Lock Keeper

He Watches. He Waits. He Strikes.

Ely North

Red Handed Print

Copyright © 2026 by Ely North

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, distributed, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non‑commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Website: https://elynorthcrimefiction.com
To contact ely@elynorthcrimefiction.com
https://www.facebook.com/elynorthcrimefictionUK

Cover design by Cherie Chapman / CCBOOKDESIGN
Cover images © Adobe Stock / Alan Morris (lock) / Jeroen (sky) / realstock1 (man) / Thomas Marchhart (water)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by Red Handed Print
First Edition
Kindle e-book ISBN-13: 978-1-923588-09-7
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-923588-10-3

Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

49. Chapter 49

50. Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Chapter 52

53. Chapter 53

54. Chapter 54

55. Chapter 55

56. Chapter 56

57. Chapter 57

58. Chapter 58

59. Chapter 59

60. Chapter 60

61. Chapter 61

62. Chapter 62

63. Chapter 63

64. Chapter 64

65. Chapter 65

66. Chapter 66

67. Chapter 67

68. Chapter 68

69. Chapter 69

70. Chapter 70

71. Chapter 71

72. Chapter 72

73. Chapter 73

74. Chapter 74

Jackdaws Well

Finnegan Beyond The Last Page

1

Sunday 5th November 1995—4:20 pm Bonfire Night

Bank Newton Locks, North Yorkshire

The sky is a charcoal smudge of misery.

It hangs low, still as a corpse, trapping the frigid air beneath.

Dawn Haslop can’t recall the last time she saw a sliver of blue. As for the sun… forget it.

She pulls the overcoat tighter, folding her arms across her chest and ambles down the towpath at the side of the lock.

Her mood is as grim as the weather. Has been for months. Maybe even years.

The fight with Martin was over nothing. Just like all the other fights. They were due to go to her sister’s bonfire night party. She’d been looking forward to it all week. Baked spuds, pie and peas, parkin, homemade treacle toffee, mulled red wine, a bonfire built by the kids, fireworks, laughter.

Ha. Remember that—laughter?

True, it’s not a drug-fuelled all-night rave in Ibiza, but it’s a change from the drudgery of work, cooking, cleaning, scrimping and saving for something better.

‘It’s called fun,’ she snaps, replaying the argument with Martin in her head.

He didn’t want to go. Said he was too tired.

He’s always too tired. At least too tired to do anything sociable with her. Always seems to have enough energy to go to the pub with his mates, or to the football on a Saturday.

So once again she’ll have to make an appearance by herself and face the usual barrage of questions.

Where’s Martin? Is he unwell? Haven’t seen him in ages. Are you two all right? Nothing wrong, is there?

Two hours from now she’ll smile sweetly and tell her sister, her brother-in-law, and her parents that—yes—she and Martin are fine. He’s tired, that’s all. Been working hard.

They’ll nod, send him their love, then drop the subject.

She’ll put a full stop after their platitudes by reiterating—really, we’re fine.

But they’re not fine.

She’s not fine.

Six years engaged, and they still haven’t set a date for the wedding. It’s bloody embarrassing. Who’s engaged for six years? What message is that sending to people?

She pauses at the edge of the canal and lights a cigarette. Puffs out a blue plume in an angry spurt. Stares at the cold, black water.

Woodsmoke is already in the air. Someone has started early. A few cattle in a nearby field stare at her for a moment before wandering off, clearly bored. Her gaze wanders over the Aire Valley and Flasby Fell, caught in an autumnal no-man’s-land. Not quite winter, yet summer feels like a fractured dream. The bleak Dales scenery offers no solace as the bubbling anger inside reduces to a simmer.

A chill runs down her spine, and she’s not sure why.

Spins slowly around.

No one to be seen.

But she feels it.

The sensation all women have experienced.

Like she’s not alone.

As though someone is watching her.

The hairs on her arms prickle upright.

Maybe the walk to cool off wasn’t such a good idea. Not with the attacks on women in the past year along the canal. Not this stretch, though. They happened between Gargrave and Bradley, and around Skipton. Not here. Not at Bank Newton. Anyway, all the attacks were early morning or late evening. That’s when he strikes.

No, wait… there was one attack late afternoon. Just the one.

‘Stop it, Dawn. You’re being paranoid.’

She scans the area. There is one narrowboat moored up in the distance, but no sign of life.

Isolated. No dog walkers. No boats chugging along. No families out for an afternoon saunter.

And the light is fading fast.

Flicking the cigarette into the canal, she turns to head back to her car a mile away. Ten, fifteen minutes at a brisk pace.

She sets off up the path at the side of the lock. Her stride lengthens, feet quicken. Passes the derelict lock keeper’s cottage.

That feeling again.

Shoots a glance behind her.

Nothing.

The silence is screaming at her. No birdsong, not even the distant grumbling of a farm engine.

She falters.

The bushes ahead. Spindly branches twitching in the motionless air.

Did she see something?

Someone?

No.

Her imagination is playing tricks on her. It’s the way the branches intertwine.

A sudden explosion of movement erupts from the bush.

The blackbird takes off low with a rapid-fire burst of clicks and high-pitched chirps.

Dawn holds a hand to her chest and watches the bird skim over the canal to the far bank.

‘Bloody thing,’ she murmurs, her fingers fiddling with the Saint Anthony medal around her neck.

She swallows hard and continues.

Her gait is somewhere between a jog and a power-walk as she passes the thicket.

No one there.

Not far to go now.

Another nervous look behind.

Nothing.

Eyes focus on the path ahead.

She sees the outline of the swing bridge. Her car is just beyond.

Tension loosens in her chest as she spots a jogger in the distance heading her way.

Thank God. Another normal person, doing a normal thing, on a normal Sunday afternoon.

She’s safe now. Not that she was really in danger from the Towpath Prowler. That’s what the papers call him, as if he were some dirty old man in a raincoat flashing at schoolgirls.

Prowler. Ha!

Why don’t they call a spade a spade?

A brutal, sadistic rapist who’s spent the year terrorising women along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

She’s heard the gory details from family and friends, even if the media skirted around the issue.

Bloody men!

She’s got one at home who’s about as interesting as stale porridge, and now some twisted bastard means she can’t even feel safe walking alone.

What’s wrong with them?

A tug of regret.

Martin’s not that bad. And he does work hard; that’s true.

Maybe I overreacted? I’ll go back and we’ll kiss and make up.

The jogger nears, trainers slapping the gravel.

Youngish, maybe late twenties, early thirties. Black tracksuit, woollen hat. Head down.

She smiles as he approaches, feeling a lot safer.

He doesn’t lift his head, just keeps on with his rhythmic plodding.

Passes her.

‘Excuse me, love?’

She stops, startled by his voice. Spins around.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t have a light on you, by any chance?’

He meets her eyes, offering a warm smile.

She relaxes. Fumbles in her coat pocket.

‘Yes, of course.’

Pulls out the lighter as he removes a long, brown cigar from his tracksuit pocket.

Sticks it between his teeth, which have a noticeable gap in the middle, and leans in as she flicks the lighter, then shields the flame with a cupped hand.

The cigar crackles and glows red as he draws on the flame. It’s only then she registers how absurd the situation is.

A jogger stopping to light a cigar?

‘Ta, love,’ he says, mouth morphing into a grin, which is saying way more than thank you.

The smirk slips.

Replaced by something darker.

Dawn notices the overpowering smell of aftershave.

Then something else.

The twist of leather cord in one hand.

Oh, no!

Her brain tells her to run… but her feet never receive the message.

2

Present Day: Monday 15th June—6:08 am

Frank turns off the tap, picks up the hose and positions himself in front of the sturdy planter box holding the tomatoes. A fine spray settles over the green leaves and budding fruit. Fat droplets gather at the tips, then plip onto the thick layer of mulch below.

A sharp, peppery scent fills the air. He breathes it in and closes his eyes, letting the early morning sun warm his face.

‘Eh up, lad.’

He opens his eyes. ‘Ah, Arthur. Have you shit the bed?’

Arthur takes the unlit pipe from his mouth. ‘Could ask you the same question. Off work, are yer?’

Frank chuckles. ‘I wish. No. Just thought I’d give the veggies a good drink before I start. It’s set to be another scorcher this week.’

‘Aye. I’ve seen the forecast.’ Arthur takes out a lighter, flicks, and holds the flame over the bowl and takes several deep draws. A crackle and hiss are followed by sweet, pungent smoke, slightly at odds with the perfumes of the allotment.

Frank directs the stream at the mulch around the base of the plants as a few bees wobble past in search of nectar.

Arthur removes the pipe and scratches his cheek with the stem.

‘Busy at the station?’

‘No. It’s nice and quiet at the moment, and I’m hoping it stays that way. Won’t be long until the school holidays, then the shit will hit the fan with the influx of holidaymakers.’

‘Aye. Bloody nuisance they are.’

‘It’s not the holidaymakers that are the problem, Arthur. It’s the vultures that descend when they arrive. Caravans are easy to break into. And if this weather keeps up, I dare say most people will spend their days at the beach cooling off. That’s when the scumbags strike.’

‘Buggers. If I had my way, I’d cut their bloody hands off. That would put a stop to their thieving ways.’ He puffs on his pipe for a few seconds in contented reflection. ‘How long do you intend carrying on with this caper, then?’

Frank shoots him a puzzled look. ‘The allotment? Until they carry me out in a wooden overcoat.’

Arthur’s face scrunches. ‘Nay, lad. I was talking about police work. Let’s be fair—yer no spring chicken.’

‘Ah. Not yet, Arthur. I’ll know when it’s time.’

‘Aye. That’s what they all say. But they never do. Yer’ll either drop down dead on the job or they’ll give you the heave-ho.’

‘Be that as it may.’

The pipe returns to Arthur’s mouth as he sways gently back and forth, watching a seagull ride the thermals high above Whitby Abbey.

‘Reet. I can’t stand around here all morning clacking to thee. I’ve jobs to do.’

Frank spends another relaxing fifteen minutes tending his bounty before packing up.

As he makes his way towards the gate, he breathes in the salt air and gazes at the sunlight already sheening across the North Sea in the distance.

‘Happy days.’

3

Jake Merrick opens his laptop on the 7:47 am Northern service from Leeds to Skipton and watches his livelihood flatline in real time. Three years ago, his weekly YouTube channel, Merrick Investigates, paid better than any job he’d ever had. Eight, sometimes nine grand a month when sponsors behaved and YouTube didn’t demonetise him for saying the wrong word too early in a video.

He’d worked hard to build up his viewer base to an enviable 371,000 subscribers. He regularly reached half a million views on some of his more sensational videos. And occasionally he’d gone viral and surpassed the magical million mark.

His latest video, titled The Perfect Murder of Julia Wallace, has barely registered 24,000 views in the last forty-eight hours. Worse, the curve has already flattened. That’s YouTube death.

He drags his focus away from the analytics and stares out of the window, ruminating as Kirkstall Forge station whizzes past in a blur.

People assume the life of a YouTuber is easy. Point the camera, get a few shots, speak into the mic, then upload and wait for the money to drop into your bank account.

It’s not like that at all. Filming on location is only half of it. The editing can take days. Then thinking of a clickbait title, catchy branded graphics, prepping for the next video. Scrolling through thousands of comments to ban the haters and trolls.

It’s exhausting, and the worst part is he can never admit that out loud. Nobody wants to hear a YouTuber whining about being tired and stressed. Not when the job description appears to involve a camera, a laptop, and the occasional haunted expression at the site of a historical murder.

He used to enjoy it, especially when the big money rolled in and sponsors came knocking on his virtual door. But without realising it, he’s built a prison for himself.

Once you’re on the hamster wheel of content creation, there’s no slowing down. The monster is insatiable and requires constant feeding. Miss a week and you sink. No time for holidays or even to fall ill.

And then there are the negative comments from family and friends.

Get a proper job. That’s not real work. You make money out of other people’s misery.

And yet, despite it all, the thought of getting a ‘proper’ job fills him with dread.

If only he could find his mojo again.

He knows what the problem is. Too much competition. The number of true crime channels has multiplied faster than a mutating virus. Every bored bloke with a ring light and poor personal grooming is now calling himself an investigator.

And juicy material is getting harder to find. He’s covered all the well-known serial killers, the sex offenders, the child abductors, the high-profile unsolved cases.

Well, almost all.

He groans as an email drops into his inbox from Sentinel Doorbell Cams.

The subject line reads Partnership Review, which is marketing-speak for goodbye.

‘Shit. What now?’ he mutters.

He opens it anyway.

Views are down. Conversions are soft. They’ve loved working with him, naturally, but they’ll be pausing the campaign while they reassess their budget.

Pausing?

That’s a euphemism people use when they haven’t got the balls to say it’s over.

Which is why today has to work. He’s been carefully planning this video for months. The case he’s about to document has drawn surprisingly little attention from the other armchair sleuths he’s up against, and his video won’t be some cheap cut-and-paste job stitched together from tired old footage. He’ll be right there on the canal, where the victims were, retelling their stories… or at least the stories of the ones who survived.

If he gets this right, the algorithm could launch him straight back to the top.

Where he belongs.

And if he does hit the sweet spot, he’s going to milk this one dry—a story that will run and run.

Jake’s superfan, Maddie Lister, is waiting for him at the Springs Branch moorings, beneath the looming back wall of Skipton Castle. She waves enthusiastically from the stern of her narrowboat named Divorce Money, painted the colour of congealed blood.

Jake is already filming.

‘Welcome back, crime enthusiasts, to another episode of Merrick Investigates. Today we’re in sunny Skipton, gateway to the Yorkshire Dales, and the very excited woman waving at me is one of my biggest fans, Maddie Lister. In a few minutes, I’ll be joining her aboard her boat as we cruise the Leeds and Liverpool Canal from Skipton towards Gargrave, and eventually on to Bank Newton Locks.’

He pauses, lets the smile fade, and lowers his voice.

‘But don’t let the sunshine fool you. This is not a pleasure cruise. Today we’re retracing the hunting ground of one of Britain’s most sadistic predators: Tyrone Dupas, the man the press dubbed the Towpath Prowler. By the end of this journey, we’ll be asking the question the police have failed to answer for thirty years. What really happened to Dawn Haslop—and where did Tyrone Dupas hide her body?’

4

Maddie Lister has cleaned the galley and bathroom twice, changed her top three times, and is still making a terrible job of playing it cool as she shows Jake around her narrowboat. She’s had no interest in men since an acrimonious divorce from her husband eighteen months ago—usual thing—she caught him cheating on her. That’s when she escaped the rat race and became a narrowboater. That’s when she stumbled upon the Merrick Investigates channel on YouTube. And that’s when she developed a thoroughly embarrassing crush on Jake Merrick. Which is ridiculous, because she’s thirty-two, not fourteen, and men with high cheekbones and a stylish quiff had caused her quite enough damage already.

Now he’s here, in her galley, and even better, he’ll be sleeping on the boat for the night, on the sofa, her bedroom less than ten feet away. She coughs, realising she’s been staring at him far longer than is deemed appropriate.

‘Amazing set-up,’ Jake says, though his eyes are already moving past her, assessing the galley for light, angles, and usable background. ‘One day I’d like to live like this. Free to travel wherever I want. Away from people. You must get a sense of freedom from it?’

Maddie smiles. ‘Yes. Best thing I ever did. And because I’m a freelance graphic designer, I can work from anywhere in the country. The broadband can be a bit iffy when I’m in the middle of nowhere, but honestly, I haven’t had any major issues.’

‘And you earn enough to sustain this lifestyle?’

‘Yes. Just. Tea?’

‘Black coffee if you have it. Right, I’m going upstairs to shoot some B-roll. That’s the pretty filler stuff—water, ducks, bridges.’

She bites her lip as he climbs the steps towards the deck.

‘Yes, I know what B-roll is—’

‘No sugar,’ he calls back. ‘And I like it strong.’

Maddie is at the helm, one hand on the tiller, her long ginger hair fluttering in the breeze as brilliant sunshine dances off the water. They’ve barely left Skipton behind when Maddie eases the throttle down as they near the swing bridge at Niffany.

‘What happens here?’ Jake asks.

Maddie chuckles. ‘I pull over to the side, you jump ashore and open the bridge.’ She lifts the canal key from a hook. ‘Here, you’ll need this. Unlock it, lift the catch, then push it open using the balance beam. It’s easy after you’ve done it once. When I’m through, close it again. It’s only a farm track, but make sure there are no tractors coming, otherwise you’ll cop an earful from an angry farmer.’

‘Great. I’ll set up my tripod first and capture me leaping from the boat, then walking towards the bridge.’

Maddie nods and looks up, noticing a boat beyond the bridge. ‘Oh, wait. No need. Max has already moored up on the other side. Looks like he’s about to open the bridge.’

Jake peers at the man ambling forwards. ‘Who's Max?’

‘He owns King Cut Provisions. It’s like a floating supermarket: coal, firewood, gas bottles, milk, eggs, bread, toilet chemicals.’

As Max nears, he waves and calls out. ‘Morning, Maddie. Perfect day for it.’

She waves back enthusiastically. ‘Hi, Max. Yes, glorious day.’

‘Do you need any supplies? Heading off on a big trip?’

‘No thanks. Just a two-dayer. We’re going as far as Bank Newton, mooring for the night and heading back to Skipton tomorrow.’ She points at Jake. ‘This is Jake Merrick. He’s a YouTuber. Presents a true-crime channel called Merrick Investigates.’

Max nods his hello as he leans his back into the balance beam and uses his legs to walk the bridge open.

Jake is capturing everything on his camera as Maddie increases the revs and navigates Divorce Money past the bridge.

‘Jake’s shooting footage for his next video. It’s about the Towpath Prowler from 1995,’ Maddie calls out.

Max shrugs and offers a thin smile as he gives Jake a closer inspection. ‘If there’s any footage of me, I’d prefer you delete it. Although feel free to get a few shots of my boat. Could be good for business.’

Jake raises one hand. ‘No problem, pal.’ He turns to Maddie. ‘Bit precious, isn’t he?’ he mumbles from the side of his mouth.

She laughs. ‘Max is all right. Just likes to keep himself to himself. Canal folk like their privacy. That’s why we’re here.’

Her smile fades as she spots a thickset man in a black hoodie slouching along the towpath, head down, AirPods in, a Tesco shopping bag knocking against his leg. It’s the third time she’s seen him in the last month.

Jake barely notices him, but Maddie throws a look behind her as the boat chugs away. Her unease dissipates as they enter open countryside, sheep, and cattle moving languidly in the verdant fields on either side.

Maddie is silent as Jake stalks along the towpath, talking to camera.

‘And it was here, a couple of miles north of Skipton, that Tyrone Dupas first struck. His victim was twenty-five-year-old Abigail Marchand, an exchange student from France. It was a warm, humid summer evening, the weather much like today. Abigail was jogging alone, Walkman clipped to her waistband, earphones in, when she passed this thicket of bushes.

‘Dupas came at her from behind. No warning. No chance to run. Abigail fought hard, but she was dragged off the path and into the undergrowth.’

He swings the camera around, capturing a blur of grass, towpath, and canal to simulate Abigail’s struggle, then points towards the bushes and lowers his voice.

‘By the time she regained consciousness, the attack was over and Dupas was gone.’

He places the handheld gimbal on the ground and turns to the iPhone mounted on a tripod.

‘As horrific as Abigail’s ordeal was, some later said she was lucky. Because from that point on, Dupas escalated. The attacks became more violent, more calculated, and each victim was left with the same signature mark—a double imprint on the throat from the two knots tied into the ligature used in the attack. And then there was the trophy. From each victim, Dupas stole their underwear.’

Jake briefly looks heavenward as if in disbelief at the world before refocussing on the camera.

‘Abigail Marchand was the Towpath Prowler’s first victim… and she wouldn’t be his last. Cut.’

Grinning, he turns to Maddie, who is standing at the helm, arms folded, with a look of disquiet on her face.

‘Well, what d’yer think? Was my hair all right? It’s a bit blustery.’

Maddie squirms slightly. ‘Ahem, a couple of things. This spot is west of Skipton, not north. And Abigail wasn’t his first victim.’

Jake grimaces. ‘Yes, she was. I’ve done my research.’

‘You’re forgetting about two attacks before where the women escaped. And prior to that, the stalking, voyeurism, and stealing of underwear months before Abigail’s ordeal.’

Jake scratches his head. ‘Listen, Mads, my vids are forty-five minutes to an hour long. I don’t have time to mention every piddling detail.’

She shuffles slightly, hating the term ‘Mads’.

‘Also, I felt it was too graphic. Abigail might still be alive. She’ll certainly have family who are. What if she has a daughter who sees it? You could really hurt someone.’

Jake looks disappointed. ‘Hey, I’m in the entertainment business, Mads. And anyway, I have warnings in the notes. I’m not forcing people to watch.’

Suddenly, Maddie no longer sees Jake as a handsome truth-seeker.

She sees a man—an ugly man.

5

Tuesday 16th June—9:18 am

Maddie sips her coffee on the back deck as Jake nears the end of his monologue to camera.

They are moored below Bank Newton Locks, on a quiet stretch of canal where the water barely moves and the morning has arrived soft and golden. Beyond the towpath, the Aire Valley rolls away in layers of green, sheep scattered across the fields like scraps of wool. Somewhere in the hedgerow, a blackbird calls. The air carries the sweetness of cut grass, honeysuckle, and elderflower, punctuated by the earthy green scent of nettles rising from the verge.

It’s hard for Maddie to imagine anything bad happening in a place like this.

But it did.

This is the stretch of canal where police have long believed Dawn Haslop may have been taken.

Jake raises one eyebrow and looks sincere in that insincere way people do when they want to appear virtuous.

‘And so, after all these years, the question still remains. What happened to Dawn Haslop that fateful afternoon?’

Jake holds the pose for a tad longer than necessary, eyes fixed on the lens, then taps a button on his gimbal to pause the recording.

‘How was that?’ he asks, clearly impressed with himself.

Maddie shrugs. ‘Okay.’

‘Just okay?’

‘Yeah.’ She takes another sip of coffee. ‘Apart from the factual inaccuracies.’

Jake’s smile fades. ‘Here we go. Such as?’

‘You said the police investigation was blasé and slow off the mark. It wasn’t. They found her car and conducted a search within two hours of the alarm being raised. You said no evidence was ever collected. Again, untrue. They had a bagful of potential evidence, most of it litter gathered from the towpath.’

Jake lowers the camera slightly.

‘You also said it was two weeks before they dredged the canal. That’s way off the mark. They dredged it the day after Dawn was reported missing. That ruled out an accident or suicide. And you said there were no witnesses who saw Dawn on the canal. That’s misleading.’

‘Misleading?’

‘A woman walking her dog saw Dawn parking her car near the swing bridge.’

Jake stares at her. ‘How do you know all this shit?’

‘I have a dossier on it.’

‘Really?’ he says, his tone flat.

‘Yes, really.’

He looks away, obviously put out by her comments. A narrowboat chugs somewhere beyond the bend, engine low and steady, the sound carrying across the water.

‘I don’t think you’ve done it justice,’ Maddie says.

Jake gives a humourless little laugh. ‘Go on then, Miss Marple. How would you have tackled it?’

Maddie flicks her hair back and places her cup on the side of the boat.

‘You treat Dawn Haslop like she’s a grief magnet. An avatar that exists in some parallel universe. Her only purpose now is to boost your views and likes. You’re forgetting she was a real person, with hopes and dreams and a life—just like you and me. She laughed, cried, and bled when she cut herself. And some bastard stole that life from her and has never paid the price.’

Jake hangs his head and contemplates her words. ‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘You’re right. It’s just—well, sometimes I forget the person behind the headlines. It’s not intentional.’

Maddie softens. ‘I actually think you’d get better viewing figures, and more engaged subscribers, if you portrayed people as flesh and blood, not simply as victims. All that does is make them an extra with a bit-part in some psychopath’s feature film. Show a bit of emotion and empathy. And I don’t mean false sincerity. People can smell bullshit a mile off.’

Jake nods. ‘I suppose you’re…’

‘And another thing, you should have appealed to the public. Properly. Reminded people of the exact date, the day, the weather conditions. The fact that it was Bonfire Night. People remember Bonfire Night. Fireworks. Smoke. Kids being out later than usual. Dogs getting spooked.’

Jake says nothing.

‘Then I’d have reminded them of Dawn’s car. The make, model, colour, and registration. A photograph of where it was parked. A map showing the swing bridge, the towpath, and this stretch near Bank Newton. Give people a reference point.’

Jake shifts his grip on the gimbal. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. You completely forgot to mention the blue narrowboat.’

He frowns. ‘What narrowboat?’

Maddie rolls her eyes. ‘Christ… the one several witnesses recalled seeing moored not far from here around the time Dawn disappeared.’

‘I haven’t read about that.’

Maddie shrugs. ‘And one final thing. What happened all those years ago is happening again today.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Women being watched. Followed. Made to feel unsafe. It doesn’t have to be a man jumping out from behind a bush. Sometimes it’s just someone staring too long, or standing too close, or finding an excuse to talk when you’ve made it clear you’re not interested.’

‘Has that happened to you?’

Maddie gives him a look. ‘I live alone on a narrowboat. What do you think?’

Jake lowers the camera a little.

‘I’ve had men staring through the portholes. Men trying it on at locks and moorings. Men offering to “help” when what they really mean is they want to get their leg over. And a couple of weeks ago, someone stole my underwear.’

Jake appears appalled. ‘From inside the boat?’

‘No. I’d hand-washed them. It was a warm day, so I left them drying on top of the boat. Forgot about it overnight. In the morning, they were gone.’ She shakes her head at the memory.

Jake rubs at his chin as an idea sprouts. ‘That’s how the Towpath Prowler started off—with the knickers,’ he mutters under his breath. He looks at her for a moment, then glances at the camera.

Maddie sees the change in him. ‘What?’

He grins. ‘Tell you what, how about we reshoot it, but this time with you in front of camera?’

‘Me?’ she says, alarmed.

‘Yeah. The resident expert. No need to be shy. You can go through all the details of the Dawn Haslop disappearance and I’ll chip in with a few questions. It will make great content.’

Maddie considers it.

She’s a private person. Always has been. The idea of standing in front of Jake’s camera, of putting herself out there for strangers to watch, judge and comment on, makes her feel sick inside.

But Dawn Haslop’s disappearance has intrigued her for more than a year now. More than intrigued her, if she’s honest. It has saddened her. Haunted her a little. The idea that a woman can walk along a canal one autumn afternoon and simply vanish into thin air, only to be slowly forgotten about, feels wrong in a way she can’t quite shake.

Because if it can happen to Dawn, it can happen to any woman.

Even her.

‘Okay,’ she says, brightening a little. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

‘Great,’ Jake says. ‘Right. You might want to pull your hair into a ponytail, and put on some lipstick.’

Maddie pulls a fierce pout. ‘I haven’t worn make-up since my divorce, and I’m not about to start now.’

Jake raises his hands in defence. ‘It was just a suggestion. The camera can be unforgiving.’

‘I’ll chance it.’ She looks him up and down. ‘Don’t see you wearing any bloody lippy.’

He grins. ‘I have natural charisma.’

‘You have natural bullshit.’

Jake laughs, then gestures for her to move closer to the tiller. ‘Stand there. Light’s better.’

Maddie does as instructed, though immediately feels ridiculous. She folds her arms, unfolds them, then clasps her hands in front of her.

‘Don’t look so terrified,’ Jake says. ‘You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad.’

He raises the gimbal, checks the screen and gives her a nod.

‘Whenever you’re ready.’

Maddie draws a breath.

‘On the afternoon Dawn Haslop disappears, she is last reliably seen parking her car near the swing bridge approximately one mile west of here. That sighting came from Ruth Bixby, a local woman walking her dog. Ruth sees Dawn get out of the car, but that’s all. As Ruth heads off in the other direction, she can’t conclusively say if Dawn began walking along the canal or not. And that distinction matters.’

Jake lowers his voice from behind the camera. ‘Why?’

‘Because the entire investigation rests on an assumption. The police assume Dawn leaves her car and walks along the canal. She may have done. She probably does. But nobody can conclusively prove it.’

Jake nods, enjoying it now.

‘So she could have been taken from the car?’

‘Possibly. Or from close to it. Or she could have met someone there willingly.’

‘A lover?’

Maddie hesitates. ‘That’s one theory.’

‘Was she having an affair?’

‘I don’t know. And neither did the police. But they looked at the possibility because she’d argued with her boyfriend, Martin Powys, not long before she disappeared. That argument becomes important very quickly. For a while, Martin is the obvious suspect.’

‘Because boyfriends always are?’

