop at the same time every Wednesday. We need to check for CCTV cameras.”

“I’ll put someone on it,” DI Smyth said.

“He’s not even halfway there,” Smith said out of the blue.

“What are you on about?” Bridge asked.

“Six of the Green Envy Ford Fiestas had been ticked off his list. There are thirteen of them in the city – one still has an air tag attached to it, and that’s the one he’s going to target next.”
“Gordon Green and Ian Peters are in custody, Sarge,” DC Moore reminded him.

“I’m just keeping an open mind. If they’re not involved it means The Hitchhiker is still out there, and we have to put all our effort into finding the owner of the missing car. Do we at least have a name?”
“Martin Walters,” DI Smyth said. “He’s still proving to be a difficult man to locate.”
“How hard have we tried?” Smith said.

“Uniforms have been to his house four times. He’s not answering his phone, and he hasn’t been at work all week. We’ve done everything we can.”
“He’s dead,” Smith said.

“We don’t know that.”

“He’s dead,” Smith said once more. “He just hasn’t been found yet.”
“Did they take a look inside his house?” Whitton asked.

“Of course not,” DI Smyth said.

“It needs to be done,” Smith insisted.

“He won’t have been killed inside his home,” DC Moore said. “That’s not The Hitchhiker’s MO.”
“He doesn’t have a specific MO, Harry,” Smith said. “He adapts to however the situation dictates it. He’s used a gun on some of them, and others he’s killed with his bare hands. Two of the cars were found in the same place, and the rest were scattered all over the city. He plans the murders well in advance, but he can be spontaneous when it’s necessary. There is no reason to believe he wouldn’t kill one of his targets at home. Did uniform even check to see if the car was at home?”
“I’ll see if I can find out,” DC King said.

She left the small conference room and returned a short while later.

“They didn’t check inside the garage.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Smith said. “When was Mr Walters last seen? Please tell me they checked that out.”
“He lives on his own,” DC King said. “But PC Griffin did have the good sense to speak to one of his neighbours. The woman hadn’t seen him for a few days.”
“I want a car over there now,” DI Smyth said.

His phone started to ring. He picked it up and swiped the screen. The conversation lasted twenty seconds.

“It’s game on,” he said. “Ian Peters’ lawyer has arrived. Let’s go and have a crack at the two men, shall we?”

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Ian Peters seemed more bored than anything else when Smith and DI Smyth went inside the interview room. The ex-army man was sitting back in his chair with his arms folded. Smith wasn’t sure how to interpret his body language. Ian’s lawyer was a grey-haired woman with tiny eyes. They were so dark they were almost black, and Smith didn’t mind admitting that she had an intimidating stare. She told them her name was Hilda Bracken and she also informed them that her client would cooperate fully.

“Let’s get started,” DI Smyth said.

He turned on the recording device and introduced everyone for the record.

“Mr Peters,” he said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “Is there anything you need? Some refreshments, perhaps?”
“Could you please speak up?” It was Hilda Bracken. “I don’t believe the tape caught that.”
“It’s very sensitive,” DI Smyth said. “It will have picked up my voice.”

“I just want to get out of here,” Ian said. “I don’t want refreshments.”
Smith cast a glance at DI Smyth and the DI shrugged his shoulders. It was clear there was nothing wrong with Ian Peters’ hearing.

“Mr Peters,” DI Smyth said. “Can you tell us where you were last night?”
“I was at home,” Ian said.

“All night?”
“All night.”
“You didn’t go out at all?” Smith asked.

“No.”
“Can anyone confirm this?” DI Smyth said.

“No.”
“You didn’t perhaps log onto your computer at all?” DI Smyth said.

“No.”
“So, you were home between seven and eight yesterday evening?”
“I was.”

“Do you know a woman by the name of Ingrid Harrison?” Smith said.

“You know I do,” Ian said.

“What was your relationship with Miss Harrison?”
“We went out for a while.”
“When was this?” Smith said.

“About four years ago. Then she disappeared.”
“Were you still in a relationship with her at the time of her disappearance?” DI Smyth said.

“I was, yes.”
“We have two witnesses that tell us this isn’t the case, Mr Peters,” Smith said.

“They’re lying.”

“Let’s go back to the night of Ingrid’s twenty-first,” DI Smyth said. “Were you there that night?”
“I was,” Ian said.

“Were you invited?” Smith said.

“Of course I was invited.”
“The people we’ve spoken to say differently.”
“Whatever.”
“Was that the last time you saw Ingrid?” Smith said.

“I think so,” Ian said.

“Think harder please,” DI Smyth said.

“It was the last time I saw her.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Smith said.

“I don’t think,” Ian said. “I know – she was abducted and murdered.”

“Can I ask you to clear something up for me?” Hilda asked.

“Of course,” DI Smyth said.

“Is my client under suspicion of being involved in Ingrid Harrison’s disappearance? Because that was definitely not mentioned when he was arrested this morning.”
“We have reason to believe the mystery around what happened to Miss Harrison is directly related to the recent murders,” DI Smyth said.

“They’re definitely linked,” Smith said. “And, as your client was supposedly in a relationship with Miss Harrison it’s important that we ask him about her. Do you have any objections to that?”
Hilda focused her pinprick eyes on his and shook her head.

“Very well. Carry on.”

“Where were we?” DI Smyth said. “Ah, yes. What makes you think that Ingrid was killed?”
“It’s the only logical explanation,” Ian said.

“You don’t think she might have run away?” Smith said.
“She would have mentioned it to me?”
“Why?” Smith said. “You were no longer together. Why would she be obliged to inform you?”
“You’re talking shit. We were in love.”
Ian got to his feet and started pacing up and down.

“Sit down, Ian,” DI Smyth told him.

Ian lingered in the corner of the room for a while, but eventually did as he was told.

“You were in the armed forces, weren’t you?” Smith said.

“Army,” Ian said.

“You left in 2016. Can you tell us why you left the army?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“That’s not up to you to decide,” DI Smyth said. “Why did you leave the army?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“OK,” Smith said. “I’ll tell you why you left. You were diagnosed with PTSD and discharged on medical grounds. Does that sound about right?”
“That’s enough,” Hilda said. “The reason for my client’s discharge from the army has no bearing on this investigation.”
“That’s where we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Smith told her. “Your client was involved in more than one violent altercation shortly before he was deemed mentally unfit for the armed forces. He has proven he is capable of bouts of extreme violence.”
“I was in the army for ten years,” Ian said. “I fought for this country. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You did numerous tours in Afghanistan,” DI Smyth said. “Is that correct?”
“My client’s time in the army in Afghanistan is not relevant here,” Hilda said.

DI Smyth ignored her. “Ian? You were stationed in Camp Bastion, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Ian confirmed.

“You must have seen some action during that time. 2008 was a particularly volatile period in the region.”
“You’ve read your history books,” Ian said.

“I was there,” DI Smyth told him. “I was In Helmand from 2006 until 2008.”
Ian unfolded his arms. “Really? What unit?”
“I was in operational intelligence.”
Ian rolled his eyes at this. “I should have known. You were one of the so-called brains behind everything. You sat back in your airconditioned offices while the real soldiers faced the bullets and the mortar fire.”

“We’re getting side-tracked here,” Smith said. “Ian, do you own an iPhone?”
“I’ve got an iPhone 8,” Ian said. “Well, you’ve got it now. It was taken off me when I arrived here.”
“And we’ll be taking a close look at it,” DI Smyth said. “Do you have the Find My App on the phone?”
“No.”
“So, we won’t find it when the tech team do a thorough search?” Smith said.

“No.”

“Do you own a firearm?” DI Smyth asked.

“Of course not,” Ian said. “Why would I need a gun?”
“So, we’re not going to find a firearm when we search your house?” Smith said.

“You won’t.”
“You know how to use a gun though,” Smith said.

“Of course I do,” Ian said. “I was in the army for God’s sake.”
“When was the last time you fired a gun?” DI Smyth said.

“Years ago. When I was stationed at Catterick. I had nothing to do with Ingrid’s death, and I had nothing to do with the murders of the people this week. You’ve got the wrong man.”

“Let’s go back to the time after Ingrid disappeared,” Smith said. “You made regular visits to the police station in Tadcaster, didn’t you?”
“They weren’t taking it seriously,” Ian said.

“Why did you think that?” DI Smyth said.

“They had the dashcam footage of the green car, and they didn’t bother following it up.”
“How did that make you feel?” Smith said.

“How do you think? The woman I loved had been killed, and the police were doing nothing about it.”
“Did you try to do something about it?” DI Smyth asked.

“I only went to Tadcaster to try and make them understand that the green car was important.”
“That’s not what DI Smyth asked you,” Smith said. “When you realised the police weren’t interested, did you take matters into your own hands? Perhaps you did some research into the green cars. There aren’t many of them around. Maybe you tried to track down the owners.”
“That’s enough,” Hilda said. “You’re trying to put words into my client’s mouth. I suggest you charge him with something or let him go.”

“Ian,” DI Smyth said. “I’m going to be brutally honest now. It’s not looking good for you. You were in a relationship with the woman we believe is at the heart of this. You were with Ingrid the night before she disappeared. You’re convinced that the police were derelict in their duties when they disregarded the dashcam footage of her getting into a green car, and I believe that’s driven you over the edge. You’ve targeted all of the owners of those particular cars, and you have no alibi for the times of the murders. I’m certain we will find something in the search of your house that will confirm it. Is there anything you’d like to say?”
“I just want to go home,” Ian said.

“That’s not going to happen,” Smith told him.

“You can’t lock me up if I haven’t done anything.”
“We can,” Smith said. “You’ll be held in custody until we’re satisfied you had nothing to do with the recent murders.”
“Can they do that?” Ian asked Hilda.

“Only for a certain amount of time,” she said.

“Seventy-two hours,” DI Smyth elaborated. “Talk to me, Ian. Is there anything you want to get off your chest?”
“I didn’t do it.”

“Do you know a man by the name of Gordon Green?” Smith changed tack.

“I don’t think so,” Gordon said.

“You might remember him as PC Green,” DI Smyth said. “He works in Tadcaster, and he was one of the officers who dealt with Ingrid Harrison’s disappearance.”
“I remember him,” Ian said.

“Have you spoken to PC Green recently?” Smith said.

“Of course not.”
“Are you sure? Because PC Green is being interviewed as we speak.”

“What’s he doing here?” Ian asked.

“Same thing as you,” DI Smyth said. “Helping us with our enquiries. When was the last time you had contact with PC Green?”
“Probably just after Ingrid disappeared.”
“So we won’t find any recent correspondence between you and him on your phone or laptop?”
“You can’t take my laptop.”
“We can,” Smith said. “It will be seized when the search of your house is undertaken. Is there anything on it you’d like to tell us about, because we will conduct a thorough inspection of that laptop.”
“You can’t do this,” Ian said and turned to Hilda Bracken. “They’re not allowed to do this, are they?”

“They are,” Hilda confirmed. “I suggest we take a short break. I’d like to discuss something with my client in private.”
“We can do that,” DI Smyth said. “Interview with Ian Peters paused, 12:22.”

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Bridge and Whitton were still busy in the interviewing room with Gordon Green. Smith wondered if they’d managed to get anything out of him. He headed outside for a cigarette and was stopped before he reached the door by DC King.

“Martin Walters is dead, Sarge.”
Smith’s suspicions were correct.

He sighed deeply. “Where did they find him?”
“In the car in the garage,” DC King said. “It looks like he’s been there for a good few days.”
“Was he shot?”

“Stabbed,” DC King said. “Single wound to the neck. How did it go with Ian Peters?”
“We’re just taking a short break. He got a bit antsy when we threatened to seize his laptop. I think we’re going to find something on it he doesn’t want us to find. Bridge and Whitton are still busy with PC Green.”
“Did you get the impression Ian Peters is involved? Do you think he’s The Hitchhiker?”
“If he is,” Smith said. “He’s not giving much away. Everything we have on him is circumstantial, so hopefully we’ll get something from the search of his house. I’m going out for a cigarette.”

He went outside into the afternoon sunshine. It had been a relatively warm summer but the clouds circling overhead were telling him there was some bad weather on the way. The sky was getting dark. and Smith could smell rain in the air. He lit a cigarette and breathed in deeply. Something wasn’t right about Ian Peters. He’d displayed outbursts of impulsive violence in the past – he was discharged from the army because he’d been diagnosed with PTSD and because he was known to have a volatile temper, but the actions of the man the city had dubbed The Hitchhiker were definitely not impulsive. These murders were calculated and precise. They’d been thoroughly researched and carried out with absolute precision. Smith didn’t think Ian Peters was capable of that.

He was getting frustrated. They were running out of time. It was true that the air tags had been removed from the remaining green Ford Fiestas but Smith didn’t think that alone would deter The Hitchhiker. He’d proven himself to be resourceful and fiercely determined. It was only a matter of time before he modified his plan of action and carried on killing. Smith wondered how Whitton and Bridge were getting on with Gordon Green.

* * *

PC Green’s legal representative was the same man who’d sat in with him in the first interview. Jerry Turnbill had played the unlawful arrest card as soon as the recording device was switched on, and Whitton and Bridge knew they had to tread carefully. Gordon Green had been released and re-arrested and that could come back to bite them if they weren’t careful. Whitton had suggested they concentrate on the car that Gordon owned at the time of Ingrid Harrison’s disappearance, and Bridge had agreed.

“Mr Green,” Whitton said. “Gordon, why did you not tell our colleagues that you used to drive a Green Envy Ford Fiesta?”
“I didn’t think it was important,” Gordon said.

“You didn’t think it was important?” Bridge said. “Someone is killing people who own those particular cars. You knew that and yet you neglected to mention that you once had an identical vehicle. They are not a popular choice. In fact, there are only thirteen of them registered in the city.”
“It was four years ago,” Gordon said. “How is it relevant today?”
“Can I ask you to remind us what you do for a living?” Whitton said.

“You know what I do for a living,” Gordon said.

“For the tape please.”
“I’m a police constable in Tadcaster,” Gordon obliged.

“And in your capacity as a police officer,” Bridge said. “You can’t see the relevance of the car you used to own – a car that incidentally was sold less than a month after Ingrid Harrison’s disappearance?”

“Do you remember who you sold the vehicle too, Mr Green?” Bridge said.

“Not off hand.”
“Of course you don’t,” Whitton said. “It was Tracy Richards. Do you remember now? She was the second victim.”
“I’ll stop you there, if I may.” It was Jerry Turnbill. “My client is under no obligation to discuss this with you. He was cautioned and arrested under suspicion of his involvement of the murders that were carried out very recently. There was no mention of any involvement in the disappearance of a woman four years ago.”
“Miss Harrison’s disappearance was the catalyst for the recent slayings,” Whitton said. “And therefore, we are obliged to ask him about it.”

“Can you remember the missing person’s investigation?” Bridge asked.

“Of course,” Gordon said.

“In your opinion, how do you think it was handled?”
“OK, I suppose.”
“Are you sure?” Whitton said. “An important piece of evidence was overlooked. A Facebook appeal resulted in some footage from a dashcam. A man had broken down and his dashcam captured a woman matching Ingrid’s description getting into a green Ford Fiesta. The footage was brought to your attention, but no action was taken.”
“It wasn’t considered a priority.”
“Who made that decision?” Bridge said.

“I can’t remember.”
“Let me refresh your memory,” Whitton said. “Ingrid’s family made you aware of the dashcam footage, and not only did you neglect to follow it up, but you also requested that they take down the footage from social media.”
“Where did you hear that?” Gordon said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bridge said. “What I’m struggling to understand is why you would tell a member of the public that the footage was now essential evidence in a missing person’s case, and then do absolutely nothing with it. Can you explain that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gordon said. “Who told you this?”
“Did you tell the Harrison family to remove all trace of that dashcam footage?” Bridge said.

“I assure you, I did not.”

“Where is the footage now?” Whitton said. “I assume you still have it in evidence.”

Gordon started to tap on the table with his fingers. “Probably.”
“Probably?” Bridge said. “You’re going to have to do better than that. You know full well that we can put in a request to have that evidence sent straight over. Can you tell us if someone in Tadcaster will be able to help us?”
“I’d like a word with my client in private,” Jerry said.

“Not yet,” Bridge said.

“Gordon,” Whitton said. “What happened to that dashcam footage?”
“It was a long time ago,” he said.

“Four years,” Bridge said. “Where is the footage? When we put in that request, are we going to come away empty-handed? Think very carefully before you answer that. Wasting police time is a serious offence.”
“No comment.”
“I demand a short recess to speak with my client,” Jerry said.

“I’m going to tell you what I think happened in 2017,” Whitton said. “Is that OK?”
“No comment,” Gordon said once more.

“I think the car in the dashcam footage was yours. Ingrid Harrison got inside it and you drove off, oblivious to the fact that you’d been caught on camera. The Harrison family brought you the footage and you panicked. You promised them that you would look into it and you made them take the footage down from the Facebook page. Am I getting warm?”
“No comment.”
“There was something in that video that you didn’t want anyone else to see,” Whitton carried on. “I’m going to ask you just once – was that your car in the footage?”
Gordon didn’t even reply with a no comment to this.

“What happened to Ingrid, Gordon?” Whitton remained unperturbed.

He remained silent.

“We will retrieve that camera footage,” Bridge told him. “Even if it’s been conveniently lost from evidence in Tadcaster. It will take time. There’s a lot of red tape to get through where Facebook is concerned, but we will get hold of it. In the meantime, we’ll be conducting a thorough audit of every electronic device you own. Our team are exceptional at what they do, and they will leave no stone unturned. Every scrap of correspondence will be scrutinised and that includes deleted files.”

“No comment.” Gordon found his voice again.
“I must ask for a break to discuss something with my client,” Jerry said.

“We’re done for now,” Whitton decided.

She spoke the time for the record and switched off the recording device.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

There were to be no more interviews that afternoon. Both Jerry Turnbill and Hilda Bracken had advised their clients not to say anything further, and DI Smyth decided it would be fruitless asking Gordon Green and Ian Harrison any more questions. Both men were now enjoying the finest hospitality York Police had to offer and the team had approximately seventy hours to find something concrete to link them to the Hitchhiker murders.

As usual they were playing the waiting game. The forensics officers were snowed under, and some of their work had been handed out to other departments. The butcher shop next to York Flowers had a CCTV camera pointing at the street outside, and a group of uniformed officers were now sifting through the footage from that.

Smith had decided to revisit the investigation from the very beginning. Often new ideas rose to the surface when they did this. The whiteboard in the small conference room was a mess of names, dates and places but Smith preferred it when it looked like that. He knew from experience that there was often logic in the chaos and that’s what he was hoping to find now. The huge map of the city was on the wall next to the whiteboard and that too was covered in ink. DI Smyth wasn’t present. He’d been called into a meeting with management, and he was now in the unfortunate position of explaining to top brass whether or not there was still a maniac at large in the city.

* * *

DI Smyth gave the people in the room a brief outline on the progress thus far and waited for Robin Cartwright to offer his opinion on the matter. The chief constable took his time about it.

“The men in custody,” he said after a full minute had passed. “What have they said?”
“Gordon Green and Ian Peters, sir,” DI Smyth said. “They’ve been advised to keep their mouths shut.”
“I see. What are you feeling? Have we arrested the right men?”
“I really don’t know, sir,” DI Smyth said. “Everything we have on them is circumstantial at this point. We’ll know more when we’ve finished with the searches of their properties, but we’re missing something – something important.”

“I don’t need to stress to you that the eyes of the city are on us,” Chief Constable Cartwright said. “I have it on good authority that we can expect a backlash for the way the public appeal was handled. We’ve already received a complaint about it.”
This was news to DI Smyth. “A complaint?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it in detail. Let’s just say it could have been conducted with more disclosure from our side.”
“With respect, sir,” DI Smyth said. “We were treading a very fine line between alerting the public and causing widespread panic. I believe DS Smith did a good job.”
“He did a sterling job.” It was DCI Chalmers.

“Bob,” Chief Constable Cartwright said. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“I do, sir.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Let them get on with it,” Chalmers said. “York CID has the best team of detectives in the country, and I’m not just saying that because I’m biased. It's the truth.”
“The bodies are piling up, Bob,” Chief Constable Cartwright reminded him.

“The press is painting us in a bad light,” Superintendent Smyth joined in. “We’re not doing enough to protect the people of York.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” DI Smyth said. “We can’t do any more than that.”
“I’m not doubting that, Oliver,” his uncle said. “But it still isn’t enough.”

“The way I look at it,” Chalmers said. “Is this hitchhiker is targeting the people who drive the same car as the one the missing woman was seen getting into four years ago.”
“That’s correct,” DI Smyth confirmed the obvious.

“You’re not positive you’ve got the right men in custody for the murders, are you?”
DI Smyth nodded to tell him that this was also correct. “We have reason to believe that PC Green and Ian Peters are involved somehow, but we’re not convinced they’re the ones who have carried out the murders.”

“That means the lunatic could still be at large.”

“That’s right. We’ve put measures in place to limit the risk on the remaining Green Envy Fiesta owners, but I’m worried that it won’t be enough.”
“What measures are those?” Chief Constable Cartwright asked.

“We were quick to realise the cars were being tracked, sir,” DI Smyth said. “We located most of the vehicles and the tracking devices were removed. We’ve also advised the owners of the vehicles not to use the cars until we’ve told them otherwise.”
“But you don’t believe that will be enough?” Chalmers said.

“We thought it would,” DI Smyth said. “Up until this morning we were under the impression that his MO was to hide in the car, threaten the victims with a gun and force them to drive to a specific location, but a man was found dead inside a car parked in the garage. I don’t believe he will stop just because he can’t track the vehicles. He found all thirteen cars, and there’s no reason to believe he doesn’t know where the owners live.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Chalmers was the first to speak.

“If that’s the case, we’ve got two options.”
“Bob,” Chief Constable Cartwright said. “What’s on your mind?”
“When you’re dealing with vermin,” Chalmers said. “And that’s what this bastard is, there are only two ways to eliminate them. You can catch the stinking vermin and bash his brains in with a spade. Put him out of action that way, or you can remove the reason he’s there in the first place.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following you there,” Superintendent Smyth said.

“You can smack the living shit out of a rat,” Chalmers said. “Or you can keep a clean house. Take away what’s attracted the vermin there in the first place.”
“Are you suggesting protective custody?” DI Smyth had cottoned on.

“It’s the only way. You haven’t got close enough to him to put him out of his misery the old-fashioned way, so the only thing left to do is remove what he’s preying on.”

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

“I can’t believe the chief went for it,” Smith said.

DI Smyth had brought the team up to date on what was discussed in the meeting.