‘Because the statistics are clear: if a missing woman has come to harm, her partner or ex-partner is far more likely to be responsible than a stranger. The police would have been negligent not to look at him. But in Dawn’s case, they go further than that. They don’t just wonder whether Martin was involved in her disappearance, they even consider whether he could be the Towpath Prowler.’

Jake’s eyebrows lift. ‘But he was cleared eventually?’

‘Yes. Of the other attacks. Martin’s alibis stacked up. But not of Dawn’s disappearance. For that, he had no alibi. Home alone. And suspicion has a way of lingering, especially in a case where there’s no body, no confession, and no clear crime scene.’

Jake zooms in a bit closer, already imagining his viewing figures taking a sharp turn north before asking the next question.

‘But one week later the police arrest Tyrone Dupas for the previous rapes and attacks?’

Maddie glances towards the towpath, where sunlight flashes through the overhanging tree branches.

‘Yes. Once they have him, they’re convinced he was involved in the disappearance of Dawn. It makes sense, right? Logical. Dupas is the name that haunts this case. He fits the fear of the time. Women were followed. Women were attacked. And yet Dawn’s disappearance is different.’

‘How?’

‘Dupas attacks. He leaves victims. He leaves a pattern. Dawn vanishes. No body. No clothing. No handbag. No confirmed scene. Nothing that allows the police to say, this is where it happened.’

‘They suspected him but he wasn’t charged?’

‘Correct. Suspicion isn’t evidence. And with Dawn, they didn’t have enough.’

Jake shifts his stance. ‘But you think he did it?’

Maddie tilts her head.

‘I think he could have. I also think Martin Powys may have been hiding something. Or Dawn could have arranged to meet someone she knew. Or she could have been taken before she ever made it onto the towpath. The problem is, every theory runs into the same wall.’

‘Which is?’

‘Movement.’

‘Movement?’

‘If Dawn was attacked near here on the canal, what happens next? There are no roads or turn-offs for a mile. How does someone move her, or her body, without being seen? It’s late afternoon, not midnight. People are out. Dogs are being walked. Families are going to displays. Smoke is hanging in the air. Fireworks are going off. You can hide a sound, maybe. A scream, perhaps. But you can’t easily hide a body.’

Jake listens, searching for the clickbait title of the video.

‘Of course,’ she continues, ‘the killer might not have had to carry her far.’

Jake looks over the top of the camera. ‘Meaning?’

Maddie turns and looks along the canal.

‘What if the means of moving her was already here?’

For a second, the only sound is the gentle slap of water against the hull.

‘The blue narrowboat?’ Jake queries.

‘Exactly. Several witnesses later mention a narrowboat moored somewhere along this stretch, but they couldn’t agree on the name. Some said it was called Otter, or Potter. It depends who you ask. But they were all in agreement with the colour.’

‘And the police never found it?’

‘No. Which either means the witnesses were mistaken, or the boat was long gone by the time anyone realised it mattered. That’s the trouble with memory. It’s confident and unreliable at the same time.’

Jake lowers the camera. ‘That’s good.’

‘At least it’s accurate.’

‘We need cutaways,’ he says.

‘Of what?’

‘The locks. The swing bridge. The towpath. Anything blue.’

‘Anything blue?’

‘Atmosphere. Visual texture. You just gave me a whole new missing-boat angle.’

‘God help us.’

Jake grins and steps off the boat onto the towpath, still holding the gimbal.

Maddie retrieves her coffee and follows more slowly.

They film the lock gates first, then the worn stone edges where ropes have bitten grooves into history. Jake gets low shots of the water curling around the stonework, close-ups of rusted chains, a slow pan across the fields beyond the canal. He makes her stand beside the towpath and point back towards the swing bridge, which she does badly, then does again because he tells her she looks like she’s directing traffic.

After ten minutes, Maddie has had enough.

‘How many moody shots of water do you need?’

‘You can never have too many moody shots of water.’ He heads back to the boat. ‘Time to get the drone up and get an overhead of where she parked her car, and the nearby roads.’

Maddie looks towards the swing bridge. ‘Good. Keep it factual.’

‘Always,’ Jake says.

But he is no longer thinking about Dawn Haslop.

He’s thinking about underwear.

6

Six days later: Monday 22nd June—6:33 am

Trainers crunch against the gravel in an unwavering cadence, matching the music seeping through the earbuds: Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush.

Overhead, clouds gather and turn, darkening at the edges. The morning is warm and humid, the long spell of hot weather having drawn moisture from the earth and left it hanging in the air.

Sophie Catterall reaches the halfway mark of her run at Thorlby Swing Bridge and stops. The market town of Skipton lies about two and a half miles east. She removes her earbuds, unzips her bum bag and pulls out a bottle of blue Powerade.

Weather permitting, this is how she likes to begin her day. She works as a PA for a high-profile solicitor, and her days are full-on. A five-mile morning run gives her a chance to clear her mind and burn off any lingering cortisol from the previous day.

A time not to think.

To just do.

Let the body run. No thoughts, no worries, no inventing problems that have not yet arisen, or are ever likely to.

Takes three large gulps of the drink, then wipes a bead of sweat from her top lip as she screws the cap back on, panting lightly.

She squints down the towpath leading to Skipton and brushes the fringe from her eyes.

‘Damn.’

A cyclist is coming towards her, but still a long way off.

Sophie knows she has to share the path with other runners, walkers, old ladies with half-blind dogs, families pushing babies in prams. That she can handle. But cyclists are a menace. They go too fast and half the time don’t bother ringing their bell when they come up behind you.

Only last year, she was out of action for two weeks after being cleaned up by some maniac on an electric bike using the towpath as his own personal racetrack.

Partly her own fault. She had earbuds in and had just sidestepped a geriatric Dalmatian and its even more geriatric owner, then moved around another runner, when she was sideswiped from behind.

Grade two calf tear.

The bastard didn’t even stop. Just shouted—sorry.

Once bitten, twice shy. Now she keeps her music low, and whenever she spots a cyclist behind her, she removes her earbuds until they’ve passed.

Checking her pulse on the Apple Watch, she sets off again at a steady pace, keeping the music paused, expecting the cyclist to come up behind and pass her.

She’s soon back in rhythm, gliding along at a steady clip, not thinking of anything in particular, allowing her senses to attune themselves naturally to her surroundings.

A quick glance behind.

No cyclist.

Good.

He must have turned off at the swing bridge.

She checks her watch, unpauses the music and lifts her pace.

Another half a mile along, she abruptly stops and isn’t sure why.

Nothing ahead.

No one behind.

And yet, something niggles.

Just a sensation.

She hasn’t seen anyone. Nor heard anything beyond the music. Still, she feels unnerved.

The end of her run suddenly feels a long way off. Pauses the music.

A smell. Not woodsmoke. Something similar but sweeter, more aromatic.

‘Stop it, Sophie. You’re being paranoid.’

Brushes her fringe aside again. She needs a cut. Maybe after work today.

She hits play on her Apple Watch and the opening, plodding intro to Every Breath You Take by the Police floods through her earbuds.

The bell startles her.

Instinctively, she moves left, slows and half-turns.

The blow to the head is a shock. Not pain, exactly. More like confusion. A woozy sensation engulfs her as she teeters and falls.

For a moment, it’s as if she’s having an out-of-body experience.

It doesn’t feel like her sliding down the embankment, through nettles, over grass. The stings on her hands and bare arms don’t really hurt. The dampness against her cheek feels surreal. The thud to her head as she hits an immovable object feels thick and heavy, not painful.

Must have been hit by another bloody cyclist.

Eyelids flicker open. She’s not sure why she’s been asleep or why she’s staring up through tree branches at a bruised sky.

A rumble of thunder. Drops of rain.

Eyes close.

Then open.

A new song starts, one of her favourites.

Her dad’s favourite.

A cheerful little ditty—Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

A blurry face appears above her.

A man.

Sophie wonders why he’s holding a pair of scissors.

7

7:42 am

Detective Sergeant Andy Archer is pissed off.

He’s been pissed off for quite some time.

Aged forty-five, with twenty years’ service under his belt, he’s counting down the ten he has left before taking early retirement. Not the full pension, but enough to walk away.

He doesn’t have the qualifications, confidence, or imagination to start again at his age, but he is savvy enough to know the job is slowly killing him.

Jaded, fatalistic and exhausted, Archer has become a caricature of a seventies TV copper, and he knows it. He chain-smokes, drinks too much, lives off fast food and carries a permanent inventory of minor ailments. He even has a bitter ex-wife and two estranged children to complete the full house.

But the last six months have been especially trying. His old DCI retired due to illness. The replacement, transferred in from York, lasted six weeks before being stood down pending an internal inquiry into historical sexual harassment allegations. Then Archer’s long-time partner, DC Munro, quit to set up his own personal training business.

And now there’s a trifling complaint to follow up. A woman on a canal boat. Stolen underwear, apparently. The kind of thing that should be handled by a neighbourhood officer with a sympathetic face and a listening ear.

Except Inspector Bell wants CID to take a look, and Archer is the only detective left standing. His partner has gone, and the station’s other remaining plain-clothes officer has been off sick for two months with stress.

Which means he’s alone. Except he’s not. Today he has PC Beth Renshaw to chaperone.

A fresh-faced young copper with clean boots, bright eyes and the faintly irritating air of someone who still believes she can make a difference.

As Archer steps out of the station, she’s already waiting for him in the car park, notebook at the ready.

‘Renshaw,’ he says, without breaking stride. ‘This woman who’s filed the complaint. Who is she and where is she?’

Renshaw hurries to keep pace as they head towards the unmarked car. ‘Maddie Lister, sir. She’s moored down on the canal. Springs Branch. I did pass the file to you a couple of weeks back.’

‘Really,’ he grumbles as they climb in and fasten their seatbelts. Archer fires the engine and throws the car into reverse. ‘Have you any idea how busy I am, Renshaw?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I’m run off my feet. So many cases to deal with that I can’t keep up. Do you know what time I started this morning?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Five bloody thirty. That’s what time I started. Just to try and make some headway. I’m like a salmon swimming upstream. And you know how that ends, don’t you?’

‘Erm… I think the salmon spawn, don’t they?’

He shoots her a glance. ‘Yes. Then die.’

‘At least you get your leg over one last time, sir.’

‘Oh, comedian, are we? And don’t call me sir. I work for a living. Call me sarge or boss.’

‘Yes… sarge.’

‘And today I have a new line of inquiry. Inspector Bell asked me to interview a woman who’s had some underwear stolen. This isn’t CID work, for God’s sake.’

Renshaw shrinks a little in her seat. ‘That’s probably my fault, sir—sarge.’

He brakes harder than necessary, then swings the Skoda out of the station car park and into traffic on Newmarket Street.

‘Your fault. Go on.’

‘I did the sexual offences training course in the spring, sir. Part of it was about patterns. Escalation.’

He glances across. ‘And?’

‘Maddie Lister lives alone on a narrowboat. She called a few weeks back. Said some underwear had gone missing from her boat. I paid her a visit, took some details. She called yesterday. Said it had happened again—more missing underwear.’

‘Unbelievable.’ Archer shakes his head. ‘They could have blown into the water. It could be kids larking about. Maybe they disappeared into the tumble dryer black hole. That’s what happens to my socks.’

‘It’s not just the underwear, sarge. If you’d read my report, you’d have seen the other disturbing occurrences.’

Archer scrunches his nose up. ‘What other occurrences?’

Renshaw opens her notebook. ‘There’s been an increase in reports along the canal. Women being followed. A man hanging around moorings. Someone looking through portholes. Nothing major on its own, but there’s a pattern.’

He offers a false laugh. ‘A pattern?’

‘Yes, a pattern.’

‘You’ve watched too many American TV crime shows, Renshaw. Patterns, indeed. And where exactly along the canal have these so-called patterns taken place? And don’t say between Skipton and Liverpool.’

‘Not quite,’ Renshaw says carefully. ‘Skipton town centre. Gallows Bridge. Waller Hill. West towards Thorlby, Gargrave, and Bank Newton. East towards Bradley, Kildwick, and Silsden.’

Archer gives a dry laugh. ‘Wonderful. So not a crime scene, as such. A geography lesson. And have any of these women reported being verbally or physically abused?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I see. So what we have is a couple of pairs of knickers disappearing, and women walking alone, feeling spooked by persons unknown.’

‘No, sarge. What we have is repeat behaviour along the same stretch of canal. Different women. Similar reports. Same kind of unease.’

‘Unease is not a crime, Renshaw.’

‘No, but it can be a warning sign.’

‘Of what?’

‘Escalation.’

Archer snorts. ‘Christ, they teach you that at college, did they?’

‘Yes. Amongst other things.’

‘And did they also teach you how to waste the morning of a detective sergeant with real crimes on his desk?’

Renshaw closes her notebook. ‘They taught us prevention is better than waiting until someone gets hurt—sir.’

‘Drop the attitude, love. I’m not in the mood.’

Renshaw keeps her mouth shut for the five minutes it takes to reach the canal moorings.

DS Andy Archer is less than impressed with Maddie Lister as he pops an antacid into his mouth and grinds down on the chalky tablet. His eyes dart around the galley as Maddie relays her complaint.

‘It’s been warm,’ Maddie begins, ‘so instead of going to the launderette I hand-wash my smalls and put them on the roof. It’s black. Absorbs heat. Last time it happened, a few weeks ago, I’d left them out overnight. They were gone the next morning. I told all this to PC Renshaw the other week.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that. And this latest incident?’

‘Yesterday, I put them out about ten o’clock, then went to do some grocery shopping. Had a coffee. Came back about an hour later and they were gone.’

PC Renshaw takes notes as Archer rolls his shoulders, easing the tension.

‘Are you sure they didn’t blow off into the canal?’

‘Positive. I have a washing line laid flat against the roof, tied at both ends. They were pegged to that.’

‘Hmm.’ Archer glances at Renshaw, then back at Maddie. ‘And when you say underwear, what exactly are we talking about?’

‘Marks and Sparks. Three pairs of black knickers, three black bras.’

‘I see. And were they…’ He clears his throat. ‘Distinctive?’

Maddie stares at him. ‘Distinctive?’

‘You know. Lace. Silk. Skimpy. See-through. That sort of thing.’

Maddie gives a short laugh. ‘You mean sexy? No. I call them passion killers. Nice and comfortable, like what your granny would wear.’

‘And the bras?’

‘From the same set. So no.’

‘And you’re certain you put them out to dry?’

‘Positive. I’ll have to go and buy a new set today. I’m running low. That’s twice now. I feel like I’m being targeted.’

‘I’m sure you aren’t,’ Archer says casually.

Maddie bristles. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like to be a woman, do you?’

‘No. But what I’m saying is—’

‘I know exactly what you’re saying. Silly little woman, alone on a boat, hyper-vigilant, over-sensitive.’

‘Christ,’ Archer mutters, a little too loudly.

Renshaw steps in, sensing the temperature rising.

‘I think what DS Archer is trying to say is that sometimes we can read too much into events. What can seem, initially, to be unnerving occurrences turn out to be nothing more than…’

She runs out of words as her own belief dries up.

Maddie fixes her with a cool stare, as if she expected better from a woman, then refocuses on the man with the rank.

‘It’s not the only thing. A few nights ago, I saw a man looking through the porthole in my bedroom while I was getting changed.’

Archer’s eyes drift to the windows. ‘You have blinds. Keep them pulled down.’

Maddie folds her arms. ‘My bedroom has curtains. There was a small gap between them. Anyway, that’s not the point, is it? It’s not me who’s in the wrong.’

Archer sighs. ‘This man. Can you describe him?’

‘No. It was getting dark outside. My light was on. But it was definitely a man. I shouted at him. Told him to piss off. Then the next night I woke up and I swear someone was trying to get in through the hatch.’

Renshaw stops writing. ‘The hatch?’

Maddie nods. ‘Yes, the hatch slides across the top of the door. I heard it rattle.’

‘Was it locked?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Renshaw moves towards the steps and inspects the overhead sliding hatch.

Archer checks his watch. ‘Are you permanently moored here?’

‘No. I’ll be in the area for a few more weeks, then I’m moving west until the worst of the HMS Dickhead crowd has gone.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Day and weekend boaters. During the holidays, if the weather’s good, the hire boats come out in force. None of them know the rules or etiquette of the canal. They speed, crash into other boats, clog up the locks, leave gates open. It’s a nightmare. So I take myself somewhere quiet until it’s over.’

Renshaw turns around. ‘Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around? Acting strangely? Apart from the man looking through your window.’

Maddie pouts. ‘Well… there is one bloke I’ve seen a few times recently. He’s a bit odd.’

‘In what way?’

‘Looks out of place. Big lad. Overweight. Long hair. Dresses all in black, like a goth or a death metal fan. Always carrying a plastic Tesco bag.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘No.’

‘Could it have been him looking through your window?’

Maddie shrugs. ‘Not sure. It was too dark to tell.’ She focuses back on DS Archer. ‘So, what are you going to do about it?’

Archer rubs a hand through his thinning hair. ‘There’s nowt much we can do, love. We don’t have the resources to post an officer twenty-four seven to walk the canal.’

Maddie shakes her head. ‘You have heard of Tyrone Dupas, I take it?’

Archer screws his face up in bemusement. ‘Is he a boxer or summat?’

‘For God’s sake. TYRONE DUPAS… the Towpath Prowler from 1995. Raped six women and probably murdered Dawn Haslop—the woman who went missing not far from here.’

‘Oh, him. Aye, of course I’ve heard of him.’

‘That’s how he started. Stalking. Stealing underwear. Then came the attacks. Check YouTube later today. Jake Merrick has done a video about him. I even made a guest appearance.’

‘Really,’ Archer grunts, clearly unimpressed.

He thinks of his workload. A drugs gang operating out of Settle. An elderly woman dead in suspicious circumstances at a care home in Skipton. A slew of farm burglaries around Ingleton. Sheep rustling in Grassington. Plus another ten cases all clawing for his attention.

He swallows back the bile rising in his throat.

How does he handle this sensitively?

‘Mrs Lister—’

‘It’s Ms Lister.’

‘Apologies. Ms Lister, do you have a boyfriend or husband?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

Archer looks to Renshaw for support.

She taps the pen against her notebook. ‘He’s asking if you have a partner, that’s all.’

‘No. Divorced from a scumbag eighteen months ago. Best thing I ever did. Didn’t you notice the name of my boat—Divorce Money?’

Archer grimaces at the pain in his oesophagus. ‘I see. And have you had any contact with your ex since? Could he be the one causing a nuisance?’

Maddie snorts. ‘As if. He’s too busy shagging the dental nurse. And it’s not a nuisance. It’s scary.’

‘Ahem. Right. Well, the only thing I can suggest at the moment is you ask a male friend to stay with you until we’ve got to the bottom of this.’

Archer hates the words even as they leave his mouth.

Maddie stares at him coldly for at least five seconds before turning to PC Beth Renshaw.

‘Is he for real?’

Renshaw offers an embarrassed shrug, which basically means yes, DS Archer is for real.

‘That went well,’ Renshaw says, with a hefty dose of sarcasm, as they head back to the car.

Archer draws heavily on the cigarette. ‘Storm in a teacup. Classic overreaction. Some people are scared of their own shadow. If she can’t handle it, why’s she living alone on a boat?’

‘She has the right to live wherever she wants. I think it needs to be escalated.’

Archer stops in his tracks and eyeballs her. ‘And what exactly do you propose we do?’

‘Request additional resources. Two uniformed officers drafted in. Give them electric bikes and they could do four patrols a day along the canal. Morning, afternoon, evening, and late night. Show a police presence. Not only would it offer reassurance, but they might catch whoever this creep is. Or at least scare him off.’

‘Additional resources?’ he snorts with disdain. ‘The microwave in the canteen’s been out of action for over a month and we don’t have the money to replace that. You really don’t understand the state we’re in, do you?’

Renshaw is about to argue the point when Archer’s phone rings.

He grimaces at the screen. ‘Shit on a stick. Inspector Bell. What does he bloody want?’

He turns away and watches a narrowboat chug past.

‘Sir?’

His face drops as he listens.

‘Right. Yes, I see. Of course, sir. I’ll make my way there now with PC Renshaw.’

He ends the call.

‘What is it?’ Renshaw asks, noticing the change in him.

Archer slips his phone away and takes a long drag on his ciggy.

‘There’s been an assault on a woman running along the canal. She’s in Airedale General.’

8

PC Beth Renshaw closes the ward door behind her and approaches the bed.

Sophie Catterall looks dreadful.

Her skin is pale and waxy, eyes swollen and unfocussed. A thick white bandage is wrapped around her head, covering most of her forehead and hair. There are scratches along both forearms and angry red welts from nettles across the back of both hands.

A nurse stands beside the bed checking the numbers on the monitor.

‘She’s still very groggy,’ she tells Beth quietly. ‘Concussion. And whatever medication they gave her downstairs hasn’t helped. She’s had scans and there’s no lasting damage, but we’ll keep her in for the next forty-eight hours, maybe longer, to monitor her.’

‘At least that’s something.’

The nurse gives Beth a matronly stare. ‘Five minutes. Ten at the absolute most.’

Beth nods. ‘I understand.’

The nurse leans towards Sophie. ‘This is PC Renshaw, Sophie. She needs to ask you a few questions about what happened this morning. Is that okay?’

Sophie opens her eyes properly, although it appears to take effort.

‘Yeah.’

‘If you feel sick, dizzy, or you’ve simply had enough, tell her. All right?’

Another small nod.

The nurse gives Beth a final look that says she means it about the time, then leaves.

Beth pulls the chair closer and sits.

‘Hi, Sophie. I’m PC Renshaw, but you can call me Beth.’

‘Hi, Beth.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Sophie considers the question as though it requires advanced mathematics.

‘Like shit.’

Beth smiles. ‘Fair enough.’

‘I’ve got a headache.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘And I feel drunk.’

‘That’ll be the concussion. Maybe some of the medication as well.’

Sophie closes her eyes again. For a moment Beth wonders if she has fallen asleep.

‘Sophie?’

‘Still here.’

‘Okay. I’m not going to keep you long. I just need to get a rough idea of what happened. We can go through everything properly when you’re feeling better.’

‘Okay.’

Beth opens her notebook but keeps it low on her lap.

‘What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?’

Sophie screws her face up.

‘Erm… on the towpath. Two paramedics and another guy. I didn’t recognise any of them.’

‘That other guy was the man who found you and phoned for the ambulance. Lucky he did, otherwise you could have been on that towpath for another hour or more. What else do you remember?’

‘I went running.’

‘This morning?’

‘Yeah. I always run in the morning. Five miles.’

‘Where from?’

‘Home. Gargrave out to Thorlby Swing Bridge along the canal and back.’

‘Do you remember what time you set off?’

‘Six-ish. Maybe just after.’

Beth waits.

Sophie’s eyes remain closed.

‘And what happened?’

‘I got hit.’

‘By what?’

‘I don’t know. Bike, maybe.’

‘Take your time.’

Sophie swallows.

‘There was a cyclist.’

Beth’s pen moves across the pages of the notebook.

‘Where?’

‘I saw them in the distance when I stopped at the bridge for a drink.’

‘Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?’

‘No. Too far away.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Turned around and set off back.’

‘Did the cyclist pass you?’

Sophie’s brow creases. ‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I think so.’

‘That’s fine. If you don’t know, just say.’

‘I looked back later and they’d gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know. I thought they must’ve turned off at the bridge.’

Beth nods. ‘And after that?’

Sophie opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. ‘I heard a bell.’

‘A bicycle bell?’

‘Yeah. Behind me.’

‘And?’

‘I moved over. Turned round.’ Her face tightens. ‘Then something hit me.’

‘Where?’

Sophie raises a hand towards the side of her head but stops short of the bandage.

‘Here. I think.’

‘Do you remember seeing anyone?’

‘No.’

‘A bicycle?’

‘No.’

‘What happened after you were hit?’

‘I fell.’

‘Onto the towpath?’

Sophie takes a few seconds.

‘No. Down the bank. Through bushes or something. Nettles. I remember the nettles.’ She looks at the scratches on her arm. ‘Then I hit my head again.’

‘And after that?’

‘I don’t know.’

Her eyes close.

Beth waits.

‘There was someone.’

Beth looks up from the notebook. ‘A man?’

‘I think so.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘Everything was blurred.’

‘Do you remember anything about him? Clothes? Hair? His voice?’

Sophie shakes her head. ‘Dark clothes. I think. Maybe a ski mask pulled down, but I’m not sure. He was holding scissors.’

Beth frowns slightly. ‘Scissors?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did he threaten you with them?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No.’

‘What happened next?’

Sophie stares up at her. ‘I was back on the towpath with the paramedics. Then I woke up here. Second bloody time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Last year I got knocked over by a dickhead on a bike speeding along. Tore my calf muscle. They go too fast. And the bastard didn’t stop.’

‘Did you report it to the police?’

‘No. What was the point? It was an accident. Partly my own fault. I’m sorry. I haven’t told you much.’

‘You’ve told me plenty. And we’ll come back to it when you’re feeling clearer.’

Sophie closes her eyes again.

Beth looks down at the notebook. There are questions she doesn’t particularly want to ask. But there is no avoiding them.

‘Sophie, I need to ask you something a bit personal.’

One eye opens. ‘How personal?’

‘Do you have a partner at the moment? Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone you’re seeing casually?’

‘No.’

Beth nods. ‘When did you last have sex?’

Both eyes open now. ‘Bloody hell. You like to get to the point, don’t you?’

‘I know. Sorry.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll explain in a second. Do you remember roughly?’

Sophie thinks. ‘Christmas. A one-night stand.’

‘And nothing since?’

‘No.’

Beth pauses. This is the difficult one.

‘Last few questions.’

‘Go on.’

‘When you went running this morning, were you wearing underwear?’

Sophie gives her a bemused look. ‘Of course I was.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Positive.’

‘What were you wearing?’

‘Running shorts. Black ones.’

‘Underneath?’

‘Knickers.’

‘Colour?’

Sophie sighs. ‘I don’t know. Black, probably. Most of mine are black.’

Beth closes the notebook.

Sophie watches her. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

Beth chooses her words carefully. ‘When you were brought into hospital, you weren’t wearing any underwear.’

‘What?’

‘Your shorts were on. But no underwear.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. I was wearing them. I don’t go jogging commando style.’

‘I believe you.’

Sophie’s eyes move rapidly as she tries to process it. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m not saying anything happened. Not yet. We simply don’t know.’

‘But you think—’

‘We need to rule things out.’ Beth leans forward slightly. ‘Because you were unconscious for a period of time, and because your underwear is missing, I’d like the doctors to carry out a forensic examination. Take some swabs.’

Sophie’s face hardens. ‘You think I was raped?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But that’s what you’re thinking.’

Beth doesn’t insult her by denying it. ‘It’s something we have to consider.’

Sophie looks towards the window. ‘Wouldn’t I know?’

‘Not necessarily. Not if you were unconscious.’

‘Jesus Christ. And the swabs will tell you?’

‘They may tell us whether there’s evidence of recent sexual contact. If there is, further tests can be done.’

‘DNA?’

‘Potentially. But that comes later.’

Sophie swallows hard. ‘Okay. Do it.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Of course I’m bloody sure. I want to know for certain.’

‘I understand.’

There’s a gentle knock and the nurse enters the room.

‘Time.’

Beth smiles. ‘We’re done.’ She rises. ‘Sophie has agreed to a forensic examination.’

The nurse gives Beth a small nod, understanding immediately.

‘I’ll speak to the doctor.’

Beth turns back towards the bed. ‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow. If you’re up to it, we’ll go through what happened in a bit more detail.’

Sophie barely acknowledges her.

‘Sophie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Try not to force yourself to remember anything. If something comes back naturally, fine. But don’t sit here trying to fill in the blanks.’

‘Okay.’

Beth walks to the door.

‘If something did happen, would I have to tell my mum and dad?’

‘No. Not unless you want to.’

Sophie nods. ‘Okay.’

9

Archer is sitting on one of the corridor chairs staring at his phone. He looks up as Beth approaches.

‘Well?’

‘She remembers going for a run. Saw a cyclist in the distance. Later heard a bicycle bell behind her, turned and was hit on the side of the head. She fell down the embankment and hit her head again.’

‘Anything about who hit her?’

‘Male. She remembers seeing someone when she came round briefly.’

‘Description?’

‘Dark clothes.’

‘Anything else?’

Beth hesitates. ‘Scissors.’

Archer looks at her. ‘Scissors?’

‘She remembers the man holding a pair.’

‘Did he threaten her with them?’

‘She doesn’t know. She blacked out after that.’