“And I find it hard to believe that Chalmers would be the one to suggest it,” Smith added.

“His first suggestion was to smack the vermin on the head with a spade,” DI Smyth told him.

Smith laughed. “That sounds more like Chalmers. When is this happening?”
“It’s already underway. It’s a massive operation – bigger than anything ever done in the city before, and a press release will be issued shortly.”
“Uncle Jeremy’s idea?”
“Of course,” DI Smyth said. “And would you please stop calling him that. It’s going to be all over the news and social media that the remaining owners of those cars will no longer be easy targets.”
“It’s possible that will rattle him,” Bridge said.

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” DI Smyth said. “What have I missed while DCI Chalmers was educating me on the fine art of pest control?”

Smith told him, and it didn’t take very long. The chaos on the whiteboard and city map hadn’t become any clearer, and Smith had given up when everything started to blur in front of his eyes.

“We now know he got into Carl Jones’s car when he stopped at the florist,” he said. “The shop next door has a CCTV and it caught a figure climbing in the back.”
“Does it give us much?”

“Not really,” Smith said. “It looks like he knew the camera was there, and he made sure his face wasn’t in the shot, but we did get something from it.”
“Ear defenders,” DC Moore said. “He had them around his neck. That’s how he can shoot someone without popping an eardrum.”
“Where does a person get hold of those ear defenders?” DI Smyth asked.

“That’s a dead end, sir,” DC Moore said. “I checked. There are hundreds of online stores that sell them.”

“What now, boss?” Smith said. “I’ve run out of ideas.”
“You’re not the only one,” DI Smyth said. “We’re no further ahead than we were this time yesterday.”
“What about Gordon Green and Ian Peters?” DC King said. “Why did they both suddenly lose the power of speech. That’s suspicious if you ask me.”
“Not necessarily, Kerry,” Smith said. “Often a lawyer will recommend it when they believe we’re clutching at straws. They know full well that if we had something concrete, one or both of them would have been charged, but they weren’t. Their legal reps don’t like to make it easy for us.”
“Even though we’re all on the same side at the end of the day, Sarge?” DC Moore dared.

“Don’t push me, Harry,” Smith said. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“When will we know if Forensics got anything from the searches?” DC King asked.

“Webber will make sure we’re the first to know,” Smith said. “The tech team have started on their electronic devices too, so it’s the waiting game again. What have we missed? There is something we’ve missed.”

“All this is starting to mess with my head,” DC Moore said. “Look at the state of the whiteboard. There are more names on it than I’ve ever seen on it before, and all of them are starting to blur. How has he even managed to pull it off? There are more cameras in the city than ever before and he’s somehow managed to elude all of them. Who is this freak?”

“I suggest we all take a break,” DI Smyth said. “A long one. All of the potential victims are being taken into protective custody as we speak, so the clock is no longer ticking. The general public have been made aware of what’s happening, and it’s likely The Hitchhiker will have got wind of it too. It’s going to shake him up a bit. Go home – get some rest. Unless something comes up in the meantime, we’ll reconvene first thing in the morning.”

For once, Smith didn’t argue. All of them were running the risk of information overload blurring the lines between what was relevant and what was not, and when they reached that stage the only way to go was backwards.

After fetching Laura and Fran from next door Smith went outside to the back garden to smoke a cigarette. The first drops of rain started to fall as soon as he’d lit it and when he gazed skywards the clouds up there promised that a lot more was on the way. A rumble of thunder sounded somewhere in the distance, and it took him back to when this had all started. The Hitchhiker had taken the opportunity to sneak into the back of Ian and Danielle Swan’s car while they were waiting for the storm to subside, and at the time Smith had wondered how he’d managed to do it. Then they’d found the tracking devices, and it made more sense. Smith had no idea how the air tags actually worked, but he knew somebody who would know. He finished his cigarette and went inside the house.

“Why don’t we invite the neighbours round for a meal,” Smith said to Whitton.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked him.

“Never better. It looks like we’re in for a hell of a storm, and we can weather it all together.”
“Sounds good,” Whitton said. “Did you just call them the neighbours?”
“Isn’t that what they are?” Smith said. “They live next door to us.”
Whitton laughed. “I’m going up for a quick shower.”

Smith took a beer out of the fridge and opened it. He raised the bottle to his lips and was stopped mid-drink by something rubbing against his legs. He looked down, expecting to see one of the dogs. It was almost dinner time for Theakston and Fred.

It wasn’t the greedy Bull Terrier or the grotesque Pug, it was Fran Rogers. The eight-year-old girl had now wrapped her arms around his waist, and she was showing no sign of letting go. Smith wasn’t sure what was happening. Laura came into the kitchen with a big grin on her face.

“What’s going on?” Smith asked her.

“Fran thought you looked sad,” Laura said. “So I told her a hug would make you feel better.”
     Smith could feel goosebumps crawling up his arms. They didn’t stop. Soon they’d made their way up to his neck. He leaned over and put the beer on the table. He was in danger of dropping it. His top lip was shaking. He couldn’t stop it. He took a deep breath. The tear that had formed in the corner of his eye was telling him that more were on the way if he didn’t do something about it. He managed to smile, and he bent down and kissed Fran on the top of her head.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

Neither Smith nor Whitton felt like cooking, and Lucy and Darren point blank refused when they were asked if they wanted to make something, so they settled on pizza. The order was placed, and they were told it would be with them in twenty minutes. Andrew had been fed and he was about to doze off on Smith’s lap.

“I’m going to put him to bed upstairs,” Smith said.

“I’ll do it,” Lucy offered.

“It’s fine,” Smith said and turned to Whitton. “Do you want to help me?”
The look she gave him was a bewildered one, but she followed him upstairs anyway.

Smith lay Andrew in the middle of their bed and half-covered him with a blanket. Then he told Whitton about what happened in the kitchen earlier.

Whitton looked gobsmacked. “She hugged you?”
“I know,” Smith said. “I really wasn’t expecting it. Laura said Fran thought I looked sad and suggested that a hug would make me feel better.”
Whitton smiled and shook her head. “Children never seem to amaze me.”
“Me too.”
“Did it?” Whitton said. “Did the hug make you feel better?”
“It made me feel like bawling my eyes out to be honest, but you’re not to repeat that to anyone.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Whitton said. “Detective Smith the Super Cop is going soft again.”
“Shut up,” Smith said. “I wish I hadn’t told you now.”
It was Whitton’s turn to hug him now. “No, I’m glad you did. This is positive – it means Fran is starting to feel comfortable here.”

The sound of the doorbell could be heard downstairs. The pizzas had arrived. Smith looked once more at his grandson asleep on the bed, and they left him where he was. Experience had taught them that pizza didn’t last long in the Smith household.

* * *

“Darren,” Smith said when every last slice of pizza had been devoured. “Can I have a word?”
The teenage boy looked terrified. “OK.”
“Relax,” Smith said. “I need your help with something.”

They sat down at the table in the kitchen. The girls had settled in front of the TV with the dogs.

Smith took a swig of beer. “What do you know about air tags and the Find My app?”

“What do you need to know?” Darren said.

“Everything. How do the air tags work?”
“They operate using Bluetooth. They send out a Bluetooth signal that can be detected by nearby devices in the Find My app network.”
“But that would mean anyone on that network would be able to see the location,” Smith said.

“They can’t,” Darren said. “The signal goes via iCloud, and that’s a login network and it’s all encrypted.”
“It’s beyond me. But if I have one of these tag things in my car someone with your IT knowledge would be able to track me wherever I go?”

Darren laughed. “Of course not.”
“Why?”
“Because the range on the air tags is only as great as the Bluetooth signal – twenty metres, max.”
Smith was finding this difficult to take in. They’d found air tag devices on all of the Green Envy Ford Fiestas – what was the point of installing them if the maximum range was only twenty metres.

“Why didn’t we consider this?” he said.

“Why didn’t you consider what?” Darren asked.

“Sorry, I was thinking out loud. We all thought the tags worked like GPS trackers, and none of the team pointed out the limited range.”
“Are you sure they were Apple air tags?”
“We just assumed that they were,” Smith said. “Damn, I need to make a phone call.”
     The thunder was still rumbling outside, but the rain the storm had promised still hadn’t yet arrived. Smith lit a cigarette and called Grant Webber.

The Head of Forensics picked up after a few rings. “Smith.”
“Where are you?” Smith asked.

“Still at work,” Webber said. “Some of us don’t get the luxury of an evening off.”
“Where are those Apple air tags you removed from the cars?”

“About three feet away from me.”
“We dropped the ball there,” Smith said. “Those things can’t be used to track vehicles.”
“But that’s precisely what he used them for,” Webber argued.

“He can’t have. They have a very limited range, and it would be impossible to use them to see where a car is located in a city the size of York. He must have done it some other way.”

Darren Lewis came outside. “I’ve thought of something.”
“Hold on,” Smith said to Webber. “I’m putting you on speakerphone.”
“What do the air tags look like?” Darren asked.

“Who the hell is that?” Webber said.

“An IT expert,” Smith said.

He didn’t elaborate.

“They’re about four centimetres in diameter,” Webber said. “With a half-eaten apple on the face.”
“They’re definitely air tags. Do you have something to open one up with?”
“How am I supposed to do that? Hold on – there’s a slot in the side.”
“Open it up and tell me what it looks like inside?” Darren said.

“Give me a moment.”

“What are you thinking?” Smith asked Darren while Webber was busy.

“You say the cars were tracked?”
“Definitely.”
“I think he tried to fool you,” Darren said. “Any teenager knows that an air tag can only be used to find something close by.”
“Nobody on a team of experienced detectives knew that,” Smith said.

“Something doesn’t look right.” Webber’s voice interrupted them.

“Did you get it open?” Darren said. “There should be a few wires and some tiny microchips and diodes. The receiver will look like a small silver box.”
“It looks nothing like that,” Webber told him. “There’s nothing in here but a flat rectangular box.”

“Is it black with a small red button on it?”

“That’s right. What is it?”
“I think it’s a proper GPS tracker,” Darren told him.

“Fuck it,” Smith said. “He’s hidden genuine GPS trackers inside air tags, and he’s managed to fool every single one of us.”

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

“The real GPS trackers were hidden in the Apple air tags,” Smith told the rest of the team the next morning.

“Why didn’t we pick up on the fact that the air tags only had a limited range?” Bridge wondered.

“Misdirection,” Smith decided. “Why would we? Why didn’t he just attach the GPS trackers themselves? Why go to all the trouble of hiding them in air tags? To waste our time, that’s why?”
“Can the proper GPS trackers be used to trace the person doing the tracking?” DC King said.

“Unfortunately, not,” DC Moore said. “The devices hidden in the air tags are simply receivers. All they do is get the information from the closest satellites. It’s a one-way line of communication – the signal is sent to the phone, but the phone signal can’t be traced from the GPS.”

“My brain hurts,” Bridge said. “And it’s only just gone eight in the morning.”

“Where’s the boss?” Smith said.

“Some kind of emergency,” DC King said. “That’s all I got out of PC Baldwin.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Whitton said.

“Whatever it is,” Smith said. “We’ll have to make a start without him. Do we have anything back from the searches of Ian Peters’ and Gordon Green’s houses?”
“Not that I know of,” Bridge said. “I’m sure the DI would have brought us up to date if there was anything to report.”
     Right on cue, a very red-faced DI Smyth came into the small conference room.

“Problems, boss?” Smith said.