Archer scratches at his cheek. ‘Odd.’

‘Very. Not the usual weapon of choice.’

‘What about the other thing?’

Beth lowers her voice. ‘She’s single. Hasn’t had sex since Christmas, and she’s adamant she was wearing knickers when she went running.’

Archer’s expression changes slightly. ‘Right.’

‘She’s agreed to a forensic examination.’

‘So you think she’s been raped?’

‘I think we treat it as a possibility.’

Archer pushes himself out of the chair. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘I’m not. But I think we should get forensics down to the scene.’

A crease appears across his brow. ‘What bloody scene?’

Beth stares at him. ‘Where she was attacked.’

‘For a start, we don’t know if this was a sexual assault. Secondly, Max King found her on the towpath, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that’s where she was attacked. You’ve just said she slid down an embankment. She must have crawled back up by herself. That could give us a search area three or four hundred yards wide, maybe more. We call forensics in when there’s a body in situ, or when a victim can pinpoint an exact spot—a house, a car, an alleyway.’

‘There could still be evidence,’ Beth persists.

Archer rubs at his stubble, clearly agitated. ‘You don’t know how these things work, Renshaw. I know you want to do what’s best for the victim, but if I get authorisation for forensics and they turn up asking where the search area is, and I tell them somewhere within a four-hundred-yard stretch of towpath, they’ll laugh and pack up again.’

‘We know roughly where Max King found her. Uniform can cordon off the area a few hundred metres each side until we narrow it down.’

Archer sighs. ‘Beth, do you have any idea how big a search area that is?’

‘Pretty big.’

‘Exactly. And you want me to close half the canal based on a possibility.’

‘For now, yes. At least the relevant stretch. Get SOCO down there. Search the embankment. Look for blood, clothing, fibres, anything she, or he, might have dropped.’

Archer begins walking. ‘Uniform are already making enquiries.’

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘Until we know we actually have a crime scene, I’m not dragging half of North Yorkshire’s forensic department down here.’

Beth stops. ‘She was hit over the head. That’s a crime.’

Archer turns. ‘Or possibly some clown on a bike accidentally clipped her and didn’t want to stop for whatever reason. There’s a lot of drug runners who use the canals to get their product from point A to point B.’

‘And what about the missing underwear?’

Archer is losing patience fast. ‘She’s concussed. Maybe she wasn’t wearing any and forgot. In all my years I’ve never heard of a rapist pulling the pants and knickers down, then pulling the pants back up to save the woman’s dignity after the fact. There’s a lot of things that don’t add up at the moment.’

‘But sarge, you’re forgetting about all the other reported incidents. I think we have a sexual predator on our hands. I think—’

He spins around. ‘RENSHAW!’

A passing nurse and doctor throw a concerned glance as they glide past.

Archer waits until they’re out of earshot. He takes a deep breath.

‘One step at a time. We’ll wait for the medical examination. If it comes back with something, we escalate. Until then, we work with what we’ve got.’

Beth glances through the window at the darkening sky. ‘And if it rains?’

‘What?’

‘If it rains. Any trace evidence out there gets washed away.’

He huffs. ‘Get onto uniform. Tell them to tape off the immediate area where she was found. That’s as much as I’m willing to authorise. Happy?’

‘No.’

‘Tough. It’ll have to do.’

He strides towards the lifts, cursing under his breath.

Beth watches him go, jaw clenched.

Outside, beyond the long hospital windows, spots of rain begin to darken the concrete.

10

DS Andy Archer reads the final paragraph of his report for the third time, changes one word, changes it back, then hits save.

That’ll do.

His eyes are gritty, his shoulders ache and there’s a faint tremor in his fingers that will disappear very shortly.

He checks the clock in the corner of the screen.

5:55 pm.

Close enough.

He shuts down the computer, shoves his notebook into the desk drawer and reaches for his jacket. The station has thinned out over the last hour. A couple of uniforms are still knocking around, phones ringing intermittently, radio chatter crackling from somewhere beyond the door.

He can already taste his first drink. Whisky, a double, no ice. Something to flatten the day and silence the noise in his head. Then five or six pints interspersed with another couple of single shots, followed by a takeaway curry. Normal night.

On his way through reception, he slows beside the counter.

The desk sergeant, Phil Bradbury, is staring at a monitor while eating cheese and onion crisps from a family-sized packet.

‘Inspector Bell still knocking about?’ Archer asks.

Bradbury looks up. ‘Nah. Went for a medical appointment at half four. Said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.’

Archer feels an immediate loosening across his shoulders.

Bell runs the uniform side, so technically Archer doesn’t answer to him. But it’s still Bell’s station, and he likes to be kept in the loop on anything significant happening under his roof.

‘Nothing trivial, I hope?’

Bradbury chuckles. ‘No idea. Prostate, piles, erectile dysfunction. Take your pick.’

‘Thanks for the mental image.’

Bradbury grins and crunches another crisp. ‘Why? You after him?’

‘No. Just wondered.’

Archer had been half-expecting Bell to call him upstairs before he escaped. There are already too many loose ends from today. Sophie Catterall. The Maddie Lister complaint. PC Renshaw banging on about escalation.

He doesn’t need Inspector Chris Bell asking awkward questions at six o’clock on a Monday evening.

Tomorrow will do.

‘Night, Phil.’

‘Night, Andy.’

Archer pushes through the front doors.

The air outside hits him like damp laundry.

The sky is almost black despite the hour, swollen clouds sitting low over the Dales. The heat has not broken. If anything, the humidity is worse. The occasional heavy spot of rain lands on the pavement, but still the heavens refuse to open.

Archer pulls out his cigarettes and is digging around for a lighter when someone calls his name.

‘DS Archer?’

He looks up.

A woman in her thirties is walking quickly towards him from the other side of the road. Smart trousers, white blouse, microphone in one hand. Behind her, a cameraman has already shouldered his equipment and is moving into position.

Another man approaches from the opposite direction, phone held out in front of him.

Archer’s stomach sinks—the press.

‘DS Archer, can we have a quick word?’

The camera light comes on.

‘Is this about the attack on the towpath?’ Archer asks, then kicks himself.

Mistake number one.

‘So the rumours are true?’ the woman says, thrusting the microphone towards him.

He should keep walking. But he needs to backtrack. Ambush journalism can catch the most polished performer off-guard. And Archer is anything but polished despite his media awareness training two years ago, during which he spent most of the time nursing a hangover.

It’s time to manage the situation.

‘There’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t comment on specifics.’

The female reporter moves closer. ‘But you can confirm a woman was attacked while running alongside the canal?’

‘As I’ve just said, the matter is under investigation.’

‘Was it a sexual assault?’

Archer’s jaw tightens. ‘Ahem. We’re still establishing exactly what happened.’

‘So you’re not denying it?’

‘I’m not confirming or denying anything.’

The second reporter edges in.

‘We understand the victim was taken to Airedale General.’

Archer lights his cigarette, then wishes he hadn’t.

‘You’ll have to speak to our corporate communications.’

‘They’ve issued a holding statement,’ the woman says. ‘It doesn’t answer any questions.’

‘Then that’s all we’re saying at this stage.’

He steps away. They follow.

‘DS Archer, what about the other reports?’

He stops again.

Mistake number two.

‘What other reports?’

The reporter glances briefly at her notes.

‘Women being followed along the canal. A man looking through boat windows. Underwear being stolen from narrowboats. There have apparently been many incidents over the last few weeks.’

Archer takes a drag and, again, wishes he hadn’t. That whisky seems a long way off.

‘Reported incidents don’t necessarily mean connected incidents.’

‘But surely you’re looking at the possibility?’

‘We look at all possibilities.’

‘Were those earlier complaints taken seriously?’

Archer feels heat prickling beneath his collar. ‘I’m not discussing individual reports.’

‘But there were reports?’

‘People report all sorts of things.’

The journalist’s eyebrows lift. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means exactly what I said. Not every suspicious circumstance turns out to be a crime.’

The male reporter pushes his phone closer. ‘A woman has been attacked today.’

‘Yes. I’m aware of that.’

‘And women have previously reported being followed in the same area.’

‘Allegedly.’

‘You don’t believe them?’

Archer looks directly at him. ‘I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.’

The cameraman shifts sideways, keeping him framed. A fat drop of rain lands on Archer’s cheek.

The female reporter steps in again. ‘Are police investigating whether today’s attack is connected to those earlier incidents?’

‘We are investigating today’s incident.’

‘Should women in Skipton be frightened?’

Archer looks at her. ‘No.’

‘So you believe it’s safe for women to use the canal?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

He can feel himself being boxed in. ‘There’s no reason for people to panic.’

‘But should women be taking extra precautions?’

Archer rubs at his forehead. ‘Look, I’m saying women should be sensible.’

The reporter senses a headline. ‘What does sensible mean?’

‘It means exactly that. Sensible. Until we know what happened, it would be prudent to stick to busy, well-lit areas where possible.’

‘And women walking alone?’

Archer hesitates. Only half a second, but it’s enough.

‘If they can avoid being alone, then yes. For the time being.’

‘Thirty years ago, women were terrorised around this same area in similar circumstances. Are you aware these incidents are happening on Tyrone Dupas’s old hunting ground? Are police considering the possibility that the Towpath Prowler has returned?’

‘That’s sensationalist nonsense. Tyrone Dupas is safely locked up in prison.’

‘But he’s not in prison, is he? He’s in a psychiatric hospital.’

Archer falters. ‘Er…’

‘Have police checked that Tyrone Dupas is still there?’

‘What?’

‘Have you checked?’

‘Look, what I’m saying—’

The woman cuts him off again. ‘So your advice to women is not to go out alone?’

He needs to nip this in the bud, and fast.

‘Look, what I’m saying is this is an ongoing investigation. And at the moment it would be advisable for women to mitigate their risk.’

‘I’m sorry, but could you put that into plain English? What does mitigate their risk mean, exactly?’

Archer sees his opportunity to be forceful and authoritative.

‘Don’t go out late at night. And don’t go out alone.’

‘So a curfew for women is what you’re saying?’

‘No, that’s not what—’

‘Women are attacked, followed and intimidated, but women are the ones who have to change their behaviour?’

‘No. You’re twisting my—’

‘Why not a curfew for men after 6 pm instead?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. And the attack was early this morning.’

Mistake number three.

Archer regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

The reporter’s expression changes.

She’s got him.

‘I’ve nothing further to add.’ Archer turns on his heels and marches away.

The female reporter watches him go, then looks at the cameraman.

‘Got the bit about women not going out alone, and calling me ridiculous?’

‘Yep.’

‘And the curfew?’

‘All of it.’

She smiles. ‘Sweet.’

The other reporter is chuckling as he taps at his phone. ‘Oh, this is good. Very fucking good.’

The female reporter turns back to the camera and straightens herself.

‘Ready?’

The cameraman nods.

Her expression hardens.

‘In breaking news, North Yorkshire Police have tonight urged women using the canal around the Skipton area not to go out alone and to avoid isolated areas late at night following the attack on a female jogger earlier today. In effect—a curfew. The advice comes despite the assault taking place in broad daylight. In an unnerving connection, the attack comes thirty years after the market town of Skipton was terrorised by serial rapist Tyrone Dupas, also known as the Towpath Prowler. Police are yet to confirm whether Tyrone Dupas is still detained at Bracken Moor High Security Psychiatric Hospital—or whether he’s been released. Here’s what one officer involved in the investigation had to say earlier.’

She holds the pose for a second.

‘Okay. That’s a wrap. Send it back to the desk and let them edit it. Right, I’m ready for a drink.’

11

8:03 pm

Jake Merrick has not looked at his YouTube analytics for ten hours.

Not once.

He posted The Disturbing Disappearance of Dawn Haslop at exactly 10 am, closed YouTube Studio and promised himself he wouldn’t go anywhere near it until eight tonight.

Cold turkey.

For anyone else, ten hours without checking viewing figures would hardly qualify as an achievement. For Jake, it has required the self-control of a recovering alcoholic walking past a free bar.

Usually, after uploading a new video, he lasts twenty minutes. Sometimes ten.

Refresh.

Views.

Refresh.

Likes.

Refresh.

Comments.

Refresh.

Subscribers gained.

Every little upward tick delivers a tiny shot of dopamine. Every flattening graph feels like rejection. Today he wanted to prove he could control it. He’s lasted until 8:03 pm. Three minutes past his deadline. It’s a massive achievement.

Jake sits at the small dining table in his Leeds terrace house, laptop open in front of him. He flexes his fingers, cracks his knuckles, then clicks YouTube Studio.

The analytics page loads.

He stares.

Blinks.

‘Fuck me.’

Views: 487,336.

He leans closer. ‘That can’t be right.’

His Julia Wallace video managed twenty-four thousand in two days and was effectively dead. This one has pulled nearly half a million in ten hours.

Jake refreshes.

489,102.

‘Jesus.’

Again.

491,477.

The graph looks like the north face of the Eiger. He analyses the data. Twenty-eight thousand likes. More than four thousand comments. Average viewing duration twenty-seven minutes, which for a fifty-three-minute video is phenomenal.

Shares—

He whistles softly.

Over fourteen thousand.

And subscribers.

Jake sits back.

Nine thousand, four hundred and seventeen new subscribers since the video went live.

‘Yes, baby.’

He gets up, goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Peroni. No glass. This deserves drinking from the bottle. Twists off the cap, takes a long swallow and returns to the laptop.

Refresh.

497,981.

He watches the number climbing in real time. Two thousand to go.

He almost laughs. For the last year he has convinced himself the problem is YouTube. The algorithm. Competition. Audience fatigue. Attention spans. TikTok. Shorts. Every bastard with a webcam calling himself a true-crime investigator.

Maybe none of that was true. Maybe he’d simply lost his touch. That possibility had been harder to contemplate. But this—this proves it. He still has it.

Refresh.

499,638.

Another drink.

499,921.

Jake keeps his finger off the mouse.

Waits.

Refresh.

500,174.

He punches the air. ‘Yes! Fucking yes!’

Half a million views. Ten hours. He picks up his phone and takes a photograph of the screen, then stops before posting it anywhere.

No. Too needy. Let other people notice.

He clicks into revenue.

The figures lag behind the views, but Jake doesn’t need YouTube to tell him what he’s earned. On his usual earnings, half a million views is worth around two and a half grand. If it reaches a million, double it.

And the money is only part of it.

Subscribers. Sponsors. Recommendations. The algorithm pushing his older videos back into people’s feeds. Sentinel Doorbell Cams might suddenly discover their marketing budget has improved.

Jake grins at the thought. Let them come crawling back.

He takes another drink and refreshes.

503,611.

This thing isn’t slowing down. Why?

The thumbnail is good, granted. Dawn Haslop’s photograph on one side, a misty canal on the other, the words VANISHED WITHOUT A TRACE across the bottom.

The title is strong without being too clickbaity.

And Maddie’s guest appearance was excellent. Annoyingly excellent.

Her insistence on accuracy, her little lecture about treating Dawn like a real human being rather than content fodder, the blue narrowboat angle, the eyewitnesses, Bonfire Night. All of it gave the film something his recent videos had lacked.

Depth. Humanity.

Maybe he should get her involved again. She’s a natural. And pretty. Pretty always helps. Attracts the pervs.

‘I’ll do a follow-up.’

Thirty years since the attacks. Track down surviving witnesses. Find the original police officers.

Dupas himself would be the Holy Grail, although there’s no chance a secure hospital would let Jake anywhere near him.

Unless—

He files the thought away.

The important thing is momentum. He can’t let this become another one-off spike. This story has legs. The figures prove it. The algorithm doesn’t lie.

Stories like this don’t grow by themselves. Sometimes they need feeding. A suggestion here. A rumour there. Something insignificant suddenly given significance.

Fear is particularly useful. Fear gets shared.

Jake takes another pull of beer and clicks onto the comments. They are arriving faster than he can read them.

Best thing you’ve done in years.

More like this please.

Maddie needs her own channel.

He grimaces.

I remember this case. My mum wouldn’t let us walk near the canal for months.

That blue boat theory is creepy as hell.

Please do a Part Two.

Jake smiles and types a reply. Yes. Definitely.

Then another comment catches his attention.

Anyone else watching this because of what happened in Skipton this morning?

His heart thumps. He stops scrolling.

What happened in Skipton?

Another.

The timing of this upload is seriously freaky.

Another.

Woman attacked on the canal TODAY.

Jake straightens. Scrolls.

My friend lives near there. Police everywhere this morning. Young woman attacked while jogging, apparently. Same stretch of canal as Dupas the Towpath Prowler???

Is he back? Maybe he escaped the nut-house.

Towpath Prowler 2.0.

Jake places the beer down. The comments keep coming.

Copycat anyone?

Thirty years later and another woman gets attacked. Tell me that’s a coincidence.

Jake you need to do an update ASAP.

He opens a new browser window. Types: Skipton female jogger attack today.

Hits search.

There. A local news report posted less than an hour ago.

He clicks.

The video opens with a reporter standing outside Skipton police station beneath a sky the colour of wet slate.

‘In breaking news, North Yorkshire Police have tonight urged women using the canal around the Skipton area not to go out alone and to avoid isolated areas late at night following the attack on a female jogger earlier today…’

Jake’s mouth falls open. ‘No fucking way.’

The report cuts to a detective standing outside the station smoking a cigarette. Never a good look. A caption appears beneath him:

DS ARCHER—NORTH YORKSHIRE POLICE—SUGGESTS CURFEW FOR WOMEN

Archer looks tired, sweaty and irritated.

A reporter asks if women should be frightened.

‘No.’

‘So you believe it’s safe for women to use the canal?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Jake leans towards the screen. This is gold.

Archer talks about women being sensible. Busy, well-lit areas. Avoiding being alone.

Then:

‘Don’t go out late at night. Don’t go out alone.’

Jake winces and laughs at the same time. ‘Oh, mate.’

The reporter goes for him.

Curfew for women.

Women having to change their behaviour.

Why not a curfew for men?

Archer’s face becomes darker with every question.

Then the killer line.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. And the attack was early this morning.’

Jake freezes the video. Rewinds it. Plays it again.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. And the attack was early this morning.’

He laughs. ‘You poor bastard.’

He restarts the video and watches the exchange when DS Archer appears confused. The part when the reporter mentions Tyrone Dupas. The Towpath Prowler.

Archer dismisses the suggestion.

Jake sits very still. His eyes move to the YouTube tab.

519,844 views.

Now he understands. It isn’t merely his documentary. It’s the timing.

He has uploaded a fifty-three-minute programme about a serial rapist who hunted women along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal on the very day another young woman has been attacked there.

People aren’t just watching.

They’re joining the two stories together.

Jake takes a slow drink. He ought to feel uneasy. A woman has been attacked. Possibly badly. He does feel something. But beneath it is a stronger sensation.

Opportunity.

Jake opens YouTube Studio. Clicks Content. Selects the Dawn Haslop video. The title sits in the box:

The Disturbing Disappearance of Dawn Haslop

He highlights it. Deletes every word. For a moment, the box is empty. Then he starts typing.

Is The Towpath Prowler Back?

Jake reads it once. Smiles. And clicks Save. The new title replaces the old one instantly.

Half a million people have already watched the video. Now every new viewer will arrive expecting something else entirely.

Past and present have collided by pure chance. Today’s attack has turned a thirty-year-old cold case into breaking news, and Jake is right in the eye of the hurricane.

To profit from it, there’s only one thing he needs to do.

Fan the flames of wild speculation, rumour, and misinformation with a turbocharged leaf blower.

12

Tuesday 23rd June—10:05 am

DCI Frank Finnegan gently closes the office door and places a cup of steaming hot tea on his desk. He takes a quick look through the Venetian blinds into the incident room. Prisha, Zac and Dinkel are all busily at work. Heads down. Quiet focus. Nothing too urgent. That’s how he likes it.

All’s good.

He pulls the Tupperware box from the small fridge and lines it up beside his tea.

It’s barely gone ten, but he’s feeling peckish.

Taking a seat, he rests his feet on the desk and peels the lid back from his lunch box. Meera’s working nights at the moment, so he’s taken to making his own snacks for the day.

He stares at the offerings.

Potted beef spread on cheap white bread, four custard creams and two Radford pork pies.

A veritable delight.

He lifts out the sandwich.

Takes a bite.

‘Oh, yes,’ he murmurs in a state of ecstasy. ‘That’s ambrosia. Food fit for the Gods.’

Takes a slurp of sugary tea and another bite.

His eyes flick back to the incident room. He groans mid-chew as Superintendent Banks bustles through the door with a spring in her step.

‘Flaming ’eck. She picks her moments. What the bloody hell does she want now?’

Banks barks something at his three officers. They dutifully stop what they’re doing, look at her in a bemused fashion, then return to their work.

Frank slides the half-eaten sandwich back into the box, closes the lid and pushes it to the far end of his desk as he places his feet on the floor.

Banks is already in the room before he has time to stand.

‘Ah, morning, Anne. What can I—’

‘Stop what you’re doing. This is a priority. Teams meeting in one minute with the chief constable.’ Banks pulls up a chair beside him. ‘I’ve been speaking with Martin for the last twenty minutes.’

‘Oh, aye,’ Frank grunts, nudging the keyboard forwards. It wakes the screen and he clicks the flashing Teams notification.

A moment later Chief Constable Martin Overland appears online. He dispenses with the usual insincere greetings and gets straight down to business.

‘Good. You’re both there. I’ll be quick. I have a Home Office briefing in less than five minutes. Superintendent Banks can fill in the blanks afterwards.’

Frank throws a look at Banks. Her expression could have been carved from granite.

Not usually a good sign.

Overland continues. ‘There was a sexual assault early yesterday morning on a female jogger near Skipton, along the canal. It was escalated to me less than an hour ago. Normally, I wouldn’t get involved at this stage. However, it’s come to my attention there’s been a lot of suspicious activity in the area over the last few weeks. Numerous reports of women being followed, watched, made to feel unsafe. Underwear stolen from canal boats. Peeping Toms looking through windows. That sort of thing.’

Banks flips open her laptop. ‘The victim is twenty-eight-year-old Sophie Catterall from Gargrave, near Skipton. She suffered a concussion and remembers very little of the attack, certainly nothing sexual. Because of the circumstances in which she was found, forensic swabs were taken and fast-tracked overnight. The preliminary results came back thirty minutes ago. Seminal material was detected. Sophie was spoken to yesterday and says she hasn’t had sexual intercourse with a man for several months.’

Frank’s stomach flips. ‘So we could be looking at a rape.’ He rubs at his chin. ‘As distressing as that is, it’s Skipton. That’s Craven Command’s patch, not mine. Where do I come in?’

‘We’re getting there, Frank,’ Banks snaps.

Overland cuts in. ‘Anne, play Frank the video.’

Banks swivels her laptop and hits play. ‘DS Andy Archer, based at Skipton. He gave this train wreck of an interview outside the station last evening.’

Frank leans back and watches a man effectively ordering his own execution—hung, drawn and quartered.

He winces as it ends.

‘I know Archer. He’s not a bad copper. He was ambushed, and I dare say there’s been some creative editing to make it appear worse than it was.’

Banks bristles. ‘An experienced detective talking about curfews for women, calling a reporter ridiculous, having little to no idea where Tyrone Dupas actually is, and coming across as defensive, ill-informed and completely unprepared. Not a good look, Frank.’

The pieces are beginning to fall into place.

‘And I take it the video’s gone viral?’

‘Yes. Copied, clipped, reposted. It’s everywhere.’ Banks taps at the screen again. ‘And it gets worse. This is a YouTube channel run by a Jake Merrick. Fancies himself as some sort of super-sleuth. By sheer coincidence, he posted an hour long video yesterday about Tyrone Dupas and the disappearance of Dawn Haslop. Fortunate timing—for him. Take a look at the views.’

Frank leans closer.

‘Hmm. Over a million. Is that good or bad?’

Banks slams the laptop shut.

‘It’s very good for him. And bad for us, Frank. Very bad.’

Frank scratches his chin. ‘I still don’t see—’

‘Where you fit in?’ Overland interrupts calmly. ‘Then let me spell it out. In the space of twenty-four hours, we have a young woman apparently raped on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, previous reports of women being followed and harassed in the same general area, stolen underwear, one of our detectives making an arse of himself on camera, and the internet resurrecting Tyrone Dupas from the grave.’

‘He’s not dead, sir.’

‘I was speaking metaphorically, Frank.’

‘Just checking.’

Banks throws him a look capable of curdling milk.

Overland continues as though nothing has happened. ‘The media angle is my immediate concern. Not because it takes precedence over the investigation, but because if we lose control of the narrative this morning, we’ll spend the next fortnight responding to speculation rather than facts. Corporate Communications are already dealing with the Archer interview. Anne will work with them and make sure anything released from this point onwards goes through the proper channels.’

Banks nods. ‘I’ve already spoken with them. Archer won’t be going anywhere near a microphone again.’

‘Probably for the best,’ Frank murmurs.

Overland continues. ‘The second problem is Skipton itself. Craven Command is stretched. Skipton CID, such as it is, is down to one detective—DS Archer. Vacancies, sickness, people leaving faster than replacements can be found. Inspector Bell is holding the station together with string and good intentions.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ Frank grunts. ‘Martin, Skipton’s hardly geared up for a major investigation these days. Wouldn’t it make more sense to run it out of Harrogate?’

‘Operationally, perhaps. Politically, no. This is happening in Skipton, and I want you at the heart of it. The last thing we need is accusations that we’re trying to manage the whole thing remotely from Harrogate while the locals are left to fend for themselves.’

‘So I’m there to catch the bastard and reassure the natives.’

‘In that order, Frank. And lastly, you worked the original Dupas investigation. You know the canal corridor. You know the history, and more importantly you know which parts of that history are fact and which have grown legs over the last thirty years.’

Frank leans back. ‘There can be no connection between this latest incident and Tyrone Dupas. If he’d been allowed out on day-release, we’d have been informed.’

‘That’s what the protocols say. However, it wouldn’t be the first time there’s been lost paperwork. But that’s not entirely the point.’ Overland’s voice remains calm, measured. ‘The media have already decided there is a connection. Jake Merrick and his band of armchair warriors have decided there is. Half the population of Skipton will have decided there is before lunchtime. I want somebody over there who can put out this spot fire before it becomes an inferno.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘You’ll work out of Skipton for the time being. Speak to Inspector Bell. Speak to Archer. Go through yesterday from the beginning. Find out what was done, what wasn’t done, and whether those earlier reports have any relevance whatsoever.’

Frank glances at Banks. ‘And my team?’

‘For now, they stay where they are,’ Overland says. ‘This isn’t a major incident investigation, yet. And I’m not creating one simply because social media is having a hissy fit.’

‘Amen to that.’

‘However,’ Banks cuts in, ‘Martin and I have discussed resources if you decide this needs escalating.’

Frank looks from her to his team in the incident room.

Overland nods. ‘Your officers are available if required. I’m particularly interested in the possibility of putting eyes and ears onto the canal without announcing to every potential suspect that we’re there.’

‘Undercover?’

‘Possibly. Nothing has been decided. Go over there first. Assess the situation. If you believe a covert presence would be useful, speak to Anne. Between the two of you, put something together.’

Frank smiles faintly. ‘So basically, drive to Skipton, sort out their mess, keep the press happy and catch a rapist before teatime.’

Overland offers a faint smile. ‘If you could, it would be most appreciated. Low-key, Frank. That’s important. I don’t want six unmarked cars arriving outside Skipton station and every journalist in Yorkshire deciding we’ve just reopened the Towpath Prowler investigation. At this stage, you’re there to establish facts.’

‘Understood.’

‘And one other thing. Dupas.’

Frank’s expression changes. ‘What about him?’

‘Do we know where he is?’

Frank hesitates. ‘Yes. Bracken Moor, unless something’s changed.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

Frank sees where this is going. ‘I’ll pay the lowlife a visit.’

‘Please do. Quietly. I don’t want to discover from the Yorkshire Post that Tyrone Dupas has been enjoying unsupervised day trips to Bolton Abbey.’

‘No. That would put you off your boiled egg on a morning.’

‘Quite.’ Overland glances off-screen as someone appears beside him. ‘Yes, Isla, I’m coming.’ He turns back. ‘Right. I have to go. Anne, stay on top of the media side. Frank, get yourself to Skipton. Find out what the hell is going on and call me when you actually know something worth knowing.’

‘Yes, Martin.’

‘And Frank?’

‘Yes?’

‘No cock-ups. Play it by the book. It’s not the Wild West and you’re not Wild Bill Hickok.’

Frank frowns. ‘When have I ever—’

The screen goes black and Superintendent Banks is already halfway out of the door.