“You could say that,” DI Smyth said and sat down. “Gordon Green attempted to commit suicide earlier this morning.”
“What happened?” Smith said.

“He made a right botch-up of it. He thought he could use his trousers and shirt to make a makeshift rope, and he tried to hang himself from the topmost bar of the cell. The duty sergeant was alerted to Mr Green’s groans of frustration after the third or fourth failed attempt.”
“Idiot,” Bridge said.

“Where is he now?” Smith asked.

“His lawyer pressed for a medical and psychological examination,” DI Smyth said. “Gordon was taken to hospital an hour ago.”
“This is bullshit,” Smith said.

“Our hands are tied. There are certain protocols that have to be adhered to in instances like this.”
“He’s spooked,” Smith said. “He’s hiding something, and he’s shit scared we’re going to find out what that is. We need to speak to him now.”
“I’m afraid it’s out of our hands.”
“It’s important we talk to him while he’s in this frame of mind,” Smith said. “He’s holding onto something important.”
“It is imperative that we do not interrogate him while he’s in this frame of mind,” DI Smyth insisted. “If he’s got something to tell us, we need him to do that according to the guidelines set out in law. I don’t want a potential piece of evidence going up in smoke because of a legal technicality. The man isn’t going anywhere. We’ll interview him again when he’s been given a once over.”
“Boss…”
“This is not up for debate.”

Like hell it isn’t, Smith thought.

He didn’t give two hoots about protocol and guidelines, and he planned to make a point of going to speak to Gordon Green sometime during the course of the day, hang the consequences. He knew for a fact that his suicide attempt was born of something essential to the investigation. PC Green was on the verge of cracking and that’s precisely what Smith intended to make him do.

“The search of Ian Peters’ house yielded nothing,” DI Smyth said. “There was nothing inside the property relating to any of the murders.”
“What about his laptop?” Smith asked. “He freaked out when I told him we would take a look at his laptop.”
“I think I know why that was,” DI Smyth said. “Mr Peters liked to look at porn.”
“Why would he freak out about that?” Bridge said. “A lot of blokes like to watch porn – it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I don’t,” Smith said. “I don’t watch porn.”
“You’re not a normal bloke,” Bridge told him.

“The websites in Mr Peters’ browsing history were rather unusual,” DI Smyth said. “It appears he was partial to a particular kind of pornography, and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
“Nothing illegal then?” DC Moore said.

“Nothing illegal,” DI Smyth confirmed.

“Please tell me there was something incriminating inside Gordon Green’s place,” Smith said.

“I’m going to disappoint you,” DI Smyth said. “There was nothing there either.”
“What about on his phone?”
“Another fat zero.”
“The man is involved in this, boss,” Smith said. “I know he is.”
“If he is, there’s nothing to confirm it at his place of residence.”

Smith thought of something.

“The Hitchhiker is pretty clued up on modern technology. He hid real GPS trackers inside the air tags, and we’ve since learned that those things have a very limited range. He knows a lot about IT, and I reckon he’ll know how to cover his tracks online.”
“Our IT team are very good,” DI Smyth said.

“What if he’s better?” Smith said. “None of us cottoned on to the limited range of the Apple air tags, and we ought to have. A seventeen-year-old had to point it out to me.”
“Please tell me you haven’t been discussing the details of the investigation with a teenager.”
“He can be trusted,” Smith said. “All I’m saying is we’re living in a digital age, and however good our tech team are, there will always be someone who can outsmart them.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” DI Smyth said.

“What I know about computers can be written on the back of a beermat, boss,” Smith said. “But I do know a bit about detection, and I know when a suspect is about to crack.”
“The answer is still no.”
“I’m not going to interrogate him until he has a nervous breakdown,” Smith promised. “I’ll just have a friendly chat with him.”
“Nothing that’s said in his hospital room can be used as evidence,” DI Smyth reminded him. “You know that.”
“I don’t need it to be admissible in court, boss. Let me do this. Gordon Green knows something, and now is the perfect time to find out what that is.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

“You can be pretty persuasive when you put your mind to it, Sarge,” DC King said.

She and Smith were on their way to the York City Hospital.

“Pig-headed is how the boss described it,” Smith said.

“Do you really think PC Green wants to tell us something?”
“I reckon he does. When someone tries to end their life in a holding cell before they’ve even been charged with something it’s because they’re shitting themselves. Gordon Green knows something and I’m going to help him ease his conscience.”
He turned left onto Grosvenor Terrace.

“Aren’t you worried that he’ll deny everything when he’s up to being formally interviewed?” DC King asked.

“No,” Smith said. “I’ve seen it before. When a suspect takes such drastic measures it’s because they’ve reached the end of the line. You can only keep a secret inside for so long. Lies have a habit of eating away at you until you have to let them out.”
“You’re not a big fan of liars, are you, Sarge?”
“When you deal with them on a daily basis,” Smith said. “You tend to develop a real dislike of them. I’ve never seen the point of lying. It’s exhausting and the truth always comes to the surface in the end.”
“Are you telling me you’ve never told a lie?”
“Of course I have, Kerry,” Smith said. “But not for a very long time. Like I said, it’s exhausting, and I really can’t be arsed with it. Let’s do this. We’re close to cracking this one – I can feel it in my weary bones.”
     Gordon Green had been given a private room and Smith was glad. He didn’t feel like discussing what he’d come to discuss in a general ward. The Tadcaster PC was sitting up on the bed, reading a book when they went in. Smith had been told by the doctor he spoke to that Gordon had suffered no physical injuries, but his frame of mind was concerning. Smith had asked her if she thought there was a danger of Gordon trying to kill himself again, and she admitted that she wasn’t sure. Smith promised not to upset him.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

Gordon showed him. It was a book on beekeeping.

“I’ve heard that some prisons offer beekeeping courses now.”

He put the book on the table.
     Smith sat down next to the bed. DC King sat on the other side.

“How are you feeling?”

“Embarrassed,” Gordon said. “I made a real tit out of myself there, didn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Smith said. “Is there something on your mind?”
“I didn’t expect it to go this far.”
“What do you mean by that?”

“She was supposed to disappear, that’s all,” Gordon said.

“Who are you talking about?” DC King said.

“Why haven’t I been cautioned?”

“This is just an informal chat,” Smith told him. “It’s not being recorded and nothing you say can be used against you.”
Gordon let out a chuckle. “Is that wise?”
“I’ve never been particularly wise,” Smith said.

“I met Ingrid at the nightclub,” Gordon said.

“Ingrid Harrison?” DC King said.

“Right.”
“Which nightclub was this?” DC King asked.

“Sparks?” Smith remembered.

Gordon nodded. “She was a bit younger than me but we hit it off. We had a few drinks, and she came back to my place. We started seeing each other, but she wanted it kept quiet.”
“She was in a relationship with Ian Peters at the time, wasn’t she?”
“She’d already broken that off,” Gordon said.

“Was she worried about Ian’s reaction?” DC King said.

“I don’t think she really cared about it.”
“Why keep it quiet then?” Smith asked.

“Because of her dad.”
“She was twenty-one,” Smith said. “Surely she was old enough to make up her own mind.”
“You don’t know what he was like,” Gordon said.

“I understand he was a bit controlling.”
“That’s an understatement. He was extreme.”
“Why didn’t she just move out?” DC King said.

“It wasn’t as simple as that.”
“Why not?” Smith said. “We want to help you, but you need to tell us everything.”

The doctor Smith had spoken to earlier came into the room. She asked Gordon if he was OK, he answered in the affirmative and she left them alone again.

“He would sometimes lock her in her room,” Gordon said.

“Jack Harrison locked his daughter in her bedroom?” DC King said.

Gordon nodded. “And that wasn’t all. She would often find him next to her bed at night, watching her.”
“Do you know if he ever went any further than that?” Smith said.

“I don’t think so,” Gordon said. “He just wanted to control her – to have total possession of her.”

“I still don’t understand why she didn’t just leave,” DC King said. “She was a grown woman.”
“Her father made damn sure she didn’t leave. She told me what he threatened her with. If she didn’t stay at home and abide by his rules Graham would suffer ten times the abuse, she’d had to put up with.”

“He threatened to hurt her brother?” Smith said.

Graham nodded.
“Why didn’t she go to the police?” DC King said. “We could have done something.”
Gordon started to laugh, and it made Smith feel slightly uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was inappropriate. She did go to the police in a way.”
“You?” Smith guessed.

“Right. She couldn’t do it formally. She had no proof. Mrs Harrison would deny it – she was terrified of Jack, and Graham was too. It would have been Ingrid’s word against the rest of the family, and she couldn’t risk it.”

“What did you do, Gordon?”

“We came up with a plan. It would look like she’d been abducted. I know that people disappear all the time and their bodies are often only found years later.”
“You faked her murder?” DC King said.

“It was the only way she could get away,” Gordon said. “If her father thought she’d been murdered, he wouldn’t take it out on Graham.”

“It was your car in the dashcam footage, wasn’t it?” Smith said.

“It was,” Gordon confirmed. “It was posted on the Facebook group, and it strengthened the case for Ingrid being abducted and killed.”
“Did you film the video?” Smith said.

Gordon nodded again. “I got the footage and posted it using a Facebook account I deleted immediately afterwards. Everybody thought Ingrid was dead, including her father.”

“I’m finding all of this hard to take in,” Smith said. “If you wanted it to look like Ingrid was murdered, why bury the evidence of the dashcam footage?”
“Because I’d made a stupid mistake,” Gordon said. “I shouldn’t have filmed my car. It really was a dumb mistake.”
“So you got rid of the camera footage and ordered the Harrison family to take it down from the Facebook page?”

“I thought it would be enough. Oh my God, what have I done? I never thought it would go this far.”

“Why didn’t we hear about it?” Smith wondered. “I don’t even remember the case.”
“Because a case was never opened,” Gordon said.

“A woman disappeared,” DC King said. “It’s suspected that she was abducted and murdered, and you say a case was never opened? How is that even possible?”
“Because I was running the show every step of the way. The Harrison family didn’t press it any further. Jack accepted that his daughter was dead and that was the end of it. Or I thought it would be.”

“You’re not telling us everything, Gordon,” Smith said. “I was led to believe that Mr and Mrs Harrison hounded you for weeks afterwards.”
“They did,” Gordon said.

“And that didn’t bother you?” DC King said.

“I told them we were looking into it, and they would be the first to know about any new developments. I warned them about wasting police time. This is all my fault, isn’t it? I’m responsible for the deaths of all those people.”

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

Smith had a sudden craving for a cigarette. He needed a good dose of nicotine to speed up the cogs in his brain. What Gordon Green had just told them beggared belief. A police officer had not only helped a woman disappear, but he’d also orchestrated it to look like she’d been murdered, and then he’d done everything he could to cover up that murder.

“Why didn’t you come forward when you connected Ingrid’s disappearance with The Hitchhiker murders?” Smith said.

“I wanted to,” Gordon said. “But I was terrified.”
“Six people have been killed, Gordon,” Smith said. “Six innocent people, and you could have stopped it. You could have told us about Ingrid. This psychopath is killing people because he thinks he’s avenging the death of a woman who is still alive. You could have got her to show her face to prove that she wasn’t murdered.”
“By the time I realised what was happening,” Gordon said. “I was in too deep. Things had gone too far.”

“Where is she now?” DC King said. “Where is Ingrid?”
“Closer than you think,” Gordon said.

“Now isn’t the time for cryptic clues, Gordon,” Smith said. “Where is she?”

“She lives in a cottage in Copmanthorpe.”
“That’s a stone’s throw from Colton Haggs Farm.”
“She’s been there for three years. The day she disappeared I drove her to Doncaster. From there she caught a train to London, but she came back when we decided the coast was clear.”

“Who is The Hitchhiker, Gordon?” Smith asked the all-important question.

“I don’t know,” Gordon said.

“Don’t bullshit me. We’ve come this far, so don’t bullshit me. Who is he?”
“I really don’t know. I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“He’s been to your house,” Smith said. “Hair identical to the hair from your dog was found in the back of the first victims’ car – he’s been to your house. That’s how the hair was transferred to his clothing. Who is he?”

Gordon’s facial expression changed dramatically. His eyes developed a haunted aspect, and his mouth opened wide.

“What is it?” Smith said. “What’s on your mind?”
“It can’t be,” Gordon said. “He’s just a kid.”
“Who are you talking about, Gordon?”
“Graham. Ingrid’s brother, Graham.”
“He came to your house?” DC King said.

“I was quite surprised to see him,” Gordon said. “It was a bit out of the blue and I hadn’t seen him for years.”
“What did he want?” Smith said.

“He wanted to talk. He sat on the sofa and drank coffee. That must be how the dog hairs got on his clothes.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“What did you talk about?” Smith said.
“About Ingrid mostly. And then he threatened me.”
“What could he possibly threaten you with?” DC King said.
“He’s older now, and he realised I’d got rid of evidence in the form of that dashcam footage. He said he was going to go the papers with it.”
“What did you do?” Smith said.

“I asked him what he wanted,” Graham said. “And he told me. He said he couldn’t get the information he needed, but I could. He wanted the details of all the Green Envy Ford Fiestas.”
“And you gave him that information?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, and I really didn’t think it would lead to what’s happened this week.”
     Smith thought for a bit. Graham Harrison was a weedy boy. He definitely wasn’t strong enough to be able to inflict the damage The Hitchhiker had inflicted.
“I don’t believe you,” Smith said.

“I’m telling the truth,” Gordon said. “For the first time since Ingrid’s fake disappearance I’m telling the truth.”
“Graham Harrison isn’t The Hitchhiker,” Smith said. “Not only is he physically unable to do what was done to some of the victims, he has no real motive. Why would he avenge the death of a sister after all this time? Who else has visited you recently?”
“Nobody,” Gordon said. “I promise you.”
“I still don’t believe you. You’re not telling us everything.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Gordon asked.

“That depends on whether you can stop lying to us,” Smith said. “Nothing you’ve told us today can be used as evidence, but you can still do the right thing and help us.”
“I’m going to go to jail,” Gordon said. “I know that.”
“You’re definitely going to jail,” Smith confirmed. “You’ll probably be charged with a whole host of offences. Perversion of justice, interfering with an investigation, to name but a few. If you’re lucky you might avoid an accessory to murder charge.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“You could have prevented this, Gordon. You could have come forward straight away with what you know.”
“I was scared.”
“Then you need to man-up,” Smith said. “Now isn’t the time for weakness. You know who The Hitchhiker is, and now’s the time to tell us everything.”
“I really don’t know. The only visitor I’ve had recently is Graham Harrison. I’m telling the truth.”

“Think,” Smith said. “Someone else has been to your house.”

It was as if a loose connection had been restored in the wiring of Gordon Green’s brain. His expression changed again, and he now looked like a man who had suddenly remembered the name of a place he’d visited as a child and the place name had kept him up all night.

He let Smith and DC King in on his sudden revelation.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

The woman who opened the door to number 3 Blackburn Terrace looked like a woman resigned to her fate. She nodded to Smith as though she’d been expecting him.

“Can I come in?” Smith asked.

“I suppose so,” Nellie Harrison said.

“Is Graham home?” Smith said.

“He’s in his room.”

“And your husband?” Smith said. “Is he here?”
“Jack’s out on a job. He’s sorting out a computer for a client.”
She told him to wait in the living room while she went to fetch her son.

Graham came into the room shortly afterwards. His mother wasn’t with him.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I think we need to talk,” Smith said. “Sit down.”

He looked around the room. On the mantelpiece was a bunch of flowers in a blue vase. They were pink roses, and it looked like there were about a dozen of them. Smith knew he’d come to the right place.
     Graham sat in the same place as before. “What’s this all about? I told you everything I know the other day.”
“I don’t think you did. I’ve just come from the hospital. PC Green was admitted there – nothing serious, you’ll be glad to hear.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“When was the last time you saw PC Green?”

“Ages ago.”
“Could you define ages?” Smith said. “A week, a month, a year?”
“A few years,” Graham said.
“I see. You didn’t pay PC Green a visit at home a few weeks ago then?”
Graham didn’t reply straight away. He lowered his eyes, and Smith knew that what he was about to say would be a lie.

“No.”
“You didn’t go there and blackmail him?” Smith said.

“Why would I blackmail him?” Graham said.

“Because you’re not happy about the way your sister’s disappearance was handled. You couldn’t leave it alone. You asked PC Green for a list of all the Green Envy Ford Fiestas in the city.”
“He’s lying.”
“PC Green is in no position to lie, Graham. He’s facing a list of charges as long as his arm and he’s suddenly developed a conscience. Why did you want to know about those cars?”
     Graham didn’t reply. He stared at the blank television screen on the wall, his eyes unblinking.

“Graham,” Smith urged.

“I wanted to find my sister.”
“How did you plan on doing that?”
“I don’t know,” Graham said. “I was going to talk to the people who owned those cars and see if they knew anything.”
Smith sighed. “Do you have that list of the car owners here?”
“It’s in my room.”
“Do you know if anyone else has seen it?” Smith said.

“I keep it hidden in my desk.”
     A movement in Smith’s peripheral vision caused him to turn his head. He’d never seen the firearm that was now pointed at his head in real life, but he knew exactly what it was. He also knew the damage it could inflict.

“I would advise you against this,” he said without looking at the man holding the gun.

“You are aware of what one of these can do to a human head,” Jack Harrison said.

“I’ll say it again,” Smith said. “You don’t what to do this. If you look outside, you’ll understand. The entire street has been sealed off. We have an armed team on standby, and they have been ordered to use their discretion. In case you don’t understand what that means, I’ll educate you. Those guys haven’t seen any action in months and leaving it up to their discretion is a recipe for disaster. All of them are itching to pull a trigger again. I was dead against the idea, if that makes you feel better.”

“You’re lying,” Jack said.

“Take a look.”
“Graham,” Jack said.

The teenager shot up at the mention of his name.

“See if he’s telling the truth.”
Graham peeled back the corner of the curtain and peered outside.

“Shit.”
“So now you know,” Smith said.

Nellie came back inside the room and sat down as though nothing was happening.

“It’s over, Jack.”
“It’s over when I say it’s over,” Jack told her. “I’m the one holding the gun.”
“She’s right, Jack,” Smith said. “It’s time for this to stop.”
“I should put a bullet in your head right now,” Jack said. “My baby girl was killed, and your lot did fuck all about it. I should blow that pig head of yours right off your pig neck.”
“Put the gun down, Jack,” Smith said.

“Do you have kids?”
“Three girls,” Smith decided to tell him.

“How would you feel if one of them was murdered?”
     Smith’s gaze fell on the roses again and he wondered why Jack Harrison had taken them from Carl Jones’ car after he’d killed him.

“Ingrid isn’t dead, Jack.”
Jack took a step closer. The barrel of the gun was now only a foot away from Smith’s face.

“She’s not dead,” Smith said.

“Put down the gun, Dad.”
Jack Harrison froze. He turned his head with the gun still pointing at Smith.

“Put it down, Dad.”
Ingrid Harrison looked at the man partly responsible for giving her life. The gun was lowered, and it fell from Jack’s grip. It landed with a thud on the carpet.

“I’m not staying,” Ingrid told her father. “I came back to put a stop to this, but I’m not sticking around. I won’t even be visiting you in prison.”

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

Ingrid Harrison stepped outside and was immediately pounced on by two uniformed officers. They escorted her to a nearby car and told her to get in. Three officers from the armed unit went inside the house immediately afterwards. With their weapons at the ready they stormed into the living room and stopped when they realised what was waiting for them in there.

Jack Harrison was on his knees on the carpet. His hands were covering his face, and he was sobbing like a child. Smith held up the Ruger Single Seven .327 Federal and one of the armed unit relieved him of it. There wasn’t going to be any shooting today.

PC Green’s police brain had sprung into action in the hospital room. When Smith had made it clear that Graham Harrison couldn’t possibly be The Hitchhiker – he simply wasn’t strong enough, PC Green had suggested that the transfer of the dog hairs hadn’t stopped with Graham. It was quite possible that Graham had unwittingly taken the hairs home with him, and they’d been transferred to someone else. Smith knew straight away that he was right, and that’s when everything suddenly slotted into place. Graham’s father Jack was The Hitchhiker. A few stray dog hairs and a dozen pink roses had sealed his fate.

Later the forensic team that were tasked with carrying out a search of the Harrison household would uncover so much evidence pointing in Jack Harrison’s direction, there was little doubt about him never seeing the outside of a prison cell again. The list of owners of Green Envy Ford Fiestas was in the pocket of a pair of jeans owned by Jack. Nearly half of the people on the list had been crossed off, and Smith knew that he would have carried on ticking names off it if he hadn’t been caught.

There was a detailed account of all the murders that were yet to be carried out. Jack Harrison was determined to wipe out everyone in the city who drove a bright green Ford Fiesta. There was a disturbing aspect to the case when the forensics officers realised that Annabel Platt’s name was still on the list. The sole survivor of The Hitchhiker wasn’t safe by a long shot. Jack wanted to leave no stone unturned. One of the items recovered by the forensics team was a pair of ear defending headphones.

Smith had told PC Green to persuade Ingrid Harrison to come out of hiding. He believed it was the only way to put a stop to this, and Ingrid had agreed. DI Smyth had been reluctant to use her – he didn’t want to put her life at risk, but Smith knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her father wouldn’t harm her. He was right. Ingrid’s presence had the desired effect.

It wasn’t yet clear whether Nellie Harrison was complicit in the murders. Smith reckoned that she must have had her suspicions, but only time would tell. There was a long road ahead, and Smith wasn’t looking forward to it, but The Hitchhiker was out of action and that’s all he cared about.

Jack Harrison was restrained and told to get off the floor. The sobs still came, and he had to be helped to his feet by two of the armed unit. Nellie didn’t speak. She remained where she was in the armchair in front of the window.

“All good?” one of the armed officers asked Smith.

“All good,” he confirmed.

His gaze fell once more on the pink roses. He walked up to the mantelpiece and removed them from the vase. He left the room and walked towards the front door with Jack Harrison close behind him.

They emerged into the afternoon sunshine together. A crowd had gathered outside, and the blinding flashes that followed told Smith that the press had got wind of what was happening. Smith looked at the roses he was holding and without knowing why, he held them up in the air. The camera flashes intensified, and Smith had to look away.

He wasn’t aware then, that his face was going to be all over the front pages of every newspaper in the country. One shot in particular was going to be broadcast all over the world. Captured at the optimum moment, it was a photograph that some experts would consider iconic. It depicted Smith, a few feet away from one of the worst serial killers the city had ever seen, holding up a bunch of pink roses. The headlines would differ in the papers the next day, but one of them would be remembered for a very long time to come.