‘Keep me updated, Frank. And I suggest you leave sooner rather than later.’

Frank gazes at his lukewarm cup of tea on the desk, then rises and reaches for his jacket.

‘Just bloody wonderful. Right. A quick heads-up with the troops, then I’ll go and see what fresh hell Yorkshire has waiting for me today.’

13

Frank finishes his debrief and hands three slim folders to Prisha, Zac and Dinkel, then positions himself in front of the whiteboard.

‘I’m heading over to Skipton. At the moment, you three are staying put, but that could change. Banks and Overland have floated the possibility of using you covertly if this thing develops, so I want you to know what we may be dealing with.’

He points at a map of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal around the Skipton area.

‘Between March and November 1995, there were eight attacks on young women along an eight-mile stretch between Gargrave and Bradley. The first two women managed to get away relatively unscathed, physically at least. The next six weren’t as lucky.’

Prisha flicks through the Tyrone Dupas case summary. ‘Christ.’

‘Sick bastard,’ Zac mutters.

‘We eventually arrested Dupas in November of that year.’

Dinkel looks up from the file. ‘You were the arresting officer, sir.’

There’s a hint of admiration in his voice.

‘Aye. I got to do the honours, lad, but I can’t take credit for catching him.’

‘So how did you catch him?’ Prisha asks.

‘Like most cases, it wasn’t one single thing. Dupas had been on our radar for a while, along with plenty of others. Person of interest, but not much interest, if I’m honest. Then his geography started working against him.’

Zac glances at the map. ‘Geographic profiling?’

‘Summat like that. A young postgraduate from Leeds University looked at the attack locations for us. Criminology or psychology, I forget which. Bright lad. Barely looked old enough to shave. He pinned everything to a map and reckoned the offender was operating out of the Skipton area. Today we’d call it geographic profiling. Back then, half the room thought he was reading tea leaves.’

Frank taps Skipton with his finger.

‘Dupas had been living in Keighley, but in late 1994 he won a decent amount on the National Lottery just after it started up. Not the jackpot, but a few hundred grand, if memory serves. Sold up and bought himself a bungalow on the outskirts of Skipton. Nice central position from which to travel east or west along the canal.’

‘What else pointed to him?’ Prisha asks.

‘Witness sightings. Behaviour. And his aftershave.’

Dinkel raises an eyebrow. ‘Aftershave?’

‘Kouros. Dupas practically bathed in the stuff, mainly, we suspected, to hide a body odour problem. It didn’t work.’

‘Sounds like a right charmer,’ Prisha says.

‘Four of the victims mentioned the smell. Strong, distinctive, old-fashioned. Then a uniformed officer came forward and remembered speaking to Dupas during a routine stop. Said the aftershave nearly took his eyebrows off.’

Zac smiles. ‘Not sure that’s enough for a warrant, Frank.’

‘Not by itself. But added to everything else, eventually we got one.’ Frank pauses. ‘That’s when we found the trophies.’

Prisha looks up. ‘He kept something from the victims?’

‘Their knickers. Six pairs, all carefully stored away.’

Dinkel grimaces. ‘Heavens.’

‘We also recovered the leather ligature he used. Two knots tied into the middle. Those knots left distinctive marks on the victims’ throats.’

‘Was Dupas there when you searched the house?’ Dinkel asks.

‘He was.’

‘How did he react?’

‘Cool as ice. Even when we found the underwear. We arrested him, took him back to the station and eventually he confessed. Didn’t have much choice by then.’

Zac nods. ‘A win, I suppose.’

Frank draws a breath. ‘Yes and no.’ He turns back to the map and points further west. ‘A week before we arrested Dupas, a woman named Dawn Haslop disappeared near Bank Newton Locks. Bonfire Night. She’d had a row with her boyfriend, Martin Powys, drove out there and went for a walk to cool off.’

‘And vanished?’ Prisha asks.

‘Completely. Car still there. No body. No handbag. No clothing. Nothing.’

‘Boyfriend?’ Zac asks.

‘First place we looked. Relationship wasn’t exactly harmonious and he had no alibi for Dawn’s disappearance. For a while, we even considered whether he might be the Towpath Prowler himself. But once we started checking him against the other attacks, that fell apart. Had watertight alibis.’

‘So he was cleared?’

‘Of the rapes, yes.’

‘But not Dawn?’

Frank shakes his head. ‘Couldn’t clear him. Couldn’t charge him either.’

Prisha studies him. ‘But you don’t think he killed her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Frank looks at the map for a moment. ‘Because Dupas did.’

Zac folds his arms. ‘Evidence?’

‘None that would stand up in court.’

‘Then how can you be so sure?’

Frank turns towards him. ‘Timing. Location. Behaviour. Everything we knew about Dupas by then. Dawn disappeared right in the middle of his hunting ground, at the height of his offending, a week before we finally put the bastard in cuffs.’

‘Coincidence?’ Dinkel suggests.

Frank gives him a look. ‘You know my thoughts on coincidence, lad.’

Prisha turns another page. ‘Did Dupas ever admit it?’

‘No. Admitted the attacks. Admitted the rapes. Never Dawn. He’s denied having anything to do with her disappearance for thirty years. He’s a cool, cold, calculating bastard.’

‘Which is odd,’ Zac says. ‘Considering what he did admit to.’

‘Exactly.’ Frank returns his attention to the map. ‘We searched everywhere. Canal dredged. Fields, woods, outbuildings. Interviews, appeals, house-to-house. Nothing. We weren’t even able to prove Dawn ever made it onto the towpath.’

‘No witnesses?’

‘One woman saw her park near the swing bridge. After that, nothing reliable. Plenty of rumours, though. Secret lover. Suicide. Running away. One particularly imaginative theory had Dawn Haslop and Dupas working together so she could disappear with his lottery money.’

Prisha snorts. ‘People will believe anything. Especially when there’s no body.’

‘And the narrowboat?’ Dinkel asks, reading ahead.

Frank points towards Bank Newton. ‘That was the one thing we never satisfactorily resolved. Several witnesses remembered a blue narrowboat moored around there. Nobody could agree on the name. Otter. Potter. Trotter. Something along those lines.’

‘Never traced?’

‘We checked British Waterways records. They were in charge of the canals and rivers back then. Found boats with similar names, but the ones we identified were nowhere near Yorkshire at the time.’

‘So the boat may never have existed.’

‘Maybe. Or we were looking for the wrong name.’

Frank falls silent for a moment. Thirty years, and it still riles him.

‘Officially, Dawn Haslop remains a missing person. Unofficially, I believe Dupas abducted her, killed her and disposed of her body.’

‘Why kill Dawn when he left the others alive?’ Zac asks.

‘Good question.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve been asking myself that for thirty years.’ He looks at Prisha. ‘You’re a big fan of the escalation principle.’

Prisha nods. ‘Habituation, reinforcement, escalation.’

Zac grins. ‘In English, please.’

Prisha turns to him. ‘You know this already, Zac. For example, let’s say a guy gets off on watching sadistic porn. After a while, it doesn’t give him the same buzz, so he finds something more hardcore. Eventually that stops doing it for him too, so he starts acting it out. New high, same result. He gets bored. So he pushes it further. And further. Until, for some of them, the ultimate escalation is murder.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s a lot more nuanced than that, obviously. Most offenders don’t follow some neat little ladder. Plenty de-escalate. But the ones who do keep escalating? Sometimes they don’t stop until they die or they’re caught.’

‘Thank you, Sigmund Freud. I can see you in a tight-fitting white coat with a stethoscope around your neck, holding a pair of leather restraining cuffs.’

‘Pervert.’

‘You’re quite the psychologist.’

‘Detective work is psychology. Maybe if you used it more often, you’d have a better clear-up rate.’

Zac shoots his arm up. ‘Ooh, please, sir. She’s picking on me.’

Frank chuckles. ‘All right, you two. Enough clowning around. Right, where was I?’

Zac shifts in his chair. ‘Dupas. What happened to him?’

‘Life sentence. Thirty-year minimum. Wakefield initially, then transferred to Bracken Moor High Security Psychiatric Hospital.’

‘Wacky World?’

‘Aye—Wacky World.’

Dinkel frowns. ‘And he’s definitely still there, not out on parole, day or weekend release?’

Frank picks up his briefcase. ‘Yes. I made a call earlier. He’s still there. But as we all know, sometimes there’s a clerical cock-up. Once I’ve got a handle on Skipton, that’s one of the first things I intend to establish. Pay the bastard a visit.’

He heads to the door. ‘Business as usual until you hear from me. Carry on rewardless.’

14

1:43 pm

Frank strides down the corridor towards Ward Ten. Further along, he sees a female uniformed officer talking to a man he recognises.

The pair stop talking and turn towards him.

DS Archer rubs a hand through his hair and holds out his arm.

‘Hi, Frank. It’s been a while.’

Frank shakes his hand. ‘Andy. Yes, must be two years since I was last in this neck of the woods.’

‘And the rest. More like four.’ Archer gestures towards the young officer beside him. ‘This is PC Beth Renshaw. She’s been dealing with Sophie since yesterday.’

Beth straightens slightly. ‘Sir.’

‘Beth.’

Frank glances at Archer. ‘I saw your acting debut.’

Archer grimaces. ‘Thought you might have. It’s bloody everywhere.’

‘Any film offers from Hollywood yet?’

‘Ahem… no.’

‘I particularly enjoyed the bit where you declared a curfew for women.’

Beth looks down, hiding a smile.

Archer sighs. ‘It wasn’t like that, Frank. They cut and chopped the video. I never suggested a curfew. The reporter was putting words in my mouth.’

Frank pats him on the shoulder. ‘Just ribbing, Andy. Those reporters are a bloody menace. There but for the grace of God go I.’

Archer offers a nervous smile. ‘Yeah… well.’

Frank looks through the window into the ward. Sophie Catterall is sitting upright in bed, her face pale against the pillows. A nurse is standing beside her, checking something on the monitor. A broad white dressing is still wrapped around Sophie’s head.

‘I’ve read your report,’ Frank says. ‘Any updates?’

Archer looks at Beth. ‘You’re probably better off getting it from her.’

Frank notices the concession. ‘Go on, Beth.’

She opens her notebook but barely looks at it.

‘There’s not much to add to the report, sir. Sophie’s account hasn’t shifted—the cyclist in the distance, the bell behind her, the blow, the fall down the embankment. Everything after that is still fragmented.’

‘Witnesses?’

Beth shakes her head. ‘If there were, they haven’t come forward yet. We put a message out on socials but nothing so far apart from the usual barrage of abuse about the police not doing their job.’

‘Par for the course.’ Frank taps a finger against his lips. ‘Tell me about the scissors.’

‘She remembers a man standing over her holding a pair. That’s about it. Her vision was blurred—dark clothing, possibly a ski mask, but she’s iffy on that. No recollection of him speaking, or threatening her with them.’

‘Hmm.’ Frank glances at Archer. ‘Where exactly did this happen?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Archer says. ‘She was found a half mile west of Thorlby Bridge, where she turned around, heading back home. A local guy, Max King, noticed her lying on the towpath. We know exactly where he found her, but not necessarily where she was first struck, or where she was… well, you know.’

‘Raped.’

‘Yes.’

‘I take it you conducted a scene search at the spot where she was found?’

A flicker passes across Archer’s face.

Beth answers before he can. ‘Uniform taped off the immediate area where she was found yesterday. SOCO went over that and the embankment this morning. They’ve taken samples and photographed everything. Nothing obviously significant so far.’

Frank looks at her. ‘This morning?’

‘Yes, sir. DS Archer asked for it to be escalated after the swab test came back positive.’

Archer shoots her a glance, surprise that morphs into a look of thanks.

‘In fairness, Frank, we didn’t know what we were dealing with at first.’

Frank holds up a hand. ‘I’m not here to conduct a public hanging, Andy. We know what we know.’

Archer gives a small nod.

Frank continues. ‘And this Max King, the man who found Sophie—tell me about him?’

‘Local businessman,’ Beth says. ‘Runs a canal supply boat. Food, fuel, gas bottles, basic provisions for boaters. He spotted Sophie on the towpath at around ten past seven and went to help. Called the ambulance.’

‘Interviewed?’

‘Yesterday. Full statement taken.’

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing that jumps out. Says he thought she’d fallen or had some sort of medical episode. He stayed until the ambulance arrived and came here later to check how she was.’

‘Known to us?’

‘Couple of minor motoring offences. Nothing relevant. He’s well known around the area. A decent guy by all accounts.’

Frank rubs at his chin. ‘And Sophie’s medical condition?’

Beth closes the notebook. ‘Concussion. Two separate impacts. Blunt-force injury above the right ear and a small laceration to the back of the scalp from the fall. CT was clear. No fracture, no intracranial bleed. She’s still getting headaches and some nausea.’

Frank lowers his voice. ‘Anything else?’

Beth’s expression changes. ‘Sophie’s adamant she was wearing underwear when she went running. When she arrived at hospital, she wasn’t.’

Frank studies Beth for a moment.

She’s young. Has more enthusiasm than cynicism. For the moment.

‘And how’s the young lass coping?’

‘Better than yesterday, sir. Angry more than anything. Frustrated by what she can’t remember. She keeps apologising for not being more useful.’

‘Not unusual. And you’ve told her about the swab results?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And how did she take it?’

‘Stunned at first. Then she sort of accepted it. Then angry. Then contrite, like it was her fault somehow.’

Frank rubs at his face. ‘Hmm… you need to keep an eye on that. The victim blaming themselves. Anger is understandable—loss of self-worth is a different can of worms. She’s not at fault. You need to keep repeating that.’

‘Sir.’

‘And is she on the pill?’

‘Yes. I asked her earlier.’

‘Thank heavens for small mercies.’ Frank glances again at Sophie through the window. ‘And the parents—do they know?’

Archer pushes his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Ahem. Yes.’

‘You told them?’

‘A couple of hours ago,’ Archer replies, throwing Beth an embarrassed look.

Frank reads the signals. ‘Spit it out.’

Beth comes to Archer’s rescue again. ‘Probably my fault, sir. Yesterday Sophie gave me the impression that if she had been raped, she wanted to keep it from her mam and dad.’

‘But?’

‘I forgot to mention it to DS Archer.’

Frank nods. ‘I see. A lack of communication during a very difficult day. It happens.’ He turns to Archer. ‘And you told the parents?’

Archer stares at the floor. ‘Yes.’

‘How did they react?’

‘Not good. The mother started crying. And the father…’ He tails off.

‘The father?’

‘He didn’t take it well.’

‘In what way?’

‘Nearing six foot and built like a brick shithouse.’

‘Ah.’

‘Former rugby league player.’

‘Double ah.’

‘He wants a name and an address.’

Frank nods. ‘Of course he does. As any father would. Go round there and beat ten bells of shite out of the bastard. It’s a good job we don’t have a name then. And has Sophie been told I’m here?’

‘Yes,’ Beth says. ‘I explained you’re in charge of the investigation. She’s happy to see you.’

‘Good. I’ll go in and introduce myself, but I’m not going to drag her through the whole thing again. She’s told you once.’ Frank offers her a hint of a smile. ‘When she’s ready, you need to go over it again, though. Maybe tomorrow. Memory can be a fickle mistress. One day she turns her back on you. The next day she’s whispering sweet nothings in your ear.’

‘Sir.’

Frank loosens his tie. ‘Okay. Well done, the pair of you. There’s no such thing as perfect, but under the circumstances and lack of resources you’ve done the best you can. And that’s all I ask of my officers.’ He moves towards the door. ‘Right, let the dog see the rabbit. Beth, you come with me. Archer, you head back to the station and set up an incident room. Oh, and if you see any reporters along the way—don’t bloody speak to them.’

15

Sophie looks up as the officers enter. She places her phone on the bedsheets. A pulse oximeter is clipped to one finger, a thin cable running to the monitor beside the bed, which emits an occasional electronic chirp.

The bruising around the side of her face has gone from angry scarlet to a deep blue. One eye is slightly swollen, and there’s a tiredness in her expression that makes her look a lot older than twenty-eight.

Beth moves to the bedside.

‘Sophie, this is DCI Finnegan. I mentioned him earlier.’

‘Frank,’ he says, pulling up a chair. ‘Everybody calls me Frank unless I’m in trouble. Then it tends to be Finnegan.’

A faint smile.

‘I won’t keep you long. I’ve read what you told Beth, and I’m not going to make you go through it all again. I just wanted you to know I’ve come over from Whitby to take charge of the investigation.’

She glances down at her mobile. ‘Is it true what they’re saying on the news?’

‘If you tell me what they’re saying, I’ll tell you whether it’s true or not.’

‘They’re saying the Towpath Prowler is back. What’s his name… Dupas?’

‘I can confidently say that is not true. Dupas is safely locked up in an extremely secure psychiatric hospital.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I spoke with the authorities there this morning. He hasn’t been anywhere and he isn’t going anywhere. What you heard is people scaremongering and making mischief.’

‘Then who did this, and why me?’

Frank grimaces and takes a deep breath. ‘I won’t lie to you—at the moment we don’t know. But I can assure you of one thing: while I can still draw breath, I’ll make damn sure I catch the bastard.’

Sophie chuckles and looks at him properly for the first time.

‘What’s so funny?’ Frank asks.

‘You. You remind me of my dad. You even look and sound like him.’

Frank smiles. ‘Rakishly handsome devil, is he?’

‘No. But he has a big heart and means well.’

The nurse enters, pushing a trolley. ‘Okay, Sophie, I’m going to remove your bandage and dress the cut on the back of your head.’

‘That’s my cue to leave.’ Frank pushes his chair back and rises. ‘If you want to speak with me at any time, call me.’ He places his card on the bedside table. ‘Beth will be your first point of contact. She’ll look after you. Oh, and one other thing, Sophie—you asked why you. You were random. It’s not much comfort, but don’t start thinking you were singled out for some reason. You weren’t. Men who do this sort of thing are opportunistic cowards.’

‘Wrong place, wrong time?’

‘Aye. That’s about the long and short of it.’

The nurse moves forward and begins carefully peeling away the bandage around Sophie’s head.

Frank and Beth head to the door.

‘Oh, that’s odd,’ the nurse says.

Frank and Beth stop and turn.

‘What’s odd?’ Sophie asks.

The nurse places the bandage on the bed then gently coaxes Sophie’s hair forward.

‘Your—’ The nurse stops short and shoots a worried look at Frank, who takes a step closer.

Sophie can see the confusion and shock on their faces.

‘What? What is it?’ she asks, becoming alarmed.

Frank swallows hard, the colour draining from his face as a thirty-year-old memory resurfaces.

‘Sweet mercy.’

‘You’re scaring me,’ Sophie yells. ‘What is it?’

‘The scissors,’ Beth whispers.

The middle of Sophie’s fringe is gone.

Cut almost to the scalp.

16

Inspector Chris Bell’s office hasn’t changed much since Frank last saw it.

Neither has Chris Bell.

They have known each other longer than either cares to remember. Not bosom buddies by any stretch, but there is mutual respect. Different sides of the same road. Frank a detective, Bell a uniformed officer through and through.

Frank slides into a chair opposite Bell. ‘Not sure how long I’ll be here for, Chris. At the moment, it’s all hands on deck, but you know the chief constable as well as I do—changes with the weather. If something comes along he deems more pressing tomorrow, I could be out of here.’

‘Ah, yes. The esteemed Martin Overland. A legend in his own imagination.’

Frank chuckles. ‘Aye. A political animal. All fur coat and no knickers.’ Frank coughs, embarrassed at his faux pas. ‘Sorry, Chris. Probably the wrong idiom to use in the present circumstances.’

Bell nods. ‘A slip of the tongue.’ He leans back in his seat, twisting a pen round and round in his fingers. ‘Archer has a medium-sized office all set up for you and your team. Are you planning on bringing in many officers?’

Frank grimaces. ‘No. I’ll start off low-key. Me and Archer to begin with.’ Frank glances behind him, ensuring the door is shut. ‘I’ll have three of my own officers working covertly on two narrowboats. They arrive tomorrow. A lone female officer and two male officers riding shotgun, as it were. Another set of eyes and ears, and also as protection for my female officer. They’re all up to speed with events.’

‘Do these officers have names?’

‘I’d prefer to keep that quiet for the moment. And the fact they’re undercover stays between you, me and these four walls.’

Bell raises an eyebrow. ‘What about DS Archer?’

Frank winces. ‘Like I said, between you and me. The fewer people who know, the less chance of it leaking.’ Frank hesitates a moment. ‘Speaking of Archer, is he a local lad—did he grow up around these parts?’

Bell shakes his head. ‘No. He’s been here about ten years. I think he grew up in Bradford. Why?’

‘No reason.’

Bell studies him. ‘And your female officer, is she being used as a lure?’

‘Possibly. I’m not enamoured of the situation, but she was more than up for the task, and she can handle herself when push comes to shove.’

Bell scans the latest report. ‘So, a confirmed rape, but Sophie can’t recall many details of her attacker.’

‘That’s correct. Hopefully, given a few days, something may filter back, but we can’t sit around being reactive.’

‘And I note that, as well as taking her underwear, he snipped a substantial portion of hair from her fringe.’ Bell looks up. ‘Bit odd, isn’t it?’

‘It’s more than odd.’ Frank glances over his shoulder again. ‘Again, this is between you and me for the moment. You remember the Tyrone Dupas case from ’95?’

‘Of course. I was a young constable at the time.’

‘Aye, that’s right.’ Frank taps the desk. ‘Well, there was a certain piece of evidence we kept quiet. Only a handful of officers were ever privy to it.’

‘Which was?’

‘Dupas cut a large chunk of hair from each victim’s fringe. Another trophy. It was never made public. When we arrested Dupas, not only did we find the underwear but also the locks of hair.’

Bell’s face turns a shade of grey. ‘Christ. You don’t think…’ He stops himself. ‘No, it can’t be. Dupas is still safely locked up in Bracken Moor.’

‘Yes, he is. But it raises the prospect of a copycat and all the hysteria that brings with it.’

‘But if that evidence was kept secret, and thirty years have passed, who could possibly know about it?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Unless it’s a freak coincidence.’

Frank gives a dry laugh and rises from his chair. ‘Coincidence? Aye, pig’s arse. Right, it’s been a long day, Chris, and I still need to find digs.’

‘I’d recommend the Tempest Arms at Elslack. Old-fashioned stone inn, tucked in the midst of the countryside west of Skipton. Less than ten minutes’ drive. Nice rooms, decent food, and quiet enough that you might actually hear yourself think.’

‘What’s the beer like?’

‘Excellent.’

‘Theakston? Timothy Taylor? Guinness?’

Bell shakes his head. ‘No. Robinsons Brewery, Stockport. But they do a nice drop called Aleslack. Hetton Pale Ale as well.’

‘And the food?’

‘Proper pub grub, done well. Fish and chips, steak and ale pie, lamb chops, sausage and mash, Sunday roasts.’

Frank nods. ‘Champion. Sounds right up my alley. I’ll give them a call. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’

‘Night, Frank.’

Frank pulls the door open, then stops. ‘Oh, that young lass, PC Renshaw. I like the cut of her cloth. Eager, bright. I’d like her on my team. Plain clothes.’

Inspector Bell’s left cheek twitches. ‘You know the state of affairs at the station, Frank. We’re massively understaffed.’

‘Hmm… I understand. Not to worry. I’ll give the chief constable a call later tonight and ask for an officer to be drafted in from another command.’

Frank knows how to play dirty when he has to.

Bell’s cheek twitches again as he lets out a small cough.

‘Actually, no need for that. Frank. I think I can spare Renshaw. However, I must warn you, she’s young and inexperienced.’

Frank offers a gracious smile. ‘Good. That’s how I like them. No baggage. Unlike some.’ He pauses. ‘You’ll notice from the dates on Renshaw’s reports that she spotted the rise in disturbing incidents a few weeks ago and brought it to Archer’s attention. For whatever reason, he sat on it until Renshaw brought it to you.’

Bell frowns. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Yesterday. That’s when I told Archer to follow it up.’

‘Hmm. A little too late for Sophie Catterall.’

Bell can sense the potential fallout. ‘I’m in charge of the station, Frank, and the day-to-day operational side. CID-wise, with staffing levels as they are, Archer is basically his own man. Have you given him a dressing-down?’

Frank sighs. ‘No. Archer’s already low on self-esteem. Kicking a man when he’s down wouldn’t achieve anything. Probably the opposite. And it’s not entirely his fault he’s been left holding the fort.’

He pulls open the door.

‘Right. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. Night, Chris.’

Bell watches through the window as Frank strides across the office.

For a while, he sits without moving.

Then his eyes drift back to the report.

Maddie Lister. Stolen underwear. Porthole. Attempted entry.

Attending officers: DS Archer. PC Renshaw.

Bell taps one finger against the page.

His gaze remains fixed on Archer’s name.

17

Wednesday 24th June—8:48 am

Frank greets PC Beth Renshaw in the hospital corridor. In one hand he’s clutching a paper bag containing a bacon sandwich; in the other, a cup of tea that’s still too hot to drink.

‘Morning, Beth,’ he says casting an approving eye over her neat jacket, blouse, and jeans.

She greets him with a toothy beam. ‘Morning, sir. I’d just like to say thank you for giving me this opportunity to work on a major investigation. I know it’s only temporary, but it’s my long-term plan to eventually move into CID.’

Frank chuckles. ‘Glad to hear it. We could do with more people like you. Word of warning, though—the job will try to break you.’

‘Noted, sir.’

‘My advice—have an interest outside the job. And I don’t mean propping up a bar. Something that not only takes your mind off things but nourishes you. Makes you keep believing.’

‘And what’s your outside interest, sir?’

‘Extreme sports. I have an allotment. I can lose myself for hours there. It rejuvenates me. I can be up to my elbows in muck and dirt and yet…’ He drifts off for a moment.

‘And yet?’

‘It cleanses me. From all the stuff that happens out there.’ He scans the corridor. ‘I thought Archer was with you?’

‘He is. Just popped to the loo.’

‘Ah, I see. Ready to go?’ Frank says, nodding towards Sophie’s ward.

‘Yes.’

‘And she’s definitely up for it?’

‘Yes, sir. I told her we’d go through it again. In her own words, at her own pace. We can’t formally record the interview here, of course.’ She holds up a notepad and pen. ‘But I can take notes.’

Frank grunts. ‘Hmm… go easy on the note-taking. Just the salient points. Sophie’s gone through a terrible ordeal. You need to be a friendly face and a listening ear, not a hard-faced police officer jotting down particulars.’

Beth resists the urge to roll her eyes. ‘I have done the training, sir.’

He shrugs apologetically. ‘Sorry. Of course you have. I’m teaching my grandmother how to suck eggs.’

Beth winces. ‘Sir?’

‘Never mind.’

He spots Archer loping along the corridor, looking a little dishevelled, then returns his attention to Beth.

‘Right, get yourself in there. I’ll wait out here.’

Beth is about to push open the door when she stops and looks at Archer.

‘Hey, sarge, can you do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘Sophie could murder a milky cappuccino. There’s a caff down the road. Would you do the honours—please?’

Archer looks as though he’s been asked to cauterise his own haemorrhoids, but then notices Frank eyeing him.

‘Of course. No problem.’

‘No sugar, but don’t forget the chocolate sprinkles.’

Beth enters the ward, and a moment later the blinds roll down.

Archer turns to leave. ‘You want a coffee while I’m there, boss?’

Frank holds up the paper bag and cup of tea.

‘All taken care of, thanks.’

Frank’s already noticed the telltale signs, and now’s as good a time as any.

‘Andy, a moment.’

Archer stops and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Frank?’

‘I like a drink as much as the next man. A couple of pints after work to shrug off the leaden overcoat of the day. Sometimes I even let my hair down if I don’t have work the next morning.’

Archer pulls a bemused expression. ‘Not sure what you mean, boss.’

Frank’s face hardens. ‘The drinking. You’re hungover. And you’re no good to me if you spend half the day trying to sober up. More importantly, you’re required to turn up fit for duty. They can breath-test you if there’s cause, and there’s random testing as well. You’re dicing with danger.’

Archer realises there’s no point arguing. Frank’s too long in the tooth to be soft-soaped. He drops his head.

‘Thing is, Frank, I’m under a lot of pressure. I’m the only bloody plain-clothes officer in the district. It’s too much. Some days I don’t know where to start.’

‘Understood. Been there. Done that. Which might explain why you didn’t follow up on Beth’s report about the rapid rise in incidents involving women being followed and spooked.’

‘Yeah, I guess. I did run my eye over it—I think. But what do you do? There are only so many hours in the day. Shift your attention onto one case and the dozen others get neglected.’