Face of The Hitchhiker campaign comes out smelling of roses.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

“That was really great,” Smith told Jane Whitton.

Whitton’s mother had joined them at their table. The performance of Twelfth Night was over, and Smith had enjoyed it much more than he thought he would. Even the absence of the beer tent Whitton had promised him didn’t detract from his enjoyment of the play. Jane’s Malvolio was a big hit with young and old alike.

The Hitchhiker investigation was far from over. Jack Harrison was in custody, but now came the tedious task of building a case against him. It was a foregone conclusion, but there was still a lot of grunt work to carry out. Smith insisted on having the day off to unwind and DI Smyth had had no objections.

The press had hounded Smith non-stop since the iconic photograph had gone viral. He knew they would soon tire of his no comments and move on to another juicy piece of news. He’d point blank refused when Superintendent Smyth had come up with the idea of a TV documentary. The public-school buffoon thought it would be incredible PR for York Police, to which Smith had commented that he couldn’t give a fuck about public relations.

“Shall we go to the Hog’s Head?” Whitton suggested. “We can have a sort of post-play celebration.”
“Sounds good,” Smith said. “I could do with a beer. I thought there was going to be a beer tent.”
“So did I,” Whitton said.

“I’ll meet you there,” Smith told her. “I just need to make a slight detour on the way.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I come with you?” It was Fran Rogers.

Smith looked at the little girl and smiled. “I was hoping you would say that.”
     The drive to Murton passed in silence. Fran gazed out of the window without saying a word. Smith wondered if he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t sure, but he did know that it felt right. He stopped outside Emma Noble’s house and he and Fran got out.

“Could you get the roses from the back for me?” he asked Fran.

She grabbed the bunch of flowers, and they walked up the path to the front door.

Emma Noble’s expression was hard to read. Smith wasn’t sure if she was going to invite them in or slam the door in their faces.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I want to say I’m sorry,” Smith said. “I really am truly sorry about Carl.”
“Who’s this?” Emma nodded to Fran.

“Someone I really wanted you to meet. Fran, this is Emma.”
Fran held out the roses. “These are for you.”
     Emma looked at the pink flowers, and her gaze shifted to Smith.

“Are these the roses?”

“They belong to you,” Smith said. “I thought you should have them.”
Emma took the roses from Fran. “Do you want to come in?”
“My mum was killed by a bad person too,” Fran said.

A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek, and her mouth opened wide.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Emma asked Smith.

He shook his head. “It’s no joke. We won’t take up any more of your time.”
More tears came. “I’ve withdrawn the complaint. I know you wanted to warn people about the green car thing, but you were told not to.”
“I’m sorry,” Smith.

The tears were flowing quickly now. Emma wiped her face with her hand. Fran moved closer and wrapped her arms around her.

“Do you want to come in?” Emma asked again.

“I’ll wait outside,” Smith said. “I need a cigarette.”
Fran looked at him for permission.

“It’s OK,” Smith gave it.

He watched as Fran and Emma went inside the house. A tear formed in his own eye when he heard what the little girl said just before the door was closed.

“I think you should get a dog.”

THE END

A person riding a horse in a field Description automatically generatedAuthor’s note:

I hope you enjoyed reading THE HITCHHIKER. I would really appreciate it if you could take the time to leave a review on Amazon (here is the link) and/or Goodreads (here is the link).

You can also drop me an email at starmarine@polka.co.za any time. I would love to hear feedback from you about any of my books and I will endeavour to reply. I have a readers group on Facebook if you would like to join you can do so here

Also by Stewart Giles

DS Jason Smith Series

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated   Phobia: 5 early DS Smith cases   Buy from Amazon

Phobia is a series of five DS Jason Smith cases he worked on before we met him in the first book 'Smith'. We get insights into what moulded him to be the Detective Sergeant we first get a glimpse of in 'Smith'. Smith quickly realizes that police work isn't always cut and dried. Justice is not always black and white; there are many shades of grey in between.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Smith (DS Smith Book 1)   Buy from Amazon

It is Christmas Day in York. A woman is found dead in her bed. A suicide note is found on her chest. It reads ‘I am so sorry Martin’. Hours later the police are called to a house a few miles away. A mother and her daughter have been brutally attacked; the mother is dead, and the daughter is barely alive. The father is found shaking uncontrollably in the corner of the room. He is covered in blood, but he is unharmed. His name is Martin Willow.

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated Boomerang (DS Smith Book 2)   Buy from Amazon

A man is killing people in York. Initially the murders appear to be the random acts of a maniac. Detective Jason Smith is put in charge of the investigation. It soon becomes clear that the murders are all connected to him in one way or another. All the killings correspond to events in Smith's life and the murderer leaves dates at the crime scene which tie up to important dates in Smith's history.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Ladybird (DS Smith Book 3)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Sergeant Jason Smith is days away from the end of his sick leave after a case that almost cost him his life when he gets a call from an old friend. His friend has been arrested for the murder of a student. He wants Smith to investigate the murder and prove his innocence. Smith is persuaded return to work. The student was killed with a bread knife. Ladybirds were scattered on his dead body

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Occam’s Razor (DS Smith Book 4)   Buy from Amazon

A football player is shot dead in front of a packed crowd of people. DS Jason Smith is put in charge of the investigation. The murder weapon is found in a house across the road from the football ground. It is a rare Russian army issue sniper rifle. As the investigation hits dead end after dead end, two government agents arrive and take over, pushing Smith and his colleagues to the side.

A picture containing graphical user interface Description automatically generated Harlequin (DS Smith Book 5)   Buy from Amazon

The circus comes to town and children start to disappear. Detective Sergeant Jason Smith is persuaded to return to work after three weeks of a marijuana induced haze. Forced to endure the leadership of a new DI, the fulsome Bryony Brownhill, Smith is faced with the most difficult investigation of his colourful career.  When the children who vanished are found murdered in various parts of the city, all clues lead to the circus grounds, but Smith and his team are met with a sinister silence everywhere they turn.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Selene (DS Smith Book 6)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is found tucked up in bed with his throat sliced open two days after Christmas, DS Jason Smith and his team are baffled. It appears he has been drugged, killed and carefully wrapped up in a duvet. The only evidence Smith finds are some strands of hair belonging to a woman. One month later, another man is killed in exactly the same manner but there appears to be no link whatsoever to the two men apart from the fact that they were both single, lonely and middle aged. 

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated Horsemen (DS Smith Book 7)   Buy from Amazon

One draining murder investigation after another has left DS Jason on the brink of losing his sanity and he needs a break. A string of armed robberies at the McDonalds in the city of York are getting in the way. Smith’s DI makes him a deal; if he can get to the bottom of it, he can have two weeks off. Smith figures out who the brains behind the robberies is; the young wife of Jimmy Phoenix, the owner of all the McDonalds franchises in the city.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Unworthy (DS Jason Smith Book 8)   Buy from Amazon

DS Jason Smith is dragged away from paternity leave when a woman is killed with her baby in the next room. When more women with children are brutally murdered, Smith discovers that they all have something in common - they all share a secret. Then he finds out that the mother of his own child is on this list of 'Unworthy' women.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Venom (DS Jason Smith Book 9)   Buy from Amazon

Still recovering from an accident, DS Jason Smith receives a strange phone call: ‘I want to live.’ The number is unknown, and Jason puts it down to a hoax call. While doing a favour for his DCI the phone call suddenly begins to make sense and Jason is once again on the trail of a psychopath. Can Smith stop this maniac before more people die? Who is it and why does he have Smith’s number? As the team struggle to find some kind of a lead Jason realises that it may not be his own life in danger this time but he is in danger of losing someone else he cares about. This is a unique story that has a steadily increasing pace that continues to deliver all the way to the very last page.

Severed: A gripping crime thriller with a huge twist. (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 10) by [Stewart Giles] Severed (DS Jason Smith Book 10)   Buy from Amazon

A student, who hasn’t been seen for a while is found dead in her room. Her throat has been cut but it turns out that is not the cause of death! The post-mortem reveals that she had been drained of all her blood. The killer has left behind no evidence and there are no clues. Is there a vampire loose in York? Then another body is found, and Smith and the team are struggling to find a link or a motive. Will this be the case that defeats the brilliant DS Smith? How much more heartache can Jason Smith bear? Severed will take him to hell and back.

Demons: A Detective Jason Smith thriller by [Giles, Stewart] Demons (DS Jason Smith Book 11)   Buy from Amazon

‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’  Someone is killing people in York. All of the victims share a secret that the murderer is somehow aware of and all of them receive an identical message after they are killed.  ‘God has forgiven you your sins, but He could not rid you of your demons. So I have taken them for you.’ Detective Sergeant Jason Smith heads up the most draining investigation he’s ever come across. Coming face to face with demons of his own, will this be the case that finally sends Smith over the edge?

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Deadeye (DS Jason Smith Book 12)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

Calendar Description automatically generated Motive (DS Jason Smith Book 13)   Buy from Amazon

In the week before Christmas, two people are brutally murdered in their homes. There is no sign of a struggle and both victims have had their throats slashed open. Detective Jason Smith is on holiday for the Christmas period, but he finds himself in the middle of the investigation before he knows it. There are no clues left at the murder scenes besides a bizarre series of numbers and letters left in random places - E.6.T.0.M. Smith and the team are baffled. What is the relevance of this ambiguous message? As the bodies start to pile up, and the tensions heat up within the team, Smith soon senses that someone in his team knows more about this than they are letting on. Is there a rat in their midst? And if so, who is it? And why is someone killing people without any obvious motive? In the most bizarre case of Smith's career, will this be the murderer that finally beats him?

A picture containing text, sign, night sky Description automatically generated Australia (DS Jason Smith Book 14)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

Wishbone: A chilling thriller with a dark twist (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 16) by [Stewart Giles] Wishbone (DS Jason Smith Book 16)   Buy from Amazon

'BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.'  These seemingly innocent song lyrics are about to send Detective Jason Smith over the edge.  Still traumatised after a harrowing trip back home, Smith is sent headlong into the stuff of nightmares when he returns to work.

When a woman is found dead with her spinal cord severed Smith and his team are thrown into the most disturbing investigation ever. Then another body is found and when Smith realises what this woman was subjected to he knows he's on the trail of the most sadistic killer he's ever come across. All clues point to a Death Metal band. Wishbone are in town for a few shows and when Smith realises all the murders bear striking similarities to their song lyrics he starts to wonder if there is something more to this band than meets the eye. This is the most horrifying case of Smith's career and one the people of York will never forget.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedGhosts (DS Jason Smith Book 17)   Buy from Amazon

When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedThe Scarecrow (DS Jason Smith Book 18)   Buy from Amazon

The Scarecrow. How do you stop a psychopathic killer when they're always one step ahead of you? A new kind of murderer has caught the attention of the people of York. His attention is focused on the low-life’s and the bottom-feeders of society. He calls himself The Scarecrow. The citizens of York are calling him a hero - a killer ridding society of the undesirables, but Detective Jason Smith can't accept this. And when he finds himself first on the scene of this maniac's first horrific murder, and sees for himself what this self-proclaimed deterrent to crime is capable of, he takes it upon himself to stop The Scarecrow at any cost. But as the brutal murders continue, Smith finds himself wondering if this is a fight he can actually win. The Scarecrow refuses to be stopped. Is this the first killer Smith is unable to beat?