‘I’m hearing you loud and clear, and I intend to have a quiet word in the chief constable’s ear about it. It’s out of order that you’re working alone. Even one more officer—a partner—can make a huge difference.’

Archer offers a faint smile. ‘Cheers, Frank. That would be appreciated. I’ll get that coffee.’

Frank touches him on the arm. ‘And one more thing. If you want to mask the morning-after breath, I suggest a little more mouthwash and a little less aftershave.’

Archer grimaces. ‘Fair enough.’

Frank watches him go with mixed emotions.

Another officer who’s lost his way.

As he’s about to take a seat and enjoy his breakfast, a couple round the corner and stop to exchange a few words with Archer.

Frank suppresses a groan.

He can tell immediately who they are.

The woman is small, pale and hollow-eyed, clutching a balled-up tissue in one hand. Her husband is thickset and broad across the shoulders, with a flattened nose, cauliflower ears, and the general air of someone who has spent a fair portion of his life running into other men for a living.

Frank knows the type.

Prop forward.

‘Mr and Mrs Catterall,’ Frank mutters, glancing forlornly at the paper bag containing his breakfast.

He places it on a chair beside his tea and straightens as the couple approach.

The man stops in front of him. There’s something familiar about him that Frank can’t quite place.

‘Archer tells me you’re in charge now.’ His voice is deep, his Yorkshire accent thick.

‘I am.’

‘I’m Sophie’s dad. Gavin Catterall.’

Frank offers his hand. ‘DCI Finnegan, but you can call me Frank.’

Gavin looks at it for a moment before taking it. His grip is hard.

Deliberately so.

So is Frank’s.

‘This is the missus, Jane.’

Frank turns to her. ‘Mrs Catterall. I’m very sorry for what’s happened to Sophie.’

Jane presses the tissue to her mouth and looks away.

Gavin doesn’t. He holds Frank’s gaze as though looking for weakness.

‘So, what do you intend doing about catching this bastard?’

Frank nods towards a small seating area further along the corridor.

‘Let’s sit down for a minute.’

‘I’d rather stand.’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you have a daughter, Mr Finnegan?’

The question is laced with anger and belligerence.

‘Yes.’ A slight pause. ‘I did.’

Gavin Catterall blinks, then softens. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’

‘And that’s why I can understand your anger, Gavin.’

Gavin looks at the ceiling. ‘Anger is not the word, Mr Finnegan. Anger is not the bloody word.’

Jane sniffles into her tissue again and looks towards the ward.

‘Why are the blinds drawn?’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Frank says. ‘Constable Renshaw is just going over events again with Sophie.’

Gavin puffs his chest out. ‘She’s already bloody done that. Can’t you leave the poor lass alone?’

Frank gives no quarter. ‘We know from experience that after a traumatic event, especially with a concussion, memories can return over the following few days. If Sophie remembers some small detail, it could help us catch the perpetrator.’

‘That’s a fancy word—perpetrator. Why don’t you call a spade a spade? He’s a lowlife, snivelling, cowardly pervert. And when I get my hands on him, I’ll beat the bastard to a pulp, then strangle the bugger with my bare hands.’

‘Gavin!’ his wife snaps. ‘That’s enough. The police aren’t the enemy. Show some respect.’

Gavin Catterall may be three times the size of his wife, but there’s a definite pecking order in the relationship—and he’s second.

She blows into the tissue again and dabs at her eyes. ‘How long will PC Renshaw be?’

‘Oh, not long. Thirty minutes, max.’

‘I’m going to the bathroom to tidy up. I don’t want Sophie seeing me like this.’

The two men watch in silence until she turns a corner.

Frank rubs at his face. ‘The fairer sex, eh? I’m not so sure. They’re as tough as old boots underneath. I don’t know where I’d be today without my better half.’

Whether it’s Frank’s words or the absence of his wife, Gavin seems to deflate.

‘Aye, I’d be lost without her.’

Frank eyes him. ‘I understand what you’re going through, Gavin. But if you take the law into your own hands, where’s that going to get you? A lengthy spell in Durham or Armley Jail. And then what happens to your wife? It’s hard to pay a mortgage and meet the bills on one pay cheque. Then what—sell the family home, move into a one-bedroom flat? And what about Sophie? It’s bad now, but hopefully, one day she’ll get over this and move on. Maybe settle down, have children. Is that how you want to meet your grandchild—in a visiting hall with thirty other inmates and prison officers listening in on your conversation?’

Gavin stares at the floor. ‘I know. You’re right. It’s just…’

‘You feel helpless. I get it. It’s a father’s job to protect his daughters. Doesn’t matter if they’re two or thirty-two. It never goes. I’m not going to promise miracles, Gavin. And I’m not going to tell you this will all be wrapped up neatly by teatime.’

Gavin folds his arms. ‘So what can you promise?’

‘I can promise you Sophie matters. Not as a case number. Not as a line in an incident report. She matters as a young woman who went for a run and should have come home safe. And I can promise you we’ll work every hour God sends to find the man who did this.’

Frank studies him as the sense of familiarity returns.

The nose. The ears. Heavy brow.

‘Have we met before?’

Gavin’s eyes narrow. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘You played rugby league?’

‘Aye. Used to. Ten years at Castleford.’

Frank places his hands on his hips. ‘That’s it. Of course. I knew it. Gavin Catterall. Prop forward. Mid-to-late nineties.’

‘That’s right.’ There’s no smile, but he does brighten. ‘You a rugby man, Frank?’

‘Aye, Rhinos, so I wasn’t watching your lot with a charitable eye. But I remember you. Hard as coffin nails. I had you earmarked for Great Britain.’

Gavin lets out a short, humourless laugh. ‘You and my mother both.’

‘What happened? Injury, wasn’t it?’

‘Collarbone. Four places. Never set right. Came back too soon and made a mess of it.’

‘Hmm… that’s a shame. You had a nickname… now, what was it?’

Gavin chuckles. ‘Bubbles.’

‘That’s right. Bubbles Catterall.’

Gavin glances over Frank’s shoulder as Jane returns.

‘Let’s grab some breakfast, Gavin. We’ll come back in half an hour,’ she says.

He nods as Frank hands him his card.

‘Send me a text so I have your number. I’ll call you each night to give you an update.’

Gavin seems surprised. Pleasantly so.

‘Okay, will do. Much appreciated.’

As Jane walks off, Frank takes Gavin by the arm.

‘And think on—Sophie needs a father. Not a martyr. Not an avenger. Her father. If you want to help, stay out of it and let us do our job.’

For a few seconds, the only sound is the muted bustle of the hospital around them.

Gavin nods once, then follows his wife.

Frank sits down and finally pulls out his cold bacon butty.

‘He listened. But did he hear?’

18

In the private ward, Sophie is propped up in bed, no longer sporting the surgical bandage around her head. Instead, she’s wearing a bandana, presumably to hide her missing fringe.

Beth makes herself comfortable on a chair beside the bed, the notebook innocuously placed on her lap. She’s already done the small talk—how are you feeling, how did you sleep, are you eating?—and explained the purpose of the interview, again.

Sophie is obviously no shrinking violet and appears to be growing irritated with the lengthy preamble.

‘Can we just get on with it, please?’

‘Sorry. In your own time, then. Take me back to Monday morning.’

Sophie sighs and starts at the beginning. The alarm at five. The run out to Thorlby Bridge. Stopping for a drink, and spotting a cyclist way off in the distance, coming from the Skipton direction. Taking her earbuds out. Turning for home. The bell behind her. The half-turn. The blow to the side of her head.

Beth lets her talk, adding the occasional note. It matches what she said on Monday, almost word for word. It’s only when Sophie reaches the embankment that new details begin to surface.

‘And what do you remember next?’

Sophie pushes herself higher up in bed.

‘What I remember is… well, it was a dull pain. And I felt woozy, then I fell backwards. I hit the grass, the undergrowth, which broke my fall. Then I remember sliding backwards and for one split second, it sort of felt nice.’

‘Felt nice?’

‘Yeah. Like when you’re a kid. Did you ever go sledging?’

‘Yeah. With me dad a couple of times, on the park.’

Sophie’s face softens slightly. ‘When I was about nine or ten, me and a couple of mates used to get this big plastic sheet after it had snowed. We’d sit on it, grab a corner each, and slide down the hill. Sometimes we’d fall over and end up on our backs, sliding along. That’s what it felt like.’

‘Right. I get it.’

‘And then it wasn’t so pleasant, because I must have gone through nettles, weeds. God knows what. But I wasn’t really caring. Then the back of my head hit something. I think it was a tree. I must have passed out. Not sure for how long. When I woke, I looked up through the branches overhead.’

There’s a gentle tap on the door and DS Archer enters holding a cup of coffee. He smiles and holds it up.

‘Where do you want it?’ he asks softly.

Sophie nods towards the small table to her right. ‘Just there, please.’

Archer wanders over and is about to place the cup down.

‘Actually…’ Sophie says, holding out her hand.

Archer leans in and passes her the drink. ‘Anything else I can do?’

‘No. Thanks. I miss a good coffee in the morning.’

Archer hesitates, then nods. ‘Right. Well, I’ll just…’

‘Cheers, sarge,’ Beth says, giving him a verbal nudge towards the door.

As the door closes behind him, Beth reaches over and strokes Sophie’s arm.

‘You’re doing great, Sophie. Are you okay to keep going?’

She takes three sips of coffee, then places it on the bedside table.

‘Yes. Let’s get it over with.’

‘Okay. In your own time. You recall sliding down the embankment, hitting your head on what you think was a tree, then you passed out. After a while, you awoke and stared up at the trees. What can you remember after that?’

‘A man appeared. And don’t ask me to describe him because I can’t. My vision was blurred and there was a ringing in my ears. Then he…’

Unconsciously, she touches the bandana.

‘Take your time.’

‘He pulled something from his pocket. I couldn’t focus properly. I thought I was imagining it. I mean, why would he be holding a pair of scissors in front of me? I thought he was there to help. He knelt down beside me. I felt his fingers pull at my hair. And heard the snip. Then… I don’t remember anything else until I had two paramedics crouched at the side of me on the towpath. And that’s it.’

Beth touches her on the arm again. ‘You did really well, Sophie. Just a couple of questions then we’re done. Okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You said you heard the bell before something hit you on the side of the head.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you remember seeing the bike?’

‘No.’

‘And at the bottom of the embankment, when the man knelt beside you and pulled your hair—was it violent, aggressive?’

A shake of the head. ‘No. It was gentle.’

‘Okay, nearly done. Do you have any recollection of getting back onto the towpath?’

‘I seem to recall scrambling up the embankment, but I’m not sure.’

‘What about your running shorts?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We know this man sexually assaulted you…’

‘He raped me. Call it what it is.’

Beth squirms slightly. ‘Yes, raped. Which means he pulled your shorts down or removed them.’

‘I can’t remember pulling my shorts back up.’

‘And you can’t recall anything about the actual assault?’

‘No. Nothing. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.’

Beth offers her a pained smile. ‘Last question. Is there anything else you can recall—no matter how small? A sound, a smell, something you saw or heard.’

Sophie considers the question for a moment, then shakes her head. She looks worn out.

‘There’s nothing else I can tell you. I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘Okay, Sophie, you did really well. Try to rest now.’

Beth rises and returns the chair to the corner of the room.

‘Have you any idea who he is?’

Beth sighs. ‘Not yet. But we have a specialist team working on the case. We’ll get him, eventually.’

Sophie closes her eyes. ‘It’s my dad I’m worried about.’

Beth takes a step back towards the bed. ‘Your dad?’

‘Yes. He’s got a right temper on him. You’d better find the rapist before my dad does or he’ll be up on a murder charge. I mean it. He’ll kill him.’

Beth pulls open the door. ‘Try and sleep. I’ll be back later in the day to see how you are.’

‘Wait. There was something else. I’ve just remembered.’

‘Go on.’

‘A smell. It was sweet.’

‘Sugary?’

‘No. Smoke.’

‘Like fire smoke?’

‘No. It was cigarette smoke… no, not cigarette. It was fragrant. When I was a little girl, I had a great-uncle who smoked a pipe. That’s what the smell was like.’

‘Pipe smoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when did you smell it?’

‘Just before I heard the bell.’

‘Anything else?’

Sophie grips at the bedsheets. ‘There was something,’ she says, appearing vague and washed out.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry. It’s gone.’

19

By mid-morning, DI Prisha Kumar has become the proud temporary custodian of a fifty-five-foot narrowboat called Sleek Raven.

The hire-boat handover takes less than an hour. A cheerful Polish man called Jakub, wearing a branded fleece, talks her through the engine checks, stern gland, weed hatch, gas bottles, water tank, toilet cassette, shoreline hook-up, mooring pins, ropes, fenders, horn, bilge pump, and the general principle of not treating twenty-odd tonnes of steel like a hire car with curtains.

Prisha listens, asks three questions, then repeats the key points back to him in a way that makes Jakub blink and say, ‘Right. Well. You’ve done this before, then?’

‘No. First time,’ Prisha replies with a mischievous grin.

Jakub glances at the next boat down and the two men standing beside it. One looks eager and excited, the other less so.

‘Okay, then, you’re set to go, Prisha. I hope you enjoy your two-week break from filing tax returns. And good luck with your photography.’

‘Thanks. Can’t wait.’

Jakub hands her the windlass, an L-shaped steel crank about the length of her forearm, like the starting handle of a vintage car.

‘Do not lose this. Without it you cannot wind the paddles, and without the paddles the lock will not fill. No windlass, no locks. No locks, you go nowhere. Boaters leave them on the lock beam or drop them in the water every day of the week. Look after it.’

Prisha weighs the heavy metal object in her hand. ‘I won’t let it out of my sight.’

‘If you have any issues, you have our number. I better dash. Those two guys are getting impatient,’ he adds, nodding at the men beside the boat.

‘Nice couple,’ Prisha says as he steps from the boat.

‘Oh, friends of yours?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I just bumped into them as I arrived. It’s their honeymoon. They’ve just tied the knot.’

She gives Zac and Dinkel a little wave.

Jakub performs a double-take. ‘Oh, I see. Well, whatever floats boat, no? Take care.’

Prisha watches him go, then places one hand on the tiller and eases the control lever forward until it clunks into gear. A touch more, and the revs rise.

The boat moves off with a gentle bump.

She glances behind her and immediately eases the control lever back to neutral as another narrowboat comes up alongside.

She smiles at the name painted along the side.

Divorce Money

An attractive woman with gorgeous ginger hair is at the helm. She slows the boat as she passes.

‘Hi,’ the woman says. ‘Where are you going?’

Prisha indicates ahead. ‘That way, I guess. It’s the way the boat’s pointing.’

The woman laughs. ‘Fair enough. You new to this?’

‘Yes. First time.’

‘The locks can be a bit tricky if you haven’t done them before. You can follow me if you want and I’ll show you how they work. We’ve got a nice long stretch before the first lock, anyway. And there’s a lovely spot about five miles up, near Gargrave. Peaceful enough for an overnight mooring.’

‘Great. Thanks. I’ll follow you.’

The woman beams. ‘I’m Maddie, by the way.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Prisha.’

Zac is about as happy as a man being led to the gallows by his testicles.

When Frank and Superintendent Banks first mentioned the undercover idea of spending two weeks on a narrowboat, Zac’s eyes lit up. He assumed, wrongly, he’d be sharing a boat with Prisha. Maybe even a cabin if he played his cards right.

Frank was having none of it.

Prisha was the decoy. She had to be alone. Frank didn’t use the word bait, but that’s what he meant.

Initially, Zac was okay with that. He could see the reasoning. The logic. But that was before Frank tossed him the stick of dynamite.

The risk assessment, conducted by Frank and Superintendent Banks, stated that Prisha must have covert protection within line of sight at all times. Naturally, being a senior officer, Zac thought he’d get the gig.

Which he did.

Except—and this was the stick of dynamite—he was partnered with Dinkel.

‘Two weeks on a confined narrowboat with Dinkel? You must have fallen out of your tree, Frank. After two hours I’ll be throttling the annoying little git.’

Frank had waved away his protestations with a carefree abandon that rankled him further.

Now Zac is standing inside the cramped bathroom of the boat, arms folded, jaw tight, while Jakub continues the handover.

‘And this is the toilet,’ Jakub says. ‘Cassette style, which means it will need emptying at some point if you’re on here for two weeks. My advice? Whenever you get the chance, do a number two somewhere else and leave this for number ones and emergencies only.’

Dinkel scratches his head. ‘Hang on, I always get confused with this. Is a number one a poo or a wee?’

Zac’s lip curls. ‘Number one is a piss. What the man’s trying to say is don’t take a dump in here unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘Well, where am I supposed to go? I can’t bake it for two weeks.’

Jakub offers a knowing smile. ‘Call in at pub for drink and use toilet. Stop off for provisions. Use public toilet. Cafe. I’m not saying don’t use it, it’s just not pleasant job emptying it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Zac says. ‘That will be Dinkel’s job. Right, I think we’ve seen enough. The day is getting away from us and I want to get moving.’

‘Plenty of daylight left. Doesn’t get dark until ten. What you must remember is that you have now stepped back in time. Everything is slower pace. Relax and enjoy.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Zac states.

Jakub lifts a finger in the air. ‘And one more thing—shower. On boat, water is at premium. There are many water points along canal, but nothing worse than running out of water, moored up late at night. What I suggest is this: turn shower on, get a quick wet, then turn off. Lather up, then quick rinse. If you really want to save water, you can take shower together, no? Although it would be very tight,’ he adds with a throaty laugh.

Zac stares at him as if he’s taken leave of his senses.

‘Together…’

‘Oh, wait one minute. I have something for you. I’ll be right back.’

Zac frowns as Jakub scurries down the corridor, climbs the steps and disappears through the hatch.

‘What are we having for dinner?’ Dinkel asks, clearly enthused by the boating life.

Zac glances at him with disdain. ‘I’ve got burgers and salad. I’ll cook. I don’t want you anywhere near that barbecue on the front. You’ll have this thing ablaze in no time.’

‘Suit yourself. But I don’t eat meat. You know that.’

Zac sighs. ‘Yes, I know. I got veggie burgers for you.’

‘Great.’

The boat wobbles in the water as Jakub returns. He clambers down the steps, clutching a bottle of champagne with a pink ribbon around it.

‘A little something for your special occasion. On the house. Right, you have number. Any problem, give me call, no?’

‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ Dinkel says, admiring the present as Jakub departs.

Zac eyes the bottle suspiciously. ‘What the hell did he mean—special occasion?’

20

6:28 pm

‘Here we go,’ Maddie says, placing two glasses and a bottle of white wine on the tiny fold-out table nestled on the verge of the canal bank.

‘Lovely,’ Prisha replies, gazing across the lush fields as the sun begins its lazy descent towards the horizon. She leans forward in the camp chair and steadies her glass as Maddie pours the wine.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

They clink glasses as Maddie takes a seat opposite.

‘I’ve done most of the main routes: the Leeds and Liverpool, the Grand Union from Birmingham to London, the Kennet and Avon, and the Trent and Mersey. But this stretch is my favourite spot. It’s so peaceful and the countryside is breathtaking.’

‘It is beautiful,’ Prisha notes. ‘How long have you lived like this?’

Maddie’s eyes glaze over as she stares at a clump of meadowsweet with creamy-white flowers, wafting an almond-honey scent into the warm evening air.

‘Eighteen months,’ she replies, almost in a daydream.

Prisha flashes a glance at Maddie’s boat.

‘Divorce Money?’

Maddie offers a wry chuckle. ‘Yes. Family and friends thought I was overreacting, but I needed to get away. Not hide away, but get away.’

‘Fair enough.’

Maddie sips her wine. ‘And what about you? Married?’

‘No. Always been single.’

‘And what do you do for work?’

‘Accountant, specialising in corporate tax.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah. I know. I’m hoping not to think or talk about it for the next two weeks.’

‘Fair enough. Hobbies, interests?’

‘Photography. Wildlife and Victorian architecture.’

‘You’ve come to the right place then.’

Their conversation is interrupted, not by the repetitive clank of a diesel engine drawing nearer, but by the sound of two men bickering.

They half-turn in their chairs to witness the bow of a narrowboat gliding towards them.

‘You bloody idiot!’ the tall man shouts in a Scottish accent.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ the smaller man yells back.

‘Oh no, of course not. My bottle of beer decided to jump into the water all by itself.’

‘You shouldn’t have bloody left it there.’

Maddie raises her eyebrows and looks at Prisha. ‘And there goes the serenity.’

Prisha laughs. ‘They’re all right. I was talking to them earlier at the hire-boat place.’

The tall man raises his arm and waves. ‘Evening, ladies. Is there a spare mooring here?’

Maddie groans. ‘Erm… yes, after this one,’ she says, pointing at Prisha’s boat moored next to hers.

‘Excellent. Hope we’re not intruding.’

‘It’s a free country.’ She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Bloody newbies,’ she whispers. ‘Oops. No offence intended.’

Prisha smiles. ‘None taken. Maybe we should ask them to join us?’

‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. I am being a little unwelcoming.’ Maddie throws another glance at the narrowboat—Mr Cheeky Chops. ‘Actually, he’s pretty hot,’ she adds with a twinkle in her eye.

‘Yes. He is.’ She sighs. ‘It’s always the way though, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘All the good men. They’re either married or gay. And he’s both.’

Maddie’s jaw drops. ‘What? Those two? Gay?’

‘Yes. They’re on their honeymoon. Right, I’ll rustle up some nibbles. Cheese, crackers, and cold meats?’

‘Perfect.’

Zac is frazzled as he and Dinkel walk towards the woman with long ginger hair. He’s hot and sweaty, and it’s been a trying day putting up with Dinkel. It’s only as he approaches the woman that he realises he’s forgotten one very important thing—their backstory. He can hear Frank’s words even now.

“And make sure you get your bloody backstories lodged in your head. Keep your own names; we don’t have time to organise false IDs. Where you live, why the holiday on a narrowboat, what your professions are. Don’t make them up on the fly.”

Maddie holds her hand out. ‘Maddie.’

‘Zac. Pleased to meet you, Maddie.’

She looks at his partner.

‘Oh, I’m Clem, but everyone calls me by my last name.’

There’s a pause.

‘Which is?’ Maddie prompts.

‘Dinkel.’

‘Well, Zac, Dinkel, set up your chairs and help yourself to a glass of wine,’ she says as Prisha appears from the stern of her boat carrying two large plates full of nibbles. ‘And you met Prisha earlier, at the hire-boat offices.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Zac says, pouring a glass of wine, then taking a well-earned slurp.

‘So, where do you two live?’ Maddie asks as Zac and Dinkel drop into their camp chairs.

In unison, Zac says, ‘Edinburgh,’ as Dinkel says, ‘Brighton.’

Maddie’s brow creases. ‘Oh, you have two places?’

Zac coughs as he shoots daggers at Dinkel. ‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t we?’

Maddie shrugs. ‘Okay for some. So, how did you two meet?’

Oh Christ.

‘Ahem…’

‘Online,’ Dinkel blurts out, realising he’s in the same predicament as Zac.

Maddie leans back in her chair as Prisha places the food on the table.

‘What, like a dating app or something?’

Zac’s confused expression is a picture to behold. ‘A dating app? No, of course not. We erm…’

‘We’re both members of a Facebook group,’ Dinkel interrupts.

‘Oh, what group is it?’

‘It was… it is a group set up dedicated to Wordsworth.’

‘Wordsworth?’

‘Yes, the poet. We both have a love of his work, and we got chatting. Became good chums, didn’t we, Zac?’

Zac grinds his teeth. ‘Oh, aye. Great chums.’

‘Ah, that’s sweet. So what professions are you in?’ she asks, looking at Zac.

Hell’s bells.

He doesn’t get a chance to reply as Dinkel takes the question. ‘He’s a plumber.’

‘Oh, right. And you?’

‘I’m a lecturer at Oxford. A professor. I specialise in the works of… erm… Wordsworth.’

Maddie is nonplussed. ‘Huh, well, who’d have thought? Opposites attract, they say. Well, congratulations.’

She clinks glasses with them both as Prisha winks and grins at Zac, who is clearly confused.

Luckily, as they nibble on the food and sip their wine, watching the sun sink into the earth, Maddie changes the topic and tells them about her recent unnerving experiences.

‘So the second time PC Renshaw turns up, she has a sergeant with her. Plain clothes. A DS Archer. My God, what a dinosaur.’

‘In what way?’ Prisha asks.

‘He was useless. He didn’t say it in so many words, but he made out it was all my fault for being a woman alone. Wasn’t interested at all. I reminded him of how Tyrone Dupas started. You’ve heard of him, I take it?’

Zac nods. ‘Oh, aye. The Towpath Prowler. I’ve heard about that piece of work.’

‘Exactly. Well, this was his patch. This is where all the attacks happened. And where Dawn Haslop disappeared, never to be seen again.’

‘You have a good memory,’ Prisha says.

‘I was a baby at the time, but that case fascinates me. I’m a bit of an amateur sleuth. I have a big file on the disappearance of Dawn.’

Their attention is distracted as a cyclist approaches along the towpath.

Maddie offers a little wave. ‘Hi, Daryl.’

Daryl, mid-fifties and dressed in tight cycling shorts and a figure-hugging top, pulls on the brakes.

‘Ah, Maddie, I see you’re chillaxing.’ His gaze drifts to the other three.

‘Daryl, this is Prisha, Zac and Dinkel. They’ve hired boats for a fortnight.’

As they all say hello, he gives them the once-over. ‘How do.’ His attention returns to Maddie. ‘Suppose you heard what happened Monday morning?’

Maddie frowns. ‘No, what? I haven’t been on my laptop or phone since Sunday.’

Daryl nods behind him, back the way he’s come. ‘Young woman attacked,’ he adds without an ounce of emotion.

Maddie leans forward, hand clasped over her mouth. ‘Where?’

‘Other side of Gargrave. Haven’t heard all the details yet, but she was out running, early, and she got clobbered.’

‘What do you mean, clobbered? Was she, you know, sexually attacked?’

Daryl shrugs. ‘Not sure.’

‘Have they caught who did it?’

‘No.’

‘Who told you?’

‘I was chatting with Max earlier. He was the one who spotted her lying on the towpath. Called the ambulance. She was barely conscious.’

‘Could it have been an accident?’

Another shrug. ‘I don’t see how. Anyway, thought I’d have a cycle down to Gargrave and back to see if I could spot any unfamiliar faces.’

‘And?’

‘Nah. Quiet as the grave. Right, I’ll leave you lot to it. Enjoy the rest of your evening. And you young ladies, watch yourselves. Safety in numbers.’

They watch him cycle off.

Zac is the first to break the silence. ‘I’m not sure Lycra looks good on anyone, but on a man his age it should be an arrestable offence.’

‘Who is he?’ Prisha asks, turning to Maddie.

‘Daryl Cooper. Really friendly and helpful. He’s a volunteer for the CRT.’

‘Who?’ Dinkel asks.

‘Canal and River Trust. They manage the canal.’

Prisha glances back up the towpath as Daryl disappears around a corner.

‘Where does he live?’

‘Top of Bank Newton. Has the old Lock Keeper’s cottage.’

21

Prisha and Zac walk back towards their respective boats, carrying empty glasses and their camp chairs. Zac throws a look over his shoulder at Dinkel and Maddie, who are still chatting away.

‘Looks like those two have hit it off,’ he comments.

Prisha takes a look. ‘Nah, nothing in it. Maddie’s just being friendly, that’s all. I guess it can get quite lonely out here by yourself.’

Zac isn’t convinced. ‘I can read body language, and I’d say Maddie has the hots for Dinkel. I know that’s hard to believe, and I am wondering if the poor lass suffered a childhood brain injury, but the signs are all there.’

Prisha takes another look. ‘What signs?’

‘Oh, the way she finds him interesting. Which, I know, defies logic. The way she laughs at his jokes, which aren’t jokes in the conventional sense, merely long rambling anecdotes that could replace anaesthesia on the NHS. And I saw her hand touch his thigh on two occasions. Fleeting, mind, but a touch all the same.’

Prisha grins as she steps onto the stern. ‘Believe me, she doesn’t fancy him, right?’

‘Okay. Have it your way.’

They pause for a moment and admire the deep red of the horizon and the gentle hum of winged insects.

‘So what’s the plan from here?’ Zac asks.

‘I suggest we head towards Bank Newton tomorrow, hopefully find a turning point then slowly head back to Skipton. A couple of nights there, then head east as far as Bradley. Then rinse and repeat for the next fortnight. We can’t be seen together all the time, but occasionally helping out with the locks and bridges is normal boating behaviour.’

‘Sounds like a plan. So, noticed anything suspicious so far?’

‘No. Honestly, I have to keep reminding myself this is work. I’ll give Frank a call tomorrow and give him an update, and he’s hoping to catch up with us via video calls a few nights each week.’

Zac nods. ‘Right, time for my bed.’ He looks back down the towpath. ‘Oi, Dinks, it’s bedtime. Come now, as I’m locking up.’

‘Be right there!’

Prisha pushes open her door and laughs. ‘Ah, that’s cute. Just like an old married couple. Sweet dreams.’

Prisha emerges from a quick cold shower and dries herself before padding through into her bedroom. Outside, the darkness has stealthily crept up on the world, the red haze of the sun now nothing more than a fading scratch on the horizon.

She flicks a light on, hangs the towel on a hook, slips into a pair of knickers and pulls on a baggy cotton T-shirt. Taking one last look out of the porthole, she draws the curtains, then collapses onto the bed, the opiate of sleep already oozing through her veins.

Outside, in the field beyond, behind a clump of bushes, something stirs, as a watchful shadow creeps away.

The lure has already attracted interest.

22

Thursday 25th June—5:50 am

Prisha steps onto the stern in her running gear, eager for her early morning jog. A pragmatist, she’s often too busy to stop and take in the natural world. There’s always something or someone nagging away at the back of her mind. Sometimes she struggles to find the off-switch. She’s been the same since she was a girl, but it’s definitely worsened since she moved into CID. That’s one of the reasons she runs and runs hard. It’s not pleasurable like a relaxing massage.

It’s painful.

And that’s what she welcomes.

It’s the pain that shuts her overactive brain down. But today she falters as something miraculous occurs.

It won’t last; she knows that, but for one magical moment she feels at peace with the world as she casts her eye over the landscape.

The canal lies silent and flat, a silvery bath, not a ripple on it. Mist drifts over the water meadows beyond the towpath, thin grey tentacles entwined in hedgerows, snagged as if waiting for someone to set them free. A heron stands sentinel on the far bank, one-legged, patient, indifferent to her existence. Close by, a moorhen clatters off through the reeds to the warbling of a blackbird. She inhales the scent of dry fields and the ever-present undercurrent of diesel, no longer offensive but earthy and industrial in a good way.

Lifeblood that energises the boat.

The sun hasn’t cleared the valley yet; it’s still yawning up behind the summit of Sharp Haw, which protrudes from the earth like a tender breast. Swifts skim low over the water. Sheep bleat on the hillsides.

Her mind calms as she soaks it up.

It’s a kind of perfect. A morning that asks nothing of her.

And she asks nothing of it.

‘Yoo-hoo!’

Her daydream is hacked off at the legs.

Reluctantly, she glances at the boat moored next to her—Mr Cheeky Chops.

‘Morning, Dinkel,’ she says, trying to hide her irritation.

He’s dressed all in white: shorts, T-shirt and plimsolls. Looks about ten. Sports the witless expression of a village idiot who is perpetually happy with life.

‘Going for a run?’ he asks.

‘Yep.’

‘I might join you. I was about to do my tai chi workout, but that can wait until later. Glorious day. Ready?’

And that’s another thing—she likes to run solo. Always has, unless she’s entered a race.

‘Yep. Ready.’ She takes a large swig from her water bottle and screws the top back on. ‘Is Zac up?’

Dinkel snorts. ‘As if. He’s still in bed. I had a terrible night’s sleep. The boat was rattling with his snoring. And he kept farting. Filthy ape. And of course, he got the nice big bed and I’m in the bunks. I swear those things are meant for children. Like sleeping on golf balls. Right, I’ll go at your pace, don’t want to wear you out.’

After less than two miles, Dinkel is struggling. As Prisha sees a stone bridge in the distance, she glances behind and comes to a stop.

Dinkel is swaying along like a wounded soldier who’s taken a sniper shot to the ribcage. She pulls the water bottle from her bum bag and takes a sip. Dinkel drops to a walk, face creased as if he’s about to give birth to a baby with an unfeasibly large head.

‘Stitch?’ she asks.

‘Yes. Damn thing.’

‘Run it off. That’s the best way.’

He shakes his head and drops to his haunches. ‘No. It’s too painful. It feels like a heart attack. I think I’ll head back. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘I’m gutted, but I’ll get over it.’ She puts the bottle away and zips the bag. ‘Oh, and I suggest you and Zac set off before me.’

‘Why?’

She takes a deep, calming breath. ‘To keep the pretence that we’re not together. Just casual acquaintances.’

‘Ah, right. Got you.’ He turns to go, then stops, concern etched across his face. ‘Prisha, are you going to be okay out here alone? I mean, we’re not far from where Sophie Catterall was attacked?’

A smile. ‘Aw, that’s sweet, Dinks. You care. But rest assured, I’ve faced murdering psychopaths who would have happily cut my heart out with a broken bottle, and I’ve lived to tell the tale. I’m pretty sure I can handle some sad, grubby, little pervert skulking in the bushes. I have my phone.’ She lifts her left arm and taps her wrist. ‘And this—my Apple Watch. Heart rate. GPS. Tracks my speed, my distance, and knows exactly where I am. I can make a call, talk to it and it’ll record and send it to the cloud.’ She lowers her arm. ‘So, I think I’ll live. And if I don’t, well, I’ll make damn sure I give a good description of my attacker. Q gave it to me.’

Dinkel frowns. ‘Queue?’

‘You know, the gadget boffin from James Bond?’

‘I’m not familiar with the Bond films. They all seem a bit outlandish and full of Hollywood explosions to me. I prefer Midsomer Murders.’

‘Whatever,’ she replies, remembering that any attempt at irreverent banter with Dinkel is usually a doomed expedition.

He offers a thin, painful smile, not convinced of her safety.

‘Right. If you’re sure—’

‘I am.’

‘Okay. Ciao.’

As he limps away, she shakes her head.

‘Who still says ciao?’

Setting off again, her annoyance dissipates as she lifts the pace to her normal speed.

The mist is burning off. Swifts still dive-bomb low over the cut as the sun finally peeks its head above the hills and winks hello. For another mile she nearly rekindles the serenity Dinkel interrupted earlier. The morning is still doing its best to hold on to her. But it doesn’t last. It never does.

When she sees the figure on the stone bridge, her mind, the traitor, starts up again. As she nears, she lifts her wrist slightly.

‘White male, standing on top of—’ she squints at the number painted onto the stone in the distance, ‘—bridge number 172. Aged late fifties, early sixties. Estimated height: five-eleven. Short hair, grey. Muscular. Wearing a white T-shirt with what looks like the Adidas logo over the right breast. A pair of binoculars around his neck. He’s seen me but appears not interested. Distracted. Second time I’ve noticed him. Always alone.’

Jogging under the bridge, her footsteps momentarily reverberate around. Throws a look behind and up. He’s there again, now watching her exit the other side.

She carries on unperturbed. All manner of reasons for someone to be out and about this early. Insomnia. Exercise. Mindfulness. A quiet space to actually think, or not think. Possibly a birdwatcher.

As the bridge recedes behind her, she hits a long, straight stretch of towpath. Another figure in the distance comes into view. Hard to distinguish, but as she nears, it becomes obvious it’s someone sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Which is odd in itself.

A male.

The man eventually notices her and rises in a lethargic, ungainly manner. Turns the other way so as not to face her. Clutches a bag in his hand, close to his chest. Prisha lifts her watch and whispers.

‘White male. Aged late twenties. Six foot to six foot two. Heavy-set. Long black hair. Black jeans, trainers, T-shirt. Behaviour unusual, but not threatening. Seen him before. Have a photo of him in my collection.’

As she approaches, she calls out, ‘Morning.’

A grunt and a sideways glance as she passes. He immediately starts walking the other way as she leaves him behind.

Prisha glances over her shoulder as the man trudges off.

For the next mile, the towpath is clear as she passes a couple of narrowboats moored up, but no sign of life. She puts the job away and focuses on her stride, her breathing, and increases the pace. It’s hard now. Painful. Body willing her to stop, but her mind is a hard taskmaster.

Rounds a corner and squints into the distance as the sun blinds her.

A bike leaning at an angle on its stand a few hundred yards ahead. No sign of the owner.

Slows to a jog. The path is narrow here. Hemmed in by an avenue of unruly trees, plants, and long grass to her left, water to the right.

Halts and takes in the particulars. A red Apollo electric mountain bike. Nothing flash. Five, six hundred quid from Halfords. Pauses for a moment and lets her heart rate slow. Stares into the bramble of undergrowth and bushes.

A crack. The snap of a twig.

Someone is in there.

Spots the grass where heavy feet have trampled it flat, leaving a path snaking past a thicket. Stealthily, she creeps forward, silently cursing as her calf brushes against a nettle. Pushes aside a guard of flowering meadowsweet.

Another snap of a branch, scuffling in leaf litter.

She ventures further into the dense undergrowth.

Stops.

Through the greenery she spots a figure bent over inspecting the ground.

Half-turning, she glances behind her. She’s a good fifteen feet away from the bike on the towpath, now barely visible.

This is not a good place to be. Not for anyone.

Remote. Out of sight. Vulnerable.

Swallows. Takes a deep breath. Turns.

‘Ah! Jesus wept!’

She jumps back as the man holds his gloved hands up, her heart rate exploding.

‘Hellfire, love. I’m not sure who got the biggest fright.’

He’s dressed in Lycra. Obviously the cyclist, but why the gloves on such a warm morning?

‘Sorry. I saw the bike and wondered who it belonged to.’

The man grins. ‘It’s mine.’

Recognition. ‘Hang on, aren’t you Daryl?’

He frowns. ‘That’s right. Do I know you?’

‘Yes. Last night you stopped and spoke with Maddie. I was with her.’

He chuckles. ‘Oh, aye. That’s right.’ Takes a step closer. Lifts one arm, then points behind him.

‘Himalayan balsam.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Himalayan balsam. It’s an invasive weed. Grows like buggery along waterways.’ Shuffling away, he stoops and yanks at a stem, pulling it clean from the earth, then holds it up for inspection.

Prisha studies the long stalk with soft green leaves topped with delicate purple flowers as he continues.

‘It’s an annual. Come closer. It’s these pods here that are the problem. Before it dies, the pods explode and shoot out the seeds, which can spread ten feet or more. We can’t use herbicide; otherwise it would kill the native plants. The only way to get rid of the buggers is to pull them out before the pods ripen.’

‘Right, I see,’ she replies, noticing that the only evidence of his environmental work is the stem he’s holding in his hand. ‘Well, good luck.’ She turns to leave.

‘You can give me a hand if you like?’

There’s something in his smile that makes her recoil. Or it could just be the Lycra shorts containing bulges that don’t leave much to the imagination.

‘Maybe another time.’

As she hurries back through the bushes, he follows behind her.

A slight sense of panic visits her.

‘What are you doing?’ she snaps, spinning around.

‘I’m heading back home. Now I know where it is, I’ll return later with some bin bags and get rid of the lot.’

‘Oh, right.’

Daryl throws a leg over his bike, spins it around, and heads off.

‘Enjoy your run!’ he shouts, one arm raised.

Prisha waits until he disappears from sight. Checks the coordinates on her watch. She’s in the vicinity of where Sophie was attacked, but according to the incident report, the actual site is four hundred yards further along the towpath. Close, but not close enough. And that was searched on Tuesday.

Still, his behaviour was suspicious enough to pique her curiosity. If she didn’t know better, Daryl had the furtive appearance of a man searching for something.

It’s not without precedent for a perpetrator to return to the scene of the crime, especially if they lost something. But this isn’t the scene of the crime. And if he was Sophie’s attacker, then surely he’d know the exact spot where he struck. Especially with his knowledge of the canal.

Of course, there is another possibility. What if Sophie’s recollection was wrong? Understandable, considering the blow to the head and the traumatic events.

Stepping back into the undergrowth, she pulls out her mobile and hits the camera button. Using her foot, she pushes back the long grass and begins to inspect the ground.

A flattened Coke tin lies half-buried in the grass, its label bleached by the weather. Nearby, a crumpled McDonald’s wrapper, two empty crisp packets, a crushed cigarette packet and a torn condom wrapper, the foil dulled with age.

Prisha photographs the lot.

A little further along, she spots a child’s broken whirligig, the plastic kind that clips to a pram, one faded pink blade snapped clean off. Beside it, half-trodden into the dirt, are a bottle top, a length of blue string, the stub of a cigar, and a broken beer bottle.

After another ten minutes and twenty more photos, she’s about done. Opens Google Maps, holds her thumb down until the pin drops, and marks the exact location.

23

Bracken Moor High Security Psychiatric Hospital sits behind two fences, three walls and enough warning signs to make Frank wonder whether he’s visiting an inmate or crossing the border into a rogue state.

The place is built low and ugly, all pale brick, smoked glass and CCTV towers. Nothing ornamental. Nothing welcoming. Even the clipped grass looks like it’s been told to keep off the grass.

Frank parks where he’s told to park, reports to the gatehouse, shows his warrant card, signs his name, signs it again on a screen, empties his pockets into a plastic tray, takes off his belt, hands over his phone, his keys, his pen, his notebook, the cigar, and the packet of Polo mints he’d forgotten were in his jacket.

The security officer pays particular attention to the mints as if Frank might have smuggled in a hacksaw blade between the sweets.

‘Arms out.’

Frank lifts his arms while a wand passes over him.

It bleeps at his shoes.

Of course it does.

The shoes come off. They go through a scanner. Frank goes through another scanner. His coat is searched. The cigar is examined, photographed, logged, bagged, unbagged, sniffed and finally placed in a clear plastic evidence tray as if the Montecristo itself has committed an offence.

A second officer hands him a visitor pass attached to a red lanyard.

‘Keep that visible at all times.’

Frank slips it around his neck. ‘Wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a patient and be locked up here for the night. I’m looking forward to a fish and chip supper and a pint of Guinness when I knock off tonight.’

The officer doesn’t smile.

A third door unlocks with a heavy metallic clunk. Then another. Then a corridor with polished floors and a smell Frank can’t quite place. Disinfectant, old food, fusty heat, and something underneath it all. Human anxiety, or despair perhaps. If that has a smell.

A healthcare assistant walks him through. Mid-forties. Built like a lumberjack. Badge clipped to his chest. Radio on his belt.

‘This way, DCI Finnegan.’

They pass reinforced doors with small observation panels. Somewhere in the building, a man wails once, too loudly, then stops. A tannoy crackles. Shoes squeak. Locks answer keys.

By the time they reach the final airlock, Frank has lost count of how many doors have slammed shut behind him.

‘I hope it’s as hard for patients to get out of here as it is for a police officer to get in,’ he quips.

The healthcare assistant gives him half a look.

‘Harder.’

Frank decides to drop the jokes.

He’s shown into a consultation room. Not the interview room. Not yet. It has ordinary chairs, a low table, a box of tissues, a jug of water and a painting of the Yorkshire Dales that looks like a primate from a nearby zoo has taken up the brushes. It would look better in a skip rather than on a wall.

A young psychiatrist is waiting for him.

‘Ah, DCI Finnegan. I’m Dr Conor Whelan. Pleased to meet you, and please, take a seat,’ he says in a soft Irish brogue.

‘Aye, likewise,’ Frank grumbles as he plonks himself down and studies the doctor.

He’s tall, lithe and dressed in tight, fawn chinos, pointy brown shoes, and a crisp Ben Sherman checked shirt. His slicked-back hair and neat beard give him the look of a man who spends longer grooming himself than it takes Frank to wallpaper the front room. And yet, behind the thick black frames of his spectacles, his eyes are calm and slightly amused, as if he already knows what the outcome will be of Frank’s interview with Tyrone Dupas.

He’s barely out of short pants, Frank thinks. But everyone these days looks like they should be kicking a football around a schoolyard rather than holding down a serious job.

‘Before you meet Mr Dupas, I need to brief you.’

Frank nods. ‘I know all about Dupas. We have history. And I’ve read the file.’

‘Yes, I understand you were the arresting officer back in 1995. But not everything is in the file.’

Frank acquiesces.

Whelan opens a slim folder. ‘As you know, Tyrone Dupas was first sent to HMP Wakefield after his conviction in 1996. He was given a thirty-year minimum before parole. He lasted eleven months at Wakefield. During that time, one prisoner made threats against him. Open threats. Repeated. A week later, that prisoner died after a severe episode of food poisoning.’

‘Food poisoning?’

‘Yes. Acute salmonella poisoning. Severe dehydration, sepsis, multiple organ failure. The inquiry traced it to contaminated chicken, although no one else was affected.’

‘And Dupas?’

‘Working kitchen detail at the time. Nothing was proved,’ Whelan says. ‘No usable evidence. No reliable witnesses. No confession.’

‘But they think it was Dupas?’

‘Obviously, otherwise we wouldn’t have a record of it.’ Whelan turns a page. ‘Two months later, another inmate attacked him while prisoners were out of their cells for their daily recreation. Smashed him in the left eye with a snooker ball in a sock. Dupas lost the sight in that eye. He wears a patch now. He dislikes prosthetics. Says the patch is more honest.’

‘You could say he took his eye off the ball.’

Whelan chuckles. ‘Very good, inspector.’

‘And the inmate who attacked him?’

Whelan’s smile vanishes. ‘Found hanged in his cell eight weeks later. There was a ten-minute failure on the camera covering that landing. Coincidentally, Dupas was studying basic electronics through an education programme at the time.’

‘And?’

‘Again, nothing proved.’

Frank’s chair creaks as he leans back. ‘And after that he was transferred here?’

‘Eventually. Before that he began presenting with acute psychotic symptoms. Paranoia, religious ideation, disordered speech, reported auditory hallucinations. Some clinicians believed it. Others thought he was manufacturing illness to leave the prison system.’

‘What do you believe?’

Whelan closes the folder and removes his glasses.

‘I believe Tyrone Dupas is one of the most dangerous men I have ever met.’

‘That’s not what I asked. Is he as nutty as my Aunt Fanny’s fruitcake or is he playing the system, getting a cushier time in here?’

Whelan sighs and rubs at his eyes. ‘On the record—he’s been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and dissocial personality disorder.’

‘And off the record?’

‘Between you and me, he knows exactly what’s going on. “Sociopath” is a word people throw around far too often these days, but in Dupas’s case, I believe it fits. He understands right and wrong. He simply finds the distinction inconvenient. He can be charming,’ Whelan continues. ‘Cultured and urbane, when he chooses. Courteous. Funny. Warm. He remembers birthdays, asks after relatives, notices when someone changes their hair or seems tired. He can make junior staff feel seen and important in a way the system can’t.’

‘Then he uses it against them?’

‘Exactly. Healthcare support workers. Forensic healthcare assistants. Nurses. Occupational therapy staff. Cleaning staff, if he gets the chance. He has formed what appear to be close friendships with several over the years. In fact, a couple of them who no longer work for the hospital still visit him on occasions.’

‘I see. And these—friendships—what does Dupas get out of it?’

‘There is always a purpose. Tobacco. Books. Information. A change in routine. A softer report. A favour so small the staff member doesn’t realise the boundary has moved until it’s already behind them.’

Frank thinks of the cigar sitting somewhere behind two locked doors.

‘So, he’s intelligent?’

Whelan lets out a short breath. Almost a laugh.

‘Exceptionally. His IQ has been tested more than once. The highest recorded score was a hundred and forty-eight, though I treat that number with caution.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Dupas never takes a test unless he’s already decided what result he wants people to see. He plays chess against the computer and wins on settings most staff can’t understand. Has completed numerous degrees. Reads constantly. History. Biographies. Dictators, generals, monarchs, cult leaders. Anyone who bent people to their will.’

‘Any healthy interests?’

‘Gardening.’

The answer makes Frank blink. ‘Gardening?’

‘In the secure horticulture unit. He grows tomatoes, herbs, roses. Talks to them.’

‘To the staff?’

‘No. The plants.’

‘Right.’

‘He believes they are sentient living organisms that can experience emotion and pain just like humans. He tends to them like a mother with a newborn.’

Frank snorts his derision. ‘Christ, he really is a fruit loop, considering what he put those young women through thirty years back.’

Whelan shrugs. ‘Of course, with Dupas, belief and performance are difficult to separate.’

‘Has he ever been let out?’

‘Out?’

‘Of here. Day release. Hospital appointment. Tribunal. Clerical balls-up. Anything.’

Whelan grimaces. ‘Once. Fifteen years ago, for his mother’s funeral. Handcuffed, escorted by two armed prison officers and returned the same afternoon. He has not left Bracken Moor since.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘And will he ever be released?’

Whelan takes a moment before answering. ‘He was given a life sentence with a thirty-year minimum. His minimum term expires in six months.’

Frank looks at him in disbelief. ‘You’re telling me he could be released?’

‘I’m telling you his legal team will argue he no longer requires high secure detention. He has been compliant for years. Medicated. Polite. No recorded violence. No recent disciplinary concerns.’

‘You’re making him sound like Mother Teresa.’

‘He’s made himself sound like Mother Teresa.’

Frank leans in, hands clasped. ‘Is there really a chance that bastard could walk the streets again?’

Whelan puffs out his cheeks and leans back. ‘There is a chance. A better one than I’m comfortable with. Dupas can turn on the charm when required, and there will be people on that panel who want to believe in him. His legal team will argue that keeping him locked up indefinitely is punitive rather than therapeutic. Of course, he won’t simply pick up his suitcase and walk out of the gate. It will be a stepped response. Lower-security facility. Monitored day-release back into the community. Time for him to readjust. Think of the hearing as the first crack in the door.’

‘And twelve, eighteen months from now?’

Another shrug. ‘If he poses no threat, finds some form of employment—paid or unpaid—ticks all the boxes, then yes. Dupas could be a free man.’

‘Sweet merciful crap,’ Frank whispers. ‘That bastard murdered Dawn Haslop and hid her body.’

‘Charges that were never brought, and an accusation he’s always denied. In a macabre twist, it’s Dawn Haslop’s disappearance that could help him towards freedom.’

‘How?’

‘He pleaded guilty to the rapes and attacks. His legal team will say, if he was willing to admit to those offences, why would he continue lying about Dawn Haslop? Their argument will be simple: he denied involvement because he had nothing to do with her disappearance.’

Frank has heard enough and pushes his chair back. ‘The reason he didn’t confess to Dawn’s murder is because he knew they’d throw away the key. Even a thick bastard like me knows that. Right, well, thanks for the heads-up, doctor.’

Whelan rises. ‘You’re in a very privileged position, inspector.’

‘How do you mean?’ Frank replies as he stands.

‘Most requests to see Dupas are either declined by the hospital director or by Dupas himself.’

‘Aye, well, apparently my chief constable can be very persuasive—hence your Governor’s permission. And as for Dupas, he’s already manipulated the system.’

Whelan smiles. ‘Ah, yes. The request for the cigar.’ He fumbles in his pocket and places two items on the table. ‘Almost forgot. You’ll need these.’

Frank collects them and drops them into his pocket.

‘And inspector, you clip and light the cigar for Dupas. Do not let him handle them.’

Frank chuckles. ‘I hardly think he’s going to stage a breakout with a lighter and a cigar guillotine.’

‘Nevertheless. We’ve already bent the protocols.’ He turns and points to a long rectangular window that is blacked out. ‘One more thing,’ he adds, pressing a button.

The window suddenly becomes clear, offering a view into an adjoining room.

Sitting mute on a chair, hands on the table, is Tyrone Dupas.

Frank studies him.

Thirty years ago, Dupas had been stocky and powerful, with greasy hair, oily skin, and acne craters across his cheeks; now the frame has shrunk inside a beige hospital jumper, the flesh softened, the shoulders narrowed. The skin is still bad, the remaining eye small and watchful behind round glasses, the black patch over the left eye giving his bland face the only memorable thing about it. He looks like a man you’d forget in a queue, which somehow makes him worse.

‘A two-way mirror?’ Frank enquires.

‘Yes. We’ll be monitoring everything from in here.’

‘We?’

‘Myself, two security officers and a junior psychiatrist. Everything will be recorded, but as this is officially off the record and he has no solicitor present, anything he says will be of dubious worth.’

‘Yes. I’m fully aware of that. Strange, isn’t it?’

Whelan is bemused. ‘What is?’

‘A vicious psychopath like Dupas has more rights than ordinary, law-abiding folk.’

‘In a democratic society we must have checks and balances, inspector.’

‘Aye, try telling that to Dawn Haslop’s family and the surviving rape victims.’ Frank turns to leave. ‘By the way, doctor, you said he’s good at fooling people, befriending them. Has he ever fooled you?’

Whelan shakes his head and offers a wry laugh.

‘I was the youngest of eight boys from a poor Irish family. Spotting bullshit early on wasn’t just a skill. It was self-preservation.’

Frank nods, then knocks on the door twice and hears the jangle of keys from the other side.

‘DCI Finnegan, one more thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘Do not give him any personal information. Not your irritation, not your humour, not your sympathy. And especially not your grief. If you show him an open wound, he will stick his finger in it and twist it around.’

Frank thinks of Dawn Haslop. Of the women in the file. Of the nightmares left on repeat forever.

‘Is that your professional advice, doctor?’

‘No,’ Whelan says. ‘That’s a warning from one sane man to another. Do not let him in.’

24

Frank closes the door behind him. It’s immediately followed by the clatter of keys and bolts being rammed home. He’s heard that sound way too often and it’s wearing decidedly thin.

The specialised interview room is small, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen. In the middle is a table bolted to the floor, along with three chairs, one of them occupied by Dupas. No windows to the outside world, just the rectangular two-way mirror along one wall. The room is warm and claustrophobic. Pine disinfectant sits on top of old smoke, and beneath that is the sour fug of too many anxious men breathing the same recycled air. A large extractor fan reclines in the ceiling above the table, humming lethargically, ignorant of its primary function in life.

Dupas is already looking decidedly bored, wiping his round John Lennon-style glasses on his jumper. He doesn’t look up.

‘You’re late, Inspector Finnegan.’

‘Sorry. Did you have a taxi waiting?’

He immediately regrets his reply as Dr Whelan’s words float through his mind.

Dupas pauses cleaning his spectacles for a second. Just long enough to let Frank know his line has irritated, not amused.

‘If you intend to continue with your dry Yorkshire wit, chief inspector, then I can see no reason to begin this interview.’

Frank tries to pull out the chair, only to realise it’s fastened hard to the floor.

Brilliant.

He sits. Changes gear.

‘My apologies, Tyrone. The reason I’m late is because it’s harder to get into here than Fort Knox. You know how it is these days: security, forms to read, signatures, body searches, protocols, and due process. The world is now run by middle management who don’t really do anything apart from make the rest of us jump through hoops. It’s insane.’

Dupas’s one eye swivels slowly onto him as Frank mentally checks his last sentence.

Hmm… I’m in a mental hospital and I used the word insane. Sharpen up, Frank.

Whether by good grace or desperation for his bargaining chip, Dupas lets it slide.

‘Before we begin, do you mind if we do away with titles? It’s rather laborious to call you inspector or chief inspector every time I address you.’

Frank holds his arms out in acceptance. ‘Fine by me.’

‘Are you okay with Mr Finnegan?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good,’ he replies with a faint smile as he places the glasses back on his head. He sniffs once and relaxes back. ‘So, Mr Finnegan, it’s been quite a while. Nearly thirty years since we last met. You were a fresh-faced detective constable in those days. You’ve put on a few pounds.’

Frank pats his stomach. ‘Aye. And you’ve lost a few.’

Dupas gives a sideways tilt of the head. ‘The food in here is palatable, but you don’t ask for seconds. Still…’ He hesitates, licks his lips, becomes serious. ‘Thirty years…’

Frank smiles. ‘Aye. Time flies. Gone in the blink of an…’ He catches himself just in time.

Dupas slowly peels the patch away to reveal a knotted mess of flesh.

‘Eye?’

Frank winces. ‘Ahem, yes. No pun intended. Just an overused cliché.’

Dupas nods. ‘It’s funny how the body adapts. Necessity. My eyesight was never the best. Once I lost this, my right eye gradually improved. Yes, I wear glasses, but they’re very weak lenses.’

‘Always a silver lining.’

Dupas rolls his fingertips on the table, creating a drumming sound.

‘So, do you have it?’

‘Yes.’

Frank lifts the cigar from his jacket pocket and lays it carefully down on the table.

Dupas’s right eye widens. He carefully picks it up and draws it back and forth under his nose in obvious rapture.

‘Sweet,’ he murmurs. ‘You got off rather cheaply, Mr Finnegan.’

‘Those things cost a hundred and forty quid a go. And I could only buy them in a box of three. So I wouldn’t call that cheap.’