A person playing a guitar Description automatically generated with medium confidenceThe Bluesman (DS Jason Smith Book 19)   Buy from Amazon

Smith isn't In a good place. He's still in shock after the worst case of his career. He has problems on the home front, and he's just been told to take some time off. Smith thinks things couldn’t get much worse. They're about to get much, much worse. Smith gets a phone call. When a stranger asks for his help, he doesn't know what to do. An old friend has gone missing and the parting words of the woman on the phone chill Smith to the bone. He's sold his soul to The Bluesman. Smith has some time off. But as he digs deeper into this mystery Bluesman he starts to wonder about everything else in his life. The Bluesman is not what he seems, and he's going to change Smith's life forever.

 A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedThe Librarian (DS Jason Smith Book 20)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Jason Smith has outwitted more murderers than he cares to admit. His insight into the criminal mind is unrivalled and he's made a career out of outsmarting the depraved and insane killers that have plagued the city of York. But it appears someone has been doing some research on Smith's track record. Somebody knows more than they ought to, and when people are murdered in circumstances, far too familiar to be coincidence, Smith runs out of ideas. The answers to his questions come from an unexpected source. An octogenarian former Librarian who claims to remember everything that has ever happened in her waking life, will prove to be an unusual ally in Smith's quest to bring down the most disturbing killer he's ever come across.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generatedThe Viaduct (DS Jason Smith Book 21)   Buy from Amazon

Two hundred feet below an old bridge, a teenage girl lies battered and bruised. Barely alive, she knows she's not going to make it. Two days later, another teenager is found in almost exactly the same spot. Suicide. That's what the papers are saying.

But when a third victim of the now legendary viaduct turns up, Detective Sergeant Jason Smith doesn't buy it. Something else is happening here - something much darker. As Smith and the team start asking questions, the investigation takes a turn for the worse when things get much closer to home. Smith's adopted daughter goes missing, and when he finds out she was last seen close to this sinister viaduct, he fears the worst.

Smith knows he's running out of time. Will he get to the truth before the viaduct lures its next victim to their death?

Calendar Description automatically generated with low confidenceThe Twin (DS Jason Smith Book 22)   Buy from Amazon

This isn't about you. The first victim is lucky. He is mutilated beyond belief, but he is allowed to live. The second isn't so fortunate. But the words carved into her back are the same. And when a third victim is found with the same four words etched into his skin, Detective Jason Smith is wide awake. Smith manages to get two words out of the first victim before he dies. The Twin. Who is this Twin? Nobody knows, but he's about to send Smith and the team into the stuff of nightmares.

A picture containing text, sign, outdoor Description automatically generatedThe Dogwalker (DS Jason Smith Book 23)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Smith has lost count of how many times a murder investigation has been set in motion with a dogwalker finding a body. So when the mutilated corpse of a woman is found by a man taking his four-legged friend for a stroll, it doesn't sound any warning bells. But when the same man makes a second gruesome discovery, Smith's senses are on high alert. When the dogwalker stumbles upon a third brutally murdered woman, Smith knows there's more to this meek-mannered dog lover than meets the eye.
But, no matter how deep he digs, Smith can't find anything that links him to any of the victims. Is it really a case of bizarre coincidence, or is the dogwalker going to be the one who finally outsmarts Detective Sergeant Jason Smith?

A picture containing diagram Description automatically generatedThe Flytrap (DS Jason Smith Book 24)   Buy from Amazon

The Venus flytrap. - If you get too close - you're dead. A new craze is taking the city of York by a storm. An online site is daring the teenagers of the historical town to do things they never would have dreamed of before. There's talk of a mystery virus that could wipe out mankind, and the young minds are taking it all in. They don't want to die without having lived first and Flytrap.net promises to give them life before their inevitable death. Detective Smith realises he's dealing with something totally new when the first bodies turn up. A teenage boy has detonated a hand grenade inside his living room, killing his entire family. It soon becomes clear that Smith and the team aren't equipped to deal with what the city is calling a cyber attack on teenagers, and the case is taken off his hands. But, as more young people fall to Flytrap.net, Smith finally gets a break. But it's a break that will make him question whether humanity still exists. The Flytrap is a different kind of killer, and it's one that makes Smith wonder whether there is still a place for him in the world.

A person holding an umbrella Description automatically generatedThe Electrician (DS Jason Smith Book 25)   Buy from Amazon

If the lights go out - you're as good as dead. Detective Jason Smith is called out in the middle of the night to the scene of the most bizarre murder he's ever seen. A man has been shot dead and his hands have been stapled to the mains line in the distribution box. The family of the victim were blissfully unaware that anything was happening.  All the team have to go on is a witness who claims the lights in the area went out around the time of the murder. After another man meets the same fate Smith is wide awake when he hears the testimony of his 4 year old daughter. She didn't see who killed her father but the four words she heard him speak chills the marrow in Smith's bones. Ol' Sparky is back. The Electrician is in the city, and as long as Smith and the team are kept in the dark, he's going to finish what he started.

A book cover of a dark room with stairs and a door Description automatically generatedThe Cellar (DS Jason Smith Book 26)   Buy from Amazon

Something nasty is happening in York. When the bodies of three men are discovered in the cellar of a house it soon becomes clear that their deaths were not peaceful. Detective Jason Smith is itching to get back to work after a case that almost killed him and he soon realises he's dealing with something he's never come across before. With a global pandemic looming, nobody in the city is paying much attention to the homeless people who are mysteriously vanishing from the streets. But Smith senses there is something more to this. Something else is happening here, and he's not wrong. A horror, far worse than he imagined is happening in a dark place somewhere in his city and Smith is going to have to face his deepest fears to stop it.

A book cover with a silhouette of a person in fog Description automatically generatedThe Loner (DS Jason Smith Book 27)   Buy from Amazon

Sometimes, it's the quiet ones you need to be careful of. Detective Jason Smith has always considered himself to be a bit of a loner. His colleagues would agree with him. But Smith has no idea that another solitary soul is about to give him the worst nightmares of his life. Another loner is killing people in York, and this one isn't about to stop until he's caught. He kills indiscriminately, and he's extremely good at it. It's going to take a loner to catch a loner, and Smith is the only man who can stop the worst serial killer York has ever seen.

A person walking on a road Description automatically generatedThe Hitchhiker (DS Jason Smith Book 28)   Buy from Amazon

In the wake of a global pandemic, nobody in their right mind would pick up a hitchhiker.

But what if this hitchhiker is already in your car? Detective Sergeant Jason Smith has his hands full trying to come to terms with huge changes in his home life, so when he hears about a gruesome double murder, he's happy for the distraction. But what he finds in the car, a stone's throw from his house is beyond comprehension. A man and a woman have been beaten so badly they no longer have faces. No sooner has the investigation into their murders begun, another victim is taken in her car, and her injuries are much, much worse.

Smith is baffled. And when another victim is murdered he reluctantly agrees to be the face of a public appeal warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers. But this hitchhiker is different - this one doesn't grab a ride by the side of the road, and this one is hell bent on killing until someone says otherwise.

D.I. O’Reilly Mysteries

A cover of a book Description automatically generated with low confidence Blood on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 1)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly has recently transferred to the island of Guernsey from the Special Detective Unit in Dublin and in this first instalment we see him hitting the ground running. He has barely set foot on the island when the body of a man is washed up on the shore. There is no indication of where the man came from - his hands and teeth have been removed and he has a crude tattoo of a dragon on his back. When another similarly mutilated body is found, O'Reilly and his new team realise they're on the hunt for a deranged killer.

Website, qr code Description automatically generatedLies on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Liam O'Reilly is bored. Life on the peaceful island of Guernsey is quiet, but it's too quiet for his liking. In the middle of an insurance fraud investigation he confides in his daughter and tells her he'd give anything for a juicy murder case to sink his teeth into.’ Be careful what you wish for, Dad. "Her words are still fresh in his mind when O'Reilly stumbles upon two dead bodies while investigating a fire at a container depot. The bodies have been burned beyond recognition and nobody seems to know how they ended up inside the container. Soon it becomes very clear that something sinister is happening on the sleepy island and O'Reilly is thrown into the depths of lies and deception as he delves deeper into the lives of one particular family. Everywhere he turns, he's met with lies but O'Reilly is determined to find out the truth behind these gruesome murders even if by uncovering the lies means he's putting his own life on the line.

Text Description automatically generatedFear on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 3)   Buy from Amazon

It's mid-summer on the island of Guernsey and Detective Liam O'Reilly is winding down for the day. He's enjoying a quiet drink with his daughter when a man in bike leathers walks inside the pub. O'Reilly doesn't even register him until he hears the gunshot. The man has taken out a gun and shot the barman twice in the face. O'Reilly takes hold of his daughter and throws her to the floor. "Not everything is as it seems." The gunman leaves the people inside the pub with something to think about before he calmly walks out of the pub. Then another man is shot dead in broad daylight. A figure in leathers tells the witnesses the same thing: “Not everything is as it seems."  O'Reilly and his team have no idea what is going on. The experienced Irish detective really doesn't have a clue what this is all about. When the gunman takes a third victim the people on the island start to panic. Fear is rife and confidence in the police is at an all-time low. O'Reilly knows it's only a matter of time before this madman strikes again, but he's running out of ideas. With his team working around the clock and running on empty, he knows time is running out before the most confusing killer he's ever come across strikes again.

Graphical user interface, website Description automatically generatedMalice on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 4)   Buy from Amazon

A FEUDING FAMILY AND A DEADLY SECRET. Nobody knows when it first started. The tranquil island of Guernsey is suddenly besieged by a wave of malice. Shops are getting set alight, houses are being sprayed with paint and friends are no longer sure if their neighbours are who they thought they were. When a woman is found dead, covered head to toe in paint outside a house covered in identical paint Detective Liam O'Reilly is brought into the midst. O'Reilly soon realises this is much more than a simple case of murder. And when more bodies are found O'Reilly starts to wonder if he made the right decision in coming to the Island. This is a crime mystery you won't want to miss.

Text Description automatically generatedRevenge on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 5)   Buy from Amazon

REVENGE IS SWEET.  How do you solve a murder when you're the number one suspect?  Fifteen years ago Patrick Finney was sentenced to life for the brutal murders of four women. It was one of the most high-profile cases in Irish history and one that defined Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly's career. O'Reilly was instrumental in bringing Finney down.  Now Finney has escaped from a high-security prison and he's not content to stay on the run.  He wants revenge and he's prepared to stop at nothing to get it.  Abandoned by the very people he's employed by O'Reilly finds himself in a predicament that leaves him running out of options. There is only one man who can help him. But it's a man he vowed he would never contact again, and the consequences of his association with this phantom could be far worse than O'Reilly could ever imagine.  When the hunter becomes the hunted the rules of the game have to change.  This is a chilling mystery that O'Reilly will never forget.

A picture containing website Description automatically generated Christmas on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 6)   Buy from Amazon

CHRISTMAS: The silly season. Or the suicide season? A string of suicides on the island arouses Detective Liam O'Reilly's suspicions. He understands that the suicide rate tends to increase during the festive season, but the ways in which these people have chosen to end their lives doesn't feel right. As O'Reilly and his team dig deeper, they soon learn there is much more to these apparent suicides than they initially thought, and O'Reilly realises there is a seriously damaged mind on the loose. Dubbed the suicide killer by the press, this madman will stop at nothing to get his depraved message across, and O'Reilly is the only one who can put an end to his killing spree. This festive season is one the Irish detective will never forget.