Dupas finally shows a full smile. ‘Taxpayers’ money. They’ll never know. Anyway, you’re wrong, Mr Finnegan. The Montecristo A Gran Corona is a Cuban cigar. Hugely underpriced in my opinion. I’ve smoked cigars ten times the cost of this and they never compared. The Montecristo has always punched way above its weight. We’ve had a long love affair.’

‘Each to their own.’

Dupas places the cigar reluctantly back on the table and shoots a sideways glance at the two-way mirror.

‘I assume my keepers insist you cut and light it?’

Frank fumbles in his pocket, pulls out the lighter and guillotine and pushes them towards Dupas.

‘Be my guest.’

Dupas freezes. Looks down. Then up, and finally a sideways smirk at the glass again.

‘Trust is a rare commodity.’

He picks up the cigar and guillotine, feeling the weight of both, inspecting them carefully. Suitably impressed, he slips the cigar into the cutter and snips off a sliver. With the cigar clamped between his teeth, he flicks the lighter. He moves the flame gently back and forth, not too close, not too far away, drawing on the end in quiet, contemplative puffs until it glows red and aromatic smoke begins to fill the room.

For one stupid second, Frank envies him. His own smoking days are long gone, reduced to the occasional furtive gasper in his shed at the allotment.

Dupas relaxes back, eyes closed, lost in private reverie.

‘Leather,’ he eventually murmurs. ‘Cedar. A hint of cocoa. Liquorice on the finish. Perfection.’

As Frank studies him, he focuses on the large gap between Dupas’s two upper front teeth. He noticed it the day he arrested him, but only in passing. Since then, he’s seen Dupas only in photographs and at sentencing, and cannot recall ever seeing him with his mouth open.

Odd how a meaningless detail from three decades ago can suddenly resurface.

Frank allows him his moment of enjoyment—not only the pleasure of the smoke, but the fact Dupas has manipulated the system to once again get his own way. The guilty man, the rapist, the man who got away with murder calling the shots.

But Frank plays a long game.

Give him enough rope.

Dupas pulls the cigar from his mouth and taps the ash into a plastic ashtray on the table.

‘I know exactly what you’re thinking, Mr Finnegan.’

‘Oh?’

‘The cigar. The ritual. The obvious symbolism. But as Sigmund Freud once said—sometimes a cigar is simply—a cigar.’

Frank sighs and leans back.

‘Apologies, Mr Finnegan. You’re becoming impatient. Down to business.’ Dupas exhales a thin stream of smoke and watches it climb towards the extractor fan. ‘So, which ghost brings you here—Dawn Haslop or the canal business?’

Frank keeps his face still. ‘You know about the recent attack?’

Dupas gives a small smile. ‘I’m detained, not buried.’

‘News travels fast.’

‘News, staff gossip, careless whispers in corridors. This place is a monastery built by people who cannot stop talking.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘Enough to know someone has been walking in my footsteps. Or at least attempting to.’

‘And does that please you?’

Dupas turns the cigar between his fingers and chuckles. ‘It… interests me.’

‘Titillates you?’

Dupas frowns, his face hardening. ‘I’m not the man I was. I’ve atoned for my sins.’

‘Hmm.’

Silence settles between them as each man watches the other. Eventually, Dupas breaks the impasse.

‘Ah, I see. You want my help. But first, let’s look at the facts. Women being attacked happens every day of the week. A banal occurrence. The attack happening on a towpath is hardly unique. Isolated, away from cameras. Those two facts alone are not enough to drag you here. Taking underwear as a little keepsake is, again, not unheard of. Not enough for you to trouble yourself with a visit. Which can leave only two things. Either the attacker used a ligature with two knots tied in it, or—the hair.’

Frank swallows his disgust and stares impassively at him.

Dupas grins. ‘I see. The little scamp has taken a lock of the woman’s hair. Now I am intrigued.’

‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ Frank says.

Dupas shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Basic deduction that I dare say even one of your less gifted colleagues could have arrived at, eventually. But back to your visit. You want my help. You want to wriggle around inside my mind and find out what my doppelgänger will do next, when he’ll strike, whether he’ll escalate.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need your help to catch this waste of oxygen. I caught you, didn’t I?’

Dupas’s good eye blinks slowly, like an old tortoise. He’s surprised and annoyed at the reply. The insult was double-edged.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Two reasons. The most important of which was to hear it from the horse’s mouth that you hadn’t somehow wangled a day-release programme. You haven’t.’

‘And the second?’

‘The hair. Or, to be more precise, a large chunk of fringe cut from the victim. There have been countless documentaries and books written about you, all of which mention the ligature, the underwear. But not one has mentioned the hair. And why’s that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Because no one knows about it. Apart from me and a few officers at the time, thirty years ago, most of whom are long since dead.’

‘And you’ve calculated the odds, Mr Finnegan. Women being attacked gives you a large pool. Attacked on a towpath narrows it down just a little. The underwear reduces it further. But add the sacrificial fringe, then the odds become astronomical that this is simply coincidence.’

‘Exactly. Which means you must have told someone about it. And I want to know who.’

Dupas chuckles and pushes back in his seat. ‘Really? I can’t specifically remember ever mentioning it. I’ve been examined, questioned, assessed, interviewed, analysed and preached at for thirty years. Psychiatrists. Psychologists. Nurses. Police officers. Solicitors. Chaplains. Men in white coats with clipboards and soft shoes. Often under heavy medication. Do you honestly expect me to remember every conversation?’

‘Not every conversation. But the hair is very specific. It’s a well kept secret.’

‘Come along, Mr Finnegan. You know there’s no such thing as secrets. So who else knew about the hair? The victims, obviously. Their partners. Some of their families. A select few police officers, and undoubtedly their wives, lovers. People talk. People always talk. You see how these things multiply? Like compound interest.’

‘If that knowledge was widespread, it would have made it into print at some point. It hasn’t. We’ve checked.’

Dupas draws on the cigar again and blows a smoke ring. ‘I think our interview has found a natural ending. Shame, as the Montecristo has a burn time of a hundred and twenty minutes. It will save for later.’

Frank looks to the observation mirror, nods, then rises.

‘It was a long shot. If you remember anything, I’ll leave my number with your keepers.’

He stands at the door as footsteps approach, followed by the jingle of keys.

‘One last thing,’ Frank says. ‘Why the hair?’

Dupas clamps the cigar between his teeth and smirks. ‘Why not?’

Frank holds his gaze. ‘I think I know the answer.’

‘Please, enlighten me.’

‘The underwear was for you. A creepy little pervert’s keepsake. Something to take home and drool over later. But the hair was different. That was for them.’

For the first time, Dupas’s smile thins.

‘Every time they looked in the mirror, you were there again. In the room with them. Weeks later. Months, maybe. Still reaching out. Still pulling strings.’

Dupas says nothing.

‘Because that’s what you like to do, isn’t it, Tyrone? Pull strings. The puppet-master. It wasn’t enough to hurt them. You had to leave them with something they couldn’t hide. A reminder of you. That’s a rare form of cruelty.’

The cigar glows between Dupas’s teeth.

‘Careful, Mr Finnegan. You’re beginning to annoy me.’

Frank offers a half-smile. ‘I hear your minimum term is up soon. You could be a free man in twelve months.’

The door swings open and two security officers step inside.

‘Be a shame if anything jeopardised that.’

As Frank steps out, Dupas spits a stray strand of tobacco onto the table and wets his lips.

25

Zac closes his laptop as Dinkel emerges from his cabin dressed in a pair of baggy white shorts, white plimsolls from another era and a white vest.

‘Fuck me,’ Zac snorts. ‘Have you landed a new job as a 1970s PE teacher?’

‘What?’

‘Your get-up. You look like Mr Bean in an underwear advert.’

‘Oh, this is my tai chi gear. It’s a lovely evening, so I thought I’d go into that field over there and do my routine before dinner,’ he says, pointing out of the window. ‘Be one with nature.’

Zac glances at the field and the herd of cows munching lazily on grass.

‘Good idea. Take your time. No rush. Dinner won’t be ready for at least another hour or so.’

Dinkel makes his way to the steps. ‘What is for dinner, by the way?’

‘Steak, oven chips and peas. Fish fingers for you.’

‘You know damn well I don’t eat meat.’

‘Fish isn’t meat.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Listen, sunshine, I doubt those fish fingers have come within ten miles of any water. And if you don’t like it, you can bloody well cook for yourself. I’m sick of working my fingers to the bone looking after you.’

Dinkel sniffs. ‘Huh. Fine. I’ll make an exception tonight.’

As he climbs the steps, Zac calls out, ‘Oi, Dinkel. You have two long strands of white cotton hanging down.’

Dinkel hesitates. ‘Have I?’

Zac grins. ‘Oops, my mistake. They’re your legs.’

A muffled ‘Very funny’ comes from the deck.

Zac opens the fridge and pours a glass of white wine as he watches Dinkel trot up the towpath, climb a stile and disappear into the field.

‘Dopey git,’ he mutters.

He leans towards the window and gazes down the towpath to where Prisha’s boat is moored. Pulls out his phone and types a message.

Fancy a glass of Pinot Grigio and watch the sun go down?

His phone pings almost immediately.

Perfect. Come around to mine in five.

Zac saunters onto the deck with the wine bottle and takes in the magnificent scenery. It’s an extremely warm evening. He knows he’s working, but it’s beginning to feel like a holiday.

Apart from wet-nursing Dinkel.

Prisha exits the shower and slips into a short blush-pink satin robe, cool against her skin, then ties the belt loosely at her waist. She wraps a towel around her hair, turban-style, and pads through into the galley as Zac calls out from above.

‘Permission to come aboard, Captain?’

‘Permission granted.’

He clambers down the steps and places the bottle of Pinot Grigio on the side as Prisha collects two wine glasses.

‘Anything to report?’ she asks, pouring the drinks.

‘Not a thing. Quiet as the grave. You?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nah. Same.’

‘I suppose it’s like fishing. You wait and wait, and just when you think you’re never going to get a bite, bang, you hook something.’

‘I guess. Where’s Dinkel?’

‘Gone to do tai chi in that field over there. Get back to nature.’

‘How are you getting on with him?’

‘I haven’t killed him yet, so there is that. But there’s still plenty of time. Everything he does, I find annoying.’

Prisha chuckles as she takes a sip of wine. Zac follows suit.

‘It’s a hot one,’ she says.

‘Aye. Humid. Sticky.’

Silence hums.

Their eyes lock for a moment.

They take another sip of wine, then place their glasses down.

Prisha pulls the towel from her hair and tosses it to one side.

Her hair spills loose.

She leans against the counter, top lip glistening. The cord around her waist comes loose, and her dressing gown falls open slightly.

Zac reaches out. His fingertips brush the edge of the material and ease it gently aside.

Prisha’s breath quickens.

His fingertips slowly caress the skin around her nipple.

They edge closer.

Lips almost touching.

The air between them electric.

‘Yoo-hoo! Only me. Anyone down there?’

‘Fucking Dinkel,’ Zac snarls under his breath.

Prisha steps away and fastens her gown. ‘Down here, Dinks.’

He clatters down the steps, red in the face.

‘What is it?’ Zac snaps.

‘Bloody cows. They surrounded me. I thought they were going to attack.’

‘If only.’

Prisha steps down onto the towpath and makes her way towards Zac, who is sitting alone in a camp chair with his feet stretched out towards the canal. The heat of the day still clings to the gravel and the steel hulls of the moored boats, releasing slowly back into the evening air. Somewhere nearby, onions are frying, a radio plays softly through an open hatch and laughter drifts from a boat further along. Zac looks up as she approaches, lifts the bottle of wine and gives it a small waggle.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she says. ‘Just the one.’

She takes the empty chair beside him as he pours two glasses of wine.

‘I’m starting to feel guilty,’ he says.

Prisha is a little taken aback. ‘Oh. About what…?’

Zac cuts her off. ‘No, not that—well, yes, that as well. But I meant guilty about sitting here enjoying the day, the setting, the company.’ He flashes her a smile. ‘And all the while there’s a violent bastard out there probably plotting his next move.’

Prisha takes a sip of wine. ‘Yeah, me too. I’m not sure this undercover ploy was the right move by Frank.’

‘The chief constable and Superintendent Banks were behind it, from what Frank said.’

‘Well, we can only do what we’re asked to do, I guess. I’ve just sent my daily report and photographs through to Frank and copied you and Dinks in. Speaking of which, where is he?’

Zac nods sideways at the next boat along—Divorce Money.

Prisha’s brow creases. ‘With Maddie?’

‘Aye.’

‘What’s he doing in her boat?’

‘She invited him in to look at her scrapbooks.’

‘Very funny. No, seriously, what’s he doing?’

‘I am being serious. You know Maddie’s a bit of an armchair sleuth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, she has a dossier on the Dupas case and the disappearance of Dawn Haslop. She mentioned it to the little ferret worrier, he showed an interest and she invited him aboard, much to my delight. Let’s hope she keeps him there all night.’

‘I hope he doesn’t let the cat out of the bag.’

‘About the op?’

‘Yeah.’

Zac takes another sideways glance at the boat. ‘Nah. He may be as green as fresh cow sick, but he’s not that stupid. Is he?’

‘It only takes one slip of the tongue.’

Zac shrugs. ‘Nothing we can do about it now. Let’s just enjoy the peace and quiet while he’s gone.’

She smiles and relaxes back in her chair. ‘Zac?’

‘Yeah?’

‘About earlier…’

‘Ah. Right. My fault. I shouldn’t have, and I apologise.’

‘Don’t be daft. I was as much to blame as you. But we need to nip this in the bud before it goes too far.’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’

‘We’re not teenagers. We’re grown-ups. We work well together, we’re friends, and you’re married with kids. We can’t jeopardise any of that.’

‘I’m hearing you.’

‘So we draw a line. Drinks, meals, normal socialising—fine. Anything else, no. Deal?’

She holds out her hand. He takes it.

‘Deal.’

‘Good. I feel better now.’ She settles back and takes another sip of wine. ‘I’ll make a meal for you and Dinkel later this week, seeing as you’ve been doing all the cooking on your boat.’

‘Looking forward to it already.’

‘Right. Let’s change the subject.’

They relax in silence. The words have been said. The air cleared. A mutual agreement made.

Neither of them believes it.

26

Maddie closes the Dupas dossier with a thump and pushes it across the dinette table.

‘And that’s the Dupas case. Ghastly little man.’

Dinkel eyes the thick folder. ‘You’ve put some work into this.’

‘Too much, probably.’ She stands. ‘Tea?’

‘Chamomile, if you have it.’

Maddie turns and stares at him. ‘Huh. Chamomile. My favourite.’

She fills the kettle and clicks it on, then reaches beneath the table and pulls out another lever-arch file. This one is thinner, the cover protected by a clear plastic sleeve containing a photocopied photograph of a smiling young woman.

Dinkel leans closer. ‘Dawn Haslop?’

‘Yep.’

Maddie places the file in front of him and opens it. ‘This is the one that really interests me. Dupas is horrible, but at least we know what happened to the creep. Arrested, convicted, locked away. Dawn just… vanished.’

The kettle begins to protest behind her.

Dinkel studies the photograph. ‘Bonfire Night, 1995.’

‘Sunday, fifth of November. Thirty-two years old. She’d had an argument with her fiancé, Martin Powys, drove out towards Bank Newton and parked near the swing bridge.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Only one. Ruth Bixby. Local woman walking her dog.’ Maddie turns towards the galley, drops a chamomile teabag into a mug and pours in the boiling water. ‘She saw Dawn getting out of the car at around four o’clock in the afternoon. But she never actually saw her walk along the canal. It’s possible both women went in opposite directions.’

She carries the mug across, places it in front of Dinkel and takes a seat beside him before turning another page.

‘Police find the car after Dawn’s reported missing. Search starts quickly. Canal dredged the next day. Fields, woods, barns, outbuildings. Nothing. No handbag, no clothing, no body. Nothing to conclusively prove Dawn ever made it more than a few yards from her car.’

Dinkel blows across his tea. ‘Martin Powys?’

‘That’s where the police start. It’s always the partner, right?’

‘Statistically, it holds water.’

‘He had no alibi. Home alone. Relationship was rocky, so naturally they hone in on him. For a while they even wondered whether he might be the Towpath Prowler.’

‘But he wasn’t.’

‘No. His movements ruled him out of the other attacks. But they could never completely clear him over Dawn.’

‘Is he still alive?’

‘No. Seven years later, 2002, he threw himself off Valley Bridge, Scarborough.’

‘Guilt?’

Maddie shrugs. ‘Who knows? And if so, guilt for what? For harming Dawn, or for letting her rush out after a petty argument?’

She turns another page.

A map of Bank Newton is taped across two sheets of paper. Coloured dots and handwritten notes mark the swing bridge, locks, towpath and surrounding roads.

Dinkel traces a finger along the canal. ‘And you think Dupas killed her.’

Maddie sits back. ‘Yes. Timing, location, everything fits. But there’s always been one thing that bothered me.’ She turns another page and reveals several photocopied newspaper reports, sections highlighted in yellow. ‘The boat.’

Dinkel’s eyes settle on one headline in particular.

POLICE IN SEARCH FOR BLUE NARROWBOAT

‘Several people remembered seeing one moored somewhere around Bank Newton that afternoon,’ Maddie continues. ‘Nobody agreed on the name. A few witnesses said Otter. Another said Potter. Somebody else remembered something like Trotter.’

‘Memory is an unreliable mistress,’ Dinkel murmurs, repeating one of Frank’s many sayings.

‘It is, especially once newspapers start publishing details and people begin contaminating each other’s recollections. But they all remembered blue.’

Dinkel takes a sip of tea. ‘There are thousands of narrowboats and only a handful of basic colours. The chances of several people seeing a blue boat aren’t exactly astronomical.’

‘True. But several independent witnesses agreeing on the colour still counts for something.’

‘Something, yes. Incontrovertible, no.’

She glances at him and smiles.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Most people I show this to just nod and mumble about Dawn, the poor woman. You’re different.’

‘In what way?’

‘You’re a thinker. Analytical. I like that.’

Dinkel flushes slightly and takes another sip of chamomile to calm his rising heart rate.

Maddie refocuses and taps a photograph of a random narrowboat. ‘Did you see the Jake Merrick YouTube video I told you about?’

‘Yes. Watched it last night. I have to say, your little cameo at the end was the best part of the whole thing.’

A sweet smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘I didn’t much care for that Jake chap. Seems rather full of himself.’

‘He is. Anyway, back to my point.’

‘Your point being that if Dawn was abducted by Dupas, how did he mirage her away?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Forgive me for bringing this up—’

‘What?’

‘There’s a fundamental flaw in your hypothesis.’

‘Which is?’

‘Ruth Bixby couldn’t categorically say whether Dawn set off along the canal towpath. Which leaves two possibilities.’

‘Go on.’

‘She either walked along the canal or she didn’t. And if she didn’t, your theory is built upon a false assumption.’

Maddie stares at him, flicks her hair back and offers another smile.

‘I like this.’

‘What?’

‘This sparring. It’s like two equal minds playing chess.’ She studies him for a moment. ‘I’ll give you my number before you leave. Maybe we can keep in touch after your holiday. Call each other to discuss old murder investigations and unsolved crimes. Criminal pen pals.’

Dinkel hurriedly takes another large gulp of chamomile. ‘Ahem. Yes. That would be nice.’

Maddie shuffles an inch closer along the bench seat. ‘I accept what you’re saying, but hear me out.’

‘Okay.’

‘As you say, two possibilities. Let’s take them one at a time. Firstly, let’s say Dawn doesn’t set off along the towpath. Her car was parked near the swing bridge. Where did she go? Why leave her car behind? She was due to attend a family bonfire that night at her sister’s. Something she’d been looking forward to. That’s what led to the argument with her boyfriend. He didn’t want to go.’

Dinkel raises a finger in protest, but Maddie quickly shuts him down.

‘Let me finish.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Second possibility: Dupas accosts Dawn somewhere along the towpath. Maybe ten yards from the car, maybe a mile. If he kills or incapacitates her, how does he move her? Dawn was petite, so around seven to eight stone, give or take. Dupas was a big, strong man, but even so, slinging an eight stone woman over his shoulder and carrying her any distance along a towpath would be ludicrously high risk. And as much as I despise him, Dupas wasn’t an idiot. Far from it.’

‘Which leaves the boat.’

‘Exactly. The blue narrowboat. It’s already moored nearby. Below Bank Newton Locks, which is a set of six. He gets her aboard quickly and sets off, knowing it could be hours before anyone even realises she’s missing. Even at three or four miles an hour, he could be several miles away before police found the car and began searching in earnest.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Go on.’

‘Maybe he had a vehicle parked somewhere. Held a knife to her back and walked her to it. Or possibly he had an accomplice who arrived in a vehicle.’

‘There’s absolutely nothing anywhere suggesting an accomplice. And police seized Dupas’s car a week later, after his arrest. It had been parked in the garage at his bungalow in Skipton. Forensics found nothing to suggest Dawn had ever been inside it.’

Dinkel waggles his head from side to side, weighing up the argument.

‘Okay. I’m warming to your theory. Continue.’

Maddie performs another micro-shuffle closer. ‘I’m not discounting the possibility she never walked along the canal, but let’s assume she did.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Remember, initially they hadn’t yet caught Dupas. The Towpath Prowler was still at large.’ She turns the page to reveal another canal map spread across two sheets. ‘And this is where I think the police made an error of judgement.’

‘Which was?’

Maddie traces the canal with a fingernail. ‘They concentrated east from Bank Newton. Gargrave, Skipton, then further towards Leeds. I’ve seen old news footage of officers saying they believed whoever took Dawn was more likely to head that way. Larger population centres, more places to disappear amongst people, easier to hide in plain sight.’

Dinkel studies the map. ‘It makes sense.’

‘Have you heard of the principle of least effort?’

‘Yes. People naturally look for the path of least resistance. You may go to the local coffee shop because it’s closer even though a cafe a mile further away sells better or cheaper coffee.’

‘Spot on. And that’s the principle the police worked to with the boat theory. Why head west and struggle to get a boat up six locks when time is of the essence?’

Maddie taps at the map again. ‘There’s another principle you may have heard of: rational choice theory.’

‘Making logical decisions to maximise personal benefit.’

She gives him a playful slap on the arm. ‘Smarty-pants. We know Dupas is clever. I believe he made a rational choice to go up Bank Newton Locks, the harder route but with the maximum benefit for him—not getting caught.’

‘So you believe Dupas headed west, not east?’

‘Yes. It’s the only explanation.’

‘The police may have made the wrong assumption initially, but surely they expanded the search.’

‘They did. Just not for quite a while. A week after Dawn disappeared, they arrested Dupas in connection with the other rapes. He lived in Skipton.’

‘Ah, I see. So once they had him, it reinforced the belief that he’d headed east, back towards his home patch.’

‘Exactly. It wasn’t until about two weeks later they expanded the search west. And as you can see from the map, Bank Newton isn’t far from the Lancashire border.’

‘And once you cross that border, it’s Lancashire Constabulary, not North Yorkshire.’

Maddie studies him. ‘Could that have played a part?’

‘Possibly. There’d have been cooperation, of course, and Lancashire would have been informed from the start. But you’re still dealing with different command structures, different computer systems, and separate incident rooms. It wouldn’t have been a seamless flow of information. An enquiry delayed here, a sighting logged there, a location each side assumed the other had already checked.’

Maddie smiles at him again. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’

‘I merely have a questioning mind.’

‘Ever considered joining the police?’

He reddens. ‘Back to the case. Obviously, the police tried tracing the mystery boat.’

‘Yes. British Waterways records. Mooring records. Boat registrations. Anything with a similar name. They traced several possibilities, but none of them fitted.’

‘A boat of that size can’t simply disappear, especially on a canal. There’s a beginning and an end. Which leads me to believe the witnesses were wrong about the name of the boat.’

‘All of them? All coming up with a similar-sounding name—Otter, Trotter—and agreeing on the colour blue? I don’t think so.’

Dinkel turns several more pages. Lists of boat names. Photographs copied from old canal magazines. Handwritten notes in Maddie’s neat script.

‘Bloody hell. You really went down the rabbit hole.’

‘Occupational hazard when you live alone and have broadband.’

He gives her an approving nod. ‘It’s good work.’

Maddie pauses, surprised by his sincerity. ‘Thanks.’

‘How far could a narrowboat realistically travel between four o’clock and darkness?’

‘Not far. Two to three miles. Especially with locks. And it was November, so the nights draw in fast.’

‘Maybe he didn’t need to travel far,’ Dinkel murmurs.

‘And there’s nothing to stop a narrowboat travelling when it’s dark. They have powerful tunnel lights.’

Dinkel taps the western side of Bank Newton with one finger. ‘You’ve travelled this stretch. What’s out here?’

‘Farms. Private moorings. A marina. Boatyard. Old wharves. Barns. Fields.’

‘Places you could hide a boat?’

She sits forward. ‘Yes. But not for thirty years.’

Maddie inches closer as Dinkel scrutinises the map.

‘Hmm… you’re right. You can’t hide a boat for—’

He turns towards her and is surprised to find her face only inches from his.

He looks into her eyes, then kisses her.

Not for long. Not torrid. But considerably more than a peck.

Almost immediately he pulls back, flushing crimson. ‘I apologise. That was completely inappropriate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I should have asked. I completely misread the situation. I’m not sure there was consent. I hope I haven’t offended you.’

Maddie can see he’s already preparing to flee and rises from the bench seat.

‘Calm down, Dinkel. You haven’t offended me. It was one sweet, tender kiss.’

He continues fidgeting like a cat on a hot tin roof. ‘Right. Good. Because the last thing I wanted was to—’

She places a finger against his lips, stifling a chuckle. ‘There was consent. I wanted you to kiss me.’ Her expression changes. ‘Although I should probably apologise too. It was wrong of me. You’re gay. And on your honeymoon.’

Dinkel straightens with relief. ‘Good. Then the less said—’ He cocks his head. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I said—’

‘I heard what you said. Gay? Married? Who told you that?’

‘Prisha. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

Dinkel realises he’s trapped in a very tight corner. He can hardly reveal the truth.

‘Yes. Well. The thing is… it’s not a particularly happy marriage. I may have rushed into it.’

Maddie strokes his arm sympathetically. ‘Give it time. I’m sure things will work out. Zac seems like a lovely man.’

Dinkel twitches. ‘Ha! You don’t know the half of it.’

He heads for the steps.

‘Wait.’ Maddie quickly scribbles her mobile number onto a scrap of paper and hands it to him. ‘For the criminal pen-pal thing.’

Dinkel takes it. ‘Goodnight, Maddie.’

He leaps from the stern and spots Prisha and Zac sitting cosily in camp chairs outside Sleek Raven. He power-marches towards them.

Zac looks up. ‘Ah, here he comes. Britain’s answer to—’

‘You can bloody well shut up.’ Hands planted firmly on his hips, he eyeballs Prisha. ‘I’d like a private word with you. Now, if you don’t mind.’

He stomps off towards Mr Cheeky Chops.

Prisha and Zac exchange puzzled looks.

‘What’s got into him?’ she asks.

‘God knows,’ Zac replies with a smirk. ‘But that sounded like fighting talk.’

They follow Dinkel down into the galley.

‘What’s the matter, Dinks?’ Prisha asks.

His face resembles an angry beetroot. ‘You! Telling Maddie that Zac and me are gay and married.’

‘Oh.’ Prisha winces sheepishly. ‘I did mean to tell you. Must have slipped my mind.’

Zac stares at her, then waggles his little finger in his ear. ‘Did I hear that correctly? You told Maddie that me and him—’

‘Sorry. I thought it would be good cover for you.’

‘Are you completely stark-raving bonkers? If Dinkel was the last woman on Earth, I wouldn’t marry him.’

Dinkel bristles. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

Zac fronts him. ‘It means you are the most annoying, pernickety, irritating—’

Prisha quietly slips away up the steps. As she passes the porthole, the domestic disharmony onboard Mr Cheeky Chops is gathering momentum.

‘And those bloody fish fingers were inedible!’ Dinkel shouts. ‘They were burnt.’

‘They weren’t burnt. They were well done. Anyway, you can cook your own bloody meals from now on. I’m not your personal skivvy.’

‘And how come you get the double bed and I’m stuck in the bunks?’

‘Because I’m tall and you’re a wee short-arse.’

‘How very dare you! I am not a wee short-arse.’

‘Your arse is closer to the ground than a duck’s.’

‘Night, boys,’ Prisha whispers.

27

6:12 pm

Frida Larsson has decided that England is at its best in the evening.