A picture containing text, outdoor, sign, sunset Description automatically generated Silence on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 7)   Buy from Amazon

January on the island of Guernsey is grim. It's dark and depressing. Detective Liam O'Reilly expected as much. What O'Reilly didn't bargain for was the eerie silence on the island in the dead of winter. And when an old lady disappears from a care home and reappears, dead on the grave of a soldier who died 80 years ago, O'Reilly has absolutely no idea what to think. When more old people are found, murdered amongst the tombs of these dead soldiers, and O'Reilly is met with silence everywhere he turns, he really has no idea why these people had to die. Then he finally hears the truth. But it is a truth that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

A picture containing text, outdoor, sign, sunset Description automatically generated Secrets on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 8)   Buy from Amazon

School reunions are not something Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly is particularly fond of. But when a man is murdered days before the reunion of a prestigious school on the island he's forced to get involved. The guests attending the reunion are reluctant to talk and O'Reilly knows not everything is as it seems. A famous actress, a celebrity chef, a controversial author, a US senator, an English MP and a whole host of other public figures happened to attend the school in the class of '89. When more guests at the reunion are murdered, O'Reilly finds himself in the middle of the most bizarre mystery he's ever encountered. It appears some secrets are worth dying for.

A picture containing text Description automatically generatedChaos on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 9)   Buy from Amazon

If there's one thing Detective Liam O'Reilly hates, it's bombs. The Irishman transferred to the peaceful island of Guernsey to escape that kind of thing. So, when random explosions start taking the people on the island by surprise, O'Reilly wonders if moving to Guernsey was such a good idea. It soon becomes clear that the bombs are a smokescreen for something else. Something more sinister is going on, and when a gang of masked men enter the equation, O'Reilly realises this has nothing to do with blowing things up. A team of armed men, dubbed the Fab Four Robbers by the press, soon capture the hearts of the people of Guernsey, and chaos hits the island. O'Reilly is facing the worst dilemma of his career. Many residents of the island are championing these thugs. This new breed of criminals disguised as John, Paul, George and Ringo are about to educate O'Reilly in the fine art of chaos.

Text Description automatically generated with low confidenceSadness on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 10)   Buy from Amazon

Detective Liam O'Reilly has reached a low point in his life. The love of his life has just been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and his daughter is about to move out of the apartment they've shared for the past year. Even his cats are bringing him down, and he doesn't think life can get much worse. But then everything is suddenly put into perspective when news of a horrific incident comes in. A man has arrived home to find his entire family slaughtered. His wife and three daughters have been brutally murdered. The family dog has also been viciously attacked. O'Reilly soon forgets his own woes, and throws himself headlong into the case. His own sadness can wait. But soon, O'Reilly realises things are rarely as they appear to be. Not all sadness is real. Sometimes there is something much deeper running beneath the surface, and as he gets closer to the truth, his own misery is forgotten when he comes face to face with an evil so dark he starts to wonder if sadness is destined to be the norm from now on.

A book cover with a rocky cliff Description automatically generatedDanger on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 11)   Buy from Amazon

The Island of Guernsey isn't exactly a favourite destination for adrenaline junkies. But it does have one thing that attracts a new breed of adventure freaks. Cliff jumping is taking off on the island, and June appears to be the best time of year for those that way inclined to choose to partake in the sport. When a young woman is killed after a jump, her death is judged a tragic accident, but when her body is retrieved, and the remains of another corpse is found on the rocks below, the Island Police are brought in. It's the last thing Detective Liam O'Reilly feels like. Still feeling the effects of a case that almost broke him, he really doesn't need this. But when he drags himself back to where he once was, and starts to understand what he's dealing with he wakes up enough to realise he's dealing with something much more dangerous than the cliffs that people are jumping off. There is someone on the Island who likes to take things to the extreme, and O'Reilly is damned if they're going to do it on his island.

A book cover of a book Description automatically generatedEvil on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 12)   Buy from Amazon

'I know about evil, because my mum is evil. She killed my dad. My mother murdered my father, and left him where she knew I would find him.' A class discussion in a prestigious school on the peaceful island of Guernsey takes a sinister turn when the body of the father of one of the students is found, exactly where the boy said he would be. The sixteen-year-old has no further information to offer the Island Police, and his mother has disappeared off the face of the earth. Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly has no idea where to look. The boy's father was stabbed multiple times, but there is nothing at the scene to suggest why this man was killed in such a horrific manner. Then another man is found dead. But when a third suffers the same fate soon afterwards, O'Reilly knows that he's up against something darker than his mind could ever comprehend. There's something evil on the island, and O'Reilly has no idea how to stop it.

DC Harriet Taylor Series

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generated The Beekeeper (DC Harriet Taylor Book 1).  Buy from Amazon

Alice Green is a beekeeper in the small Cornish village of Polgarrow. She lives with her pet jackdaw in a beautiful cottage not far from the sea. One evening, Alice finds something strange under the hollyhock bush in her garden. The gruesome discovery will change everyone’s lives. And then Alice’s best friend Milly disappears…

Graphical user interface, website Description automatically generated The Perfect Murder (DC Harriet Taylor Book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Two cats are found mutilated in the same town. Detective Harriet Taylor is reluctant to investigate, but then one of their owners is killed a bizarre way that same day.  Harriet and the team step in. The dead woman has four words written on her neck— four very ambiguous words.  Then another body turns up with the same words written on it. Harriet fears the worst —a serial killer is on the loose in the small Cornish town of Trotterdown.

A cover of a book Description automatically generated with medium confidence The Backpacker (DC Harriet Taylor Book 3)   Buy from Amazon

A girl’s body is found hidden in a remote spot of a Cornish Farm. The same farm that a young girl ran towards to escape her pursuer many years before. 

Who would kill a young backpacker who hurt nobody?  Is there a link between this and a mystery from many years ago?

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated Trotterdown – DC Harriet Taylor box set   Buy from Amazon

Book 1 - The Beekeeper

Book 2 - The Perfect Murder

Book 3 - The Backpacker

DS Jason Smith & DC Harriet Taylor Series

A close up of a cigarette Description automatically generated with low confidence The Enigma (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 1)   Buy from Amazon

In Trotterdown, Cornwall a boat, The Enigma washes in to the harbour. The skipper is dead, and Harriet Taylor is brought in to investigate. But 1 dead body is not the only crime the team has to deal with. Meanwhile, further up the coast in Whitby a boat washes up on the rocks just outside the harbour. Everyone on board is dead. Whitby Police are out of their depth, so DS Jason Smith is called in to help. It soon becomes clear the cases are connected and the teams from York and Trotterdown settle down to work with each other.

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated Dropzone (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Brandon Stone is doing his first Accelerated Free Fall Skydive. He has done the training and his instructors are with him so nothing can go wrong…. Can it? A double malfunction and Brandon is staring death in the face. A very rare accident. Or is it?  Jason is returning to work after 3 months recovering from injuries at the hands of Boronov. Light duties? Not if Jason can help it. DC Harriet Taylor is taking a well-deserved holiday with Jon Finch that includes tandem skydiving. Out of all the planes in the country they were on the same one as Brandon.  With a detective as a witness this should be an easy case to solve. Wrong! Jason and the team need all the help they can get to unravel the lies and find the clues before more bodies turn up.

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generated Raven Girl (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 3)   Buy from Amazon

When the body of a man is discovered on a beach near Trotterdown, detective Harriet Taylor gets to work. It soon becomes clear that this was no ordinary murder - the man was placed in a yoga position and his pockets were filled with seashells. As more bodies pile up, suspicion falls on the residents of the old Beekeeper's house. Who are these New-Age youngsters and is their 'peace and love' philosophy merely a front to cover up something sinister? Harriet and her team are stumped. Everywhere they turn seems to lead nowhere, and they soon believe these gruesome murders will remain unsolved forever.

The Miranda Trilogy

A picture containing wall, indoor, person Description automatically generated Miranda (Miranda book 1)  Buy from Amazon

Miranda is a unique read, the first psychological thriller by Stewart Giles. Sentenced to life in a secure hospital for the murder of 12 people Miranda tells her story. In the meantime, the reader is transported back to the time of the murders as we follow DI Keene and her team along the many twists, turns and dead ends as they try to find the murderer of several unrelated victims. This is an edge-of-your-seat, adrenaline pumping read that will have you turning the pages all the way to the totally unexpected ending.  Buckle up this is a bumpy ride.

A person with long hair Description automatically generated with low confidence Mistress (Miranda book 2)   Buy from Amazon

Miranda is on the run from the Dunford Police and has managed to flee the UK.  The story continues as we follow Miranda to the USA. With the body count increasing all the time will Miranda ever be caught? This is a gripping page-turner that keeps the adrenaline pumping as Miranda manages to keep just one step ahead of DS Swales.  With numerous twists and turns all the way to the absolutely brilliant ending this is a must read for anyone who loves psychological thrillers.

Text, website Description automatically generatedMedusa (Miranda book 3)   Buy from Amazon

She's escaped from Death Row and her thirst for murder is stronger than ever before. Detective Henry Swales has other ideas. But will he be able to stop the woman who has caused him more heartache than anyone else in his life? As the sun sets on Death Row and the bodies continue to pile up, Miranda's bloodlust grows. Nobody seems able to stop her. Then she makes a mistake and is caught. And just when Detective Swales thinks it's all over, he finds himself involved in the most bizarre judicial farce imaginable. Nobody appears to know who is responsible for punishing this monster. Will Swales stand back and bear witness to this perverse justice or will he resort to his own personal form of retribution? This is a twisted psychological story that will stick in the mind for a very long time.

Stand Alone Novels

A picture containing text, sign Description automatically generated  The Divide (a standalone horror story)  Buy from Amazon

Five teenagers head into Dartmoor’s bleak National Park for a final adventure together before they all go their separate ways after the summer. These lifelong friends have no idea what terrible secrets this place holds. One by one they start to realise something is not quite right about this moor. Something is lurking there – some malevolent and ominously primeval force is buried deep beneath this ground waiting to emerge. The locals know the truth about what lies beneath this land, but the five friends are met with a sinister silence everywhere they turn. Then the Divide is split in two. What is unleashed is hell itself and the friends know they need to find a way out before it’s too late. Lured into an ancient forest that appears on no maps, the friends’ fight for survival begins. But who is the little girl in the white dress? With her hideously disfigured face and transfixing voice, why has she suddenly taken a keen interest in these teenagers? The Divide is the chilling tale of five friends’ fight for survival against an evil beyond comprehension.

Text Description automatically generated  The Guests (a standalone thriller)  Buy from Amazon

How far would you go to keep a dream alive? Henry and Rebecca Green worked their whole lives dreaming about a house by the sea. They thought the move to the idyllic town of Frisk would be the perfect retirement. The sea views and clement weather were exactly what they'd been looking forward to their whole lives. But Mr and Mrs Green soon realise life in paradise isn't as rosy as they thought. There are others who want what they have. They soon find out that most of the neighbouring houses are HomeFromHome weekend rentals and very soon the ideal retirement takes a turn for the worse when reality hits. The guests next door soon become neighbours from hell every weekend. When a rowdy school reunion next door ends in tragedy, Rebecca Green realises there is a way to put a stop to it all and she comes up with a plan. It's a plan so obscure and out of the box, Henry doubts his wife's sanity at first. And the detectives who are brought in to investigate the series of murders at various HomeFromHome rentals are equally baffled.