She’s also concluded that the crown jewel of England is Yorkshire.

Not London.

London had been loud, expensive and full of people walking directly into her path while staring at their phones, earbuds in. Nine million people who may as well be automatons, controlled by some distant algorithm, owned by a handful of tech billionaires.

At twenty-four, she’s wise enough to know that not everyone in the capital is completely self-absorbed.

Still, it’s bliss to be two hundred miles north of it. A place where people actually speak to you—in the supermarket, on the street, in the pub, on the towpath. It’s true she doesn’t always understand what they’re saying. And sometimes she can tell they’re making a joke while keeping a completely straight face. But they’re kind, friendly and helpful. Like people back home in Sweden.

No, she definitely prefers this England. The England of Emily Bronte and Ted Hughes, whose words conjure atmosphere and longing and fire her imagination. Or painters as diverse as Hockney and Jackson, who somehow create the same yearning in entirely different ways. Hockney with his bold colours and idyllic simplicity. Jackson with his brooding moors and bruised skies.

To her this is the real England. Green fields. Stone walls. Sheep. Villages built from solid stone. And narrowboats moving so slowly along the canal that she could walk faster.

She pedals west at an easy pace, following the towpath out of Skipton.

Her touring bike is heavily loaded. Two red panniers over the rear wheel, a smaller pair at the front, sleeping bag strapped across the rack. Everything she needs for three weeks on the road.

She’s four hundred miles into her trip and still telephoning her parents in Stockholm every evening so they know she hasn’t been murdered by an English serial killer.

Her father’s running joke.

Not hers.

Tonight she has a bed booked at a youth hostel up in Malham. She’ll leave the canal at Gargrave and take the lane north through the dale. An hour, maybe less. Nothing fancy waiting for her at the other end—shared bathroom, bunk beds, probably somebody snoring like a chainsaw. And a substantial meal at the local pub.

Perfect.

The sun is still well above the fells, hours of daylight left to come. The heat of the day has mellowed to something kinder and the air is rich and heavy with the scents of summers. Insects hang in columns above the water.

A narrowboat glides towards her, a man at the tiller. He raises one hand.

Frida waves back enthusiastically. ‘Good evening.’

‘Lovely night for it.’

‘Beautiful.’

The boat floats past. Engine fades.

She smiles to herself and changes down a gear as she approaches the road bridge and the unwelcome return of traffic whizzing overhead.

‘Is this my turn off?’

Reaching the bridge, she slows and checks the phone clipped to her handlebars. Google Maps insists she continue straight ahead, although the towpath beyond the bridge looks like little more than a dirt track.

‘Okay, Mr Google,’ she murmurs. ‘You know best.’

She pushes on.

The canal bends away from the road and the countryside closes around her. Trees overhang the water. Cow parsley and nettles crowd the edge of the path.

A sweet smell drifts through the warm air.

Frida breathes it in.

Flowers?

No.

Something heavier. Pungent, scented smoke. And something else beneath it. A perfume, perhaps.

Men’s cologne.

She glances behind.

Nothing.

Rides on.

The chain refuses to mesh as gears begin to click.

‘Oh, come on.’

She looks down. The chain is jumping between sprockets.

Tries changing gear twice, then gives up and dismounts.

It takes some doing to get the bike up on its stand due to the weight of her luggage. She crouches beside the rear wheel and finds a small stick wedged in the cogs.

‘Damn it.’

She grabs it with her fingertips and works it back and forth. Nothing. Pulls at it. Pushes it.

‘Damn you!’

A bicycle bell rings out behind her.

Her bike is square in the middle of the path. Hot, tired and hungry, she curses in Swedish.

‘Helvete!’

She looks back along the towpath.

No cyclist.

Only the green tunnel of trees and the water, motionless.

She hauls the bike off its stand, walks it a few feet towards the vegetation to clear a path, wrestles it back up and kneels down again.

Behind her, gravel crunches.

She lifts a hand in apology without turning.

‘Sorry!’

It’s violent and swift—the thing that snaps tight around her throat.

She gasps.

A violent jerk drags her backwards. Her head strikes the saddle. The bike clatters to the ground.

An arm locks across her chest and she’s hauled towards the bushes.

Frida claws at the cord cutting into her neck, her feet flicking up a spray of dirt and gravel.

She kicks backwards.

Connects with a leg.

A grunt.

Male.

The pressure increases.

Tighter.

Biting.

She tries to scream. Nothing comes but a choking hiss.

Drives her heel back again and flails an arm out towards the fallen bike.

Misses.

Grabs something.

Twists violently and swings whatever it is hard over her shoulder.

A dull metallic thump. A growl of pain.

The ligature loosens. A fraction.

Air.

And with it, she recalls the night classes her father paid for before she left Stockholm.

Self-defence for women. How to escape a cord around the neck.

Don’t pull.

She jams the fingers of her left hand inside it.

A barrier.

It works. A little. Just enough to grab a lungful of air.

He’s still dragging her backwards deeper into the undergrowth.

She decides to help him. Another lesson from the classes.

Braces herself and launches backwards with all her weight.

For a split second they’re airborne.

They land with a thump.

A wheezing groan from her attacker.

She’s free.

Scrabbles on hands and knees towards the bike.

A hand catches the back of her T-shirt.

Fabric tears.

She screams.

‘Hjälp! Hjälp mig!’ Then in English. ‘Help me! Help me!’

Staggering, she finds her feet.

And runs.

Doesn’t look back.

Fifty yards.

A hundred.

Faster than she has ever run in her life.

The towpath curls away around a bend.

No one.

Not a single soul.

Her lungs burn. Her throat feels as though someone has poured acid down it.

Then—voices.

A man and a woman walking towards her, two small children wobbling ahead of them on bikes with stabilisers.

‘Help! Help me!’

The words tear out of her.

The man puts a hand out to stop the children. The woman is already swiping at her mobile screen, her face changing from enjoyment to fear.

Frida stumbles forward and the man catches her as she falls.

‘Nah then, love, what’s all the to-do about?’

28

7:45 pm

Blue-and-white police tape flaps in a soft breeze. It stretches from a hawthorn hedge to the upright of the road bridge, sealing off a hundred yards of canal bank. Two uniformed officers stand at either end, redirecting the occasional walker and cyclist back the way they came after questioning them. Beyond the cordon, the evening remains offensively beautiful, indifferent to the violence it witnessed.

Inside the barrier tape, two forensics officers in white suits move slowly through the scene. One crouches beside Frida’s touring bike, photographing the twisted handlebars, torn pannier and scuffed earth before placing numbered yellow markers beside anything worth a second look. The other works along the verge where the attacker tried to drag her from the path, parting nettles and flattened grass, careful where he places each boot.

No flashing lights, no television-style circus; just quiet voices, camera clicks, and the occasional crackle of a police radio.

Twenty yards beyond the tape, close to the bridge, Frank is standing with Frida Larsson, pale and shaken but upright, one hand repeatedly touching the angry red line across her throat. A few feet behind them Beth is talking with the man whose family she almost ran into, arms folded across his chest as he watches the forensic officers work.

Frank hates doing this. The poor lass looks shaken to the core. All she needs now is somewhere safe to rest her head.

‘Okay, Frida. I know you’ve already spoken to one of the uniformed officers, but in your own time, just go through it again for me.’

She points beyond the bridge.

‘I was cycling along, enjoying the evening. As I came to bridge, a stick became stuck in my gears. I got off and pushed bike a little, hoping it would come free. It didn’t. Then I hear bell.’

‘A bell?’

‘Yes. Bicycle bell. It ring once, maybe twice. I’m not sure. I look behind but cannot see anyone. It sort of echoes under bridge, so I don’t pay much attention. I push bike further to side of path, then stop, put bike on stand and kneel down to remove stick.’

Her expression changes as the memory catches up with her.

‘Take your time,’ Frank says softly.

She swallows and wrings her hands together.

‘And then noise of gravel. Close. Again, I don’t pay much attention. I hold hand up and say sorry as I might be in the way. Then suddenly something is tight around my neck. Choking me.’ She touches her throat. ‘I am in shock. But before my trip my father paid for me to go on course. Self-defence for women. We learned how to get out of… of…’

She falters, searching for the word, then raises both hands to her neck.

‘A chokehold?’ Frank suggests.

‘Yes. Chokehold. If someone puts rope around neck, you get fingers underneath so it cannot… erm… stop bloody supply to brain.’

‘Cut off the blood supply,’ Frank says.

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘There is struggle. We fall over bike. I grab bike pump on ground. It must have come loose. I pick it up and swing it behind me. I hit him with it.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No. He was behind me. I just swing bike pump backwards.’

‘Any idea where you hit him?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. But he makes cry of pain. Still he holds me, as dragging me away. I throw myself backward. We fall. Land heavily. I break free and run.’ She turns and looks at the man talking to Beth. ‘That’s when I run into Jason. His wife call police. Jason go look for attacker.’

Frank drags a hand down his cheek.

‘Right. First off, you did really well, Frida. You should be proud of yourself. Now, is there anything else you can remember? Anything at all. However small. It might help us catch him.’

Frida gazes across the canal.

‘Yes. Two things.’

‘Go on.’

‘When I get near bridge, I remember smell. Smoke. Sweet smoke. Maybe tobacco. And perfume. When we fall over bike, the same smell.’

‘Perfume?’

‘Yes. No. Er… men’s perfume. Cologne—yes?’

‘Aftershave.’

‘Yes. Yes. Aftershave. It smelled…’ She frowns, searching for the right words. ‘Heavy. Sweet. Citrus. Soapy. Like something my father would wear.’

Frank smiles reassuringly. ‘Okay, Frida. You’ve been a great help. That’ll do for tonight. Have you spoken to your parents?’

‘Yes. I speak with my father. He already on way to Stockholm Airport. He meet me Manchester tomorrow. I fly home. Four pm.’

‘I see. And where were you planning to stay tonight?’

‘Youth hostel in place called Malham.’

‘Oh aye, I know it.’ Frank considers things for a moment. ‘But I think somewhere nearer would be better tonight. I’m staying at a nice country pub not far from here. PC Renshaw, Beth, will organise a room for you and we’ll pick up the bill. She’ll stay in the room next door, just so you’ve got somebody nearby and feel safe.’

Relief washes across Frida’s face.

‘That is very kind. I feel much safer.’

‘Then tomorrow morning I’d like you to come into the station with Beth and give us a formal written statement. After that, we’ll have an officer drive you to Manchester Airport to meet up with your father. How does that sound?’

‘Very good. Thank you. Really.’

‘Go and wait in the police car. We won’t be much longer.’

Frank watches her trudge away, as Beth saunters over.

‘Her English is better than my Swedish,’ Frank reflects.

‘Do you know Swedish, sir?’

‘Two words. Abba and Volvo.’ He rubs at his chin. ‘Right. What’s Jason’s story?’

‘Jason Moran. Out walking with his wife and twin girls on bikes. Hears a couple of screams for help then Frida comes sprinting around the corner. Says she’s been attacked. His wife rings the police and Jason goes looking for the attacker.’

‘Any joy?’

‘No. He came across the bike and had a quick look around. Couldn’t see anyone and thought it best to get back to his family. Oh, he did see a cyclist way off in the distance heading towards Skipton.’

‘Description?’

‘No. But he didn’t think it could have been the attacker.’

‘Why?’

‘Too far away. He reckons he arrived at Frida’s bike within a minute. There’s no way a bike could have got that far away in the time.’

Frank surveys the scene. ‘Not a lot to go on. Different mode of attack. A ligature not a blow to the head. The common denominators are the sweet tobacco and aftershave smell, and the bell.’

‘And a cyclist,’ Beth says.

Frank eyes her patiently. ‘Neither of our women said a cyclist attacked them. We stick to the facts.’ He hesitates, becoming irritated. ‘Where the hell is Archer?’

Beth checks her phone again.

‘I’ve rung him twice and messaged him. Still no reply, boss.’

Frank grizzles. ‘Aye, and I know why. He’ll be half-pissed somewhere.’

‘To be fair, sir, he’d knocked off before the call came through.’

‘True. Doesn’t stop him ringing back though, does it?’

He wanders towards the cordon and peers at the bicycle pump, already sealed inside a clear evidence bag.

‘Not much weight in that. If she clonked him on the skull, it probably wouldn’t do much more than shock him. Mind you, if she caught him across the bridge of the nose, that’s another matter.’

‘We still don’t have an age, height, build or even ethnicity,’ Beth says.

‘No, we don’t.’ Frank stares along the empty towpath. ‘This guy’s good. In a bad way.’

Beth’s phone rings.

Frank scowls. ‘If that’s Archer, tell him to get his arse down here pronto—assuming the bugger’s sober. If he isn’t, tell him I want him at the station at seven sharp tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Beth pulls out her phone and checks the screen. ‘Oh. It’s Sophie Catterall.’

Frank grimaces. ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

Beth answers. ‘Hi, Sophie. Everything all right? Ah, good. I see. No, I can talk. Yes, I remember… Right. Okay… Hmm… I see. No, don’t apologise. I appreciate you ringing. It could be useful… You’re back home with your mam and dad now? Ah, good. Okay. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. And thanks again. Bye.’

She ends the call.

Frank rocks gently back and forth on his heels.

‘Is she okay?’

Beth stares at the handset for a moment, then rubs at her forehead.

‘What? Yes. She’s out of hospital and staying with her parents.’

‘Good. So what did she have to say?’

Beth slips the phone into her pocket and looks at him. ‘Remember yesterday when I questioned her again?’

‘Yes. She mentioned the sweet pipe smoke smell, same as Frida.’

‘Yeah. Well, as I was leaving, she said there was something else. Something she thought she could remember. But then it went.’

‘And?’

‘It’s just come back.’

Frank waits. ‘Go on.’

‘When the man knelt beside her and pulled at her hair, she smelled something.’

‘Don’t tell me. Aftershave.’

‘Yes. And she knows what it was. Her first job after leaving school was in a pharmacy. They sold perfume and aftershave.’

Frank’s expression changes. ‘I know where this is going. Kouros?’

Beth stares at him. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘Same aftershave Tyrone Dupas wore when he attacked.’ Frank rubs slowly at the back of his neck. ‘This bastard is playing games with us. All we need to do now is track down every man within a thirty-mile radius who wears bloody Kouros.’ He gives her a dry smile but notices her expression change. ‘It was a joke, Beth.’

Beth says nothing. Her face darkens.

The smile disappears from Frank’s face. ‘Beth, what is it?’

She swallows. ‘Sophie.’

‘What about her?’

‘Yesterday in the hospital, DS Archer brought her a coffee.’

‘I remember.’

‘That’s what triggered her memory of the aftershave.’

‘The coffee?’

‘No. DS Archer wears Kouros.’

29

Frank lies back against the headboard and yawns as Meera finishes telling him about a blocked catheter, an irate consultant and a confused eighty-six-year-old man who spent half the night convinced he was staying at the Ritz.

‘The trials and tribulations of a hospice night nurse,’ he says.

‘And how was your day, love?’

‘Oh, you know. Rapists, psychopaths, attempted strangulation. The usual.’

‘That’s nice. Are you eating properly?’

Frank glances at the empty plate on the bedside table. Steak and ale pie, chips, mushy peas and enough gravy to float a narrowboat.

‘Like an Olympic athlete.’

‘I dread to think. When are you home?’

‘Not sure. If not Saturday, then definitely Sunday. I need a few hours at the allotment. My tomatoes will need a good drink, and my garlic’s ready for pulling.’

‘You’re a smooth talker, Frank Finnegan.’

‘And of course I’d like to spend some time with the love of my life.’

‘Nice backtrack.’

‘Once I’ve finished at the allotment, I plan on taking you out for Sunday dinner. I was thinking the Homestead Kitchen at Goathland. I’ve heard a lot of good things about it. Then back home for some afternoon delight.’

Meera laughs. ‘Ha. Dream on, old man. Lunch sounds great. And an afternoon snooze even better. Right, I’ll let you go. Miss you, Frank.’

‘Aye, miss you too, love. Night.’

He ends the call, places the phone on the bedside table and immediately reaches for his laptop.

‘No rest for the wicked.’

Two minutes later, he’s sitting at the small desk beside the window, glasses perched on the end of his nose, waiting for the Teams call to connect. Prisha appears first, sitting in the galley of Sleek Raven with a mug in front of her. Zac joins seconds later from Mr Cheeky Chops.

‘Evening, happy campers.’

‘Evening, Frank,’ Prisha says.

Zac lifts a bottle of beer towards the camera. ‘You look knackered, Frank.’

‘If you’d had my day, you’d look knackered. Where’s Dinkel?’

‘Hopefully asleep,’ Zac replies. ‘If I’m lucky, permanently.’

Frank grunts. ‘You’ve both read the preliminary report I sent through?’

They nod.

‘Good. Saves me going through the whole bloody thing again. Swedish cyclist, Frida Larsson, attacked west of Skipton, near the A59 road bridge over the canal. Approximate time—6:15 pm. Surprise attack from behind. Ligature round the neck. Bicycle bell beforehand. She fought him off and ran into a family coming the other way.’

Prisha leans towards the screen. ‘Same MO as Dupas? Two-knotted ligature?’

‘Don’t know. It wasn’t found at the scene. But the important bit is the smell. Strong aftershave, and pipe or cigar smoke beforehand. And Sophie Catterall rang Beth tonight. She remembered an aftershave smell from her assault, and she’s confident enough to put a name to it. Kouros.’

Prisha’s expression tightens. ‘Same as what Dupas wore.’

‘Aye.’

‘So our bloke’s not merely copying the trophies anymore,’ Zac says. ‘He’s copying the whole act.’

‘Looks that way. Now, the thing I didn’t put in the report is DS Archer. We tried calling him to get him down to the scene. No reply. He’s overly fond of the booze, so I assumed he was getting happily pissed somewhere in a nice sunny beer garden.’

‘Who could blame him?’ Zac says. ‘The weather’s amazing.’

‘Aye, but that’s not my point. Archer wears Kouros.’

Prisha slowly nods. ‘Ah. An unfortunate confluence of events—or something more sinister.’

‘Correct. On one hand, he’d knocked off for the day. He’s under no obligation to sit staring at his phone waiting for me to ring. And he just happens to wear the same aftershave as our perpetrator.’

‘But on the other hand,’ Prisha says, ‘him being uncontactable not long after the attack isn’t exactly helpful.’

Zac takes a swig of beer. ‘What time did Archer finish work?’

‘Five-thirty. Which gave him plenty of time to get to the canal.’

‘Tricky one, Frank. Did you bring him in for questioning?’

Frank winces. ‘On what grounds? The fact a bloke didn’t answer his phone when he was off duty, and happens to wear the same aftershave as a serial rapist from thirty years ago? I haul a serving detective in for a voluntary interview under caution on that, and I’d better have something more substantial than a bottle of Kouros. The Police Federation would be all over it, Professional Standards would be up in arms, and Archer would quite rightly claim I’d besmirched his reputation.’

‘Aye,’ Zac says. ‘A veritable shitshow.’

‘Indeed.’ Frank huffs and leans back in his chair. ‘But I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’m not comfortable keeping him on this investigation while that question is hanging over him. If he is involved, and I leave him on the team, giving him access to everything we know… well, you can imagine how that could end.’

‘What’s your gut instinct, Frank?’ Prisha asks. ‘You’ve known him a while, haven’t you?’

‘Aye. Our paths have crossed over the years. He used to be a decent copper, but these days he’s tired, jaded, cynical and stressed.’

Zac nods. ‘That accounts for about ninety-five per cent of the force, Frank.’

‘And quite a few rapists and murderers,’ Prisha adds. ‘We sometimes think of these people as archetypal Bond villains, laughing and rubbing their hands together in glee. Most of them are fucked-up, confused individuals wrestling with their own demons and the consequences of what they do.’

Zac leans forward. ‘You’re not going soft on us, are you, Prisha?’

‘No. I’m just saying, imagine committing a serious crime then going back to work the following morning. The stress alone must be unbearable. I have a panic attack if I go five miles an hour over the speed limit.’

‘So what’s the plan?’ Zac asks.

‘Archer joined the force after 2003, so his DNA profile will be on the Contamination Elimination Database. I’m hoping by Monday the lab will have a usable male profile from the seminal material recovered from Sophie. Once that profile is loaded, it’ll be automatically checked against the CED.’

Prisha nods. ‘And if Archer comes up?’

‘Technically, it’ll flag as a possible contamination event first. But considering where that sample came from, and the fact Archer had no legitimate reason to be anywhere near it, we’d very quickly be having a different conversation.’

‘And until then?’

‘I’ve spoken to Inspector Bell. Archer goes back to his normal caseload tomorrow. He was snowed under before all this kicked off, so there’s nothing unusual about it. Which means I need another pair of hands at Skipton.’ Frank pauses. ‘I’m pulling Dinkel from the undercover op. Tell him to be at the station seven sharp tomorrow morning.’

Zac nearly spits out his beer. ‘Yeesss!’ He punches the air. ‘Not before time, Frank. I swear to God, I was this close to killing him.’

A disembodied voice calls from somewhere beyond the screen. ‘Zac! Can you please keep the noise down? I’m trying to meditate.’

Zac holds out his arms. ‘See what I mean?’

Frank chuckles. ‘Right. What do you two have for me?’

Prisha takes a sip from her mug. ‘I went for a run this morning. Noticed a few things. Uploaded everything to the shared folder.’

‘I’ve seen the notes. Give me the edited highlights.’

‘Three men caught my attention. First, older bloke standing on a bridge. Late fifties, early sixties, stocky. Watching me after I passed underneath.’

‘Photograph?’

‘No. It would have been too obvious.’

‘Next.’

‘Young bloke. Tall, heavy-set, long black hair, dressed head-to-toe in black. Tesco carrier bag. Maddie’s seen him around several times.’

Zac interrupts. ‘I’ve seen him a few times as well. He’s an odd bugger. Doesn’t strike me as dangerous, though.’

Frank raises an eyebrow. ‘Based on?’

‘Instinct.’

‘Ah. That famous scientific discipline.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Prisha continues. ‘Then Daryl Cooper. Canal and River Trust volunteer. Lives at the old lock keeper’s cottage at Bank Newton. I found his electric bike on the towpath, then heard somebody moving around in the undergrowth. Went in and found him poking about.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Claims he was pulling Himalayan balsam.’

‘Was he?’

‘Technically, yes. Although he hadn’t pulled much of it. He looked more like a bloke searching for something.’

Frank rubs his chin. ‘Where?’

‘Close to where Sophie was attacked. Not the precise location, but near enough to make me curious. I dropped a pin on Google Maps and photographed anything lying around. Litter mostly.’

‘And you sent all that through?’

‘About twenty photographs.’

Frank clicks into another folder. ‘Okay. Got them.’

Zac leans towards his camera. ‘Nothing much from my end. Me and Dinkel have been moving around, talking to boaters, helping at locks, generally looking like a pair of newlywed holidaying homosexuals.’

‘You and Dinkel?’

‘Apparently.’

Prisha grins.

‘Long story,’ Zac says.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Frank replies. ‘Anything useful?’

‘Maddie knows everybody and everybody knows Maddie. She’s probably more useful than half the intelligence databases we have access to. Max King is everywhere because of the supply boat. Daryl’s well known. Black-haired lad has been seen around. Nobody’s put a name to him yet.’

‘Good. Keep talking, keep listening. Don’t start interrogating people.’ Frank looks at both screens. ‘Anything else?’

They both shake their heads.

‘Right. Get some sleep. Same drill tomorrow. And keep feeding everything through, even if it seems trivial. I don’t want the left hand not knowing what the right hand’s doing. There needs to be communication to help join the dots.’

‘Night, Frank.’

‘Night.’

The screens disappear.

Frank closes Teams, but not the laptop. He should go to bed. Instead, he opens the folder Prisha uploaded that morning and begins flicking through the photographs.

Flattened Coke tin. McDonald’s wrapper. Crisp packet. Condom wrapper. Broken child’s whirligig. Bottle top. Blue string.

He clicks again.

Stops.

Zooms in.

Half-hidden amongst the crushed grass and dead leaves is the blackened stub of a cigar.

He stares at it.

Then, almost unconsciously, his gaze drifts towards his jacket hanging over the back of the chair. He can still smell the Montecristo smoke from Bracken Moor.

As well as the aftershave, Sophie and Frida mentioned a smell of tobacco. Sweet. Fragrant. Sophie thought it was from a pipe. But cigar smoke can smell the same.

‘Hmm.’

He mulls it over. The stub was a good four hundred yards from where Sophie was attacked, on a public towpath used by half of Craven. It could be a week old. A month. A year. Even if the lab teased a profile from it, all it would prove is that somebody once smoked a cigar beside the canal. Circumstantial. Not worth the paperwork.

And yet.

He picks up his phone and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the name he wants.

Charlene Marsden.

30

Charlene looks at her phone and groans before accepting the call.

‘Frank, I’m very fond of you but it’s after ten. And I’m off duty. And more importantly I’m tucked up in bed and was about to watch a re-run of All Creatures Great and Small.’

‘And a good evening to you too, Charlene. Apologies for the intrusion. This won’t take long.’

Charlene hits the pause button for the TV and sits up in bed.

‘Go on then, what is it?’

‘I want to pick your brains.’

‘You’ll need a very small implement after the week I’ve had.’

‘You remember that offender profiling malarkey you used to do years ago?’

A sigh. ‘Behavioural investigative advice.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘We stopped calling it offender profiling because detectives like you expected us to stare at a photograph of a footprint and tell you the offender wet the bed until he was eleven and was taken off the breast too early. What do you want?’

‘Bit of a curly one.’

He gives her the abbreviated version.

Dupas. The cigar. Sophie. The stolen underwear. The fringe. The bicycle bell. Sweet tobacco smoke. Kouros. Then Frida Larsson, another bell, another attack, and the smell of aftershave.

Charlene says nothing for several seconds.

‘Well?’ Frank asks. ‘What sort of man are we dealing with, in your opinion?’

‘Either he’s extraordinarily stupid or he’s doing it deliberately. And I doubt he’s stupid.’

‘Why?’

‘Because stupid offenders leave things that identify them. This man is leaving things that identify Dupas.’

‘Go on.’

‘Think about it. Kouros. The hair. Underwear. The ligature. Now cigar smoke. None of it gives you his name, address, or car registration number. It gives you Tyrone Dupas.’

Frank sits a little straighter. ‘But he knows that we know it isn’t Dupas.’

‘And that’s part of his game. He’s playing with you, Frank.’

‘And the bicycle bell?’

‘Functional initially. Makes a woman move aside or turn towards the sound. But he’s used it more than once now, so it’s becoming part of his ritual.’

‘And what’s driving him: a warped sexual urge, or is he a fruit loop with a twisted sense of gamesmanship?’

‘Possibly both. But more than that he wants recognition. This isn’t straightforward imitation. He’s communicating with you—not personally, but with the police. With authority.’

‘Through attacking women.’

‘Unfortunately.’

Frank gazes out through the dark hotel window. ‘Give me your best guess at the man.’

‘Working hypothesis, Frank. Not gospel.’

‘I know.’

‘Organised. Patient. Probably reasonably intelligent, possibly very intelligent. He knows Dupas in extraordinary detail and has somehow obtained information that wasn’t public. He’s comfortable planning ahead but adaptable when things go wrong. Sophie wasn’t attacked exactly like Dupas’s victims. So he’s not following an exact formula.’

‘He’s improvising.’

‘Exactly. And there may be another element.’

‘Which is?’

‘Underachievement.’

Frank frowns. ‘Right, you’re going to have to explain that one to me.’

‘People who feel confident in themselves don’t need to prove they’re clever. This man does. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a gap between how intelligent he believes himself to be and what he’s actually achieved. Employment below his ability. Poor academic record despite being bright. Difficulty with authority. Failed ambitions. That sort of thing.’

‘A chip on his shoulder.’

‘Possibly the size of Ilkley Moor.’

Frank smiles. ‘Socially?’

‘I wouldn’t assume some hermit living in his mother’s cellar, but don’t rule it out. He may function perfectly well. Work. Friends. Relationships. But I’d expect a degree of isolation underneath it. He probably finds most people dull. Prefers his own company.’

‘And why the fixation with Dupas?’

‘Initially to create an upsurge in fear and rumour. He’d enjoy sitting back and watching that play out. But also hero worship. Dupas raped women, took trophies, terrorised an entire district—then got caught. Your man knows that. If he’s as competitive as I suspect, simply recreating Dupas won’t be enough.’

Frank feels a knot in his stomach. ‘And what is enough?’

‘Being better.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Dupas kept offending until you caught him. This man has learned from that mistake. He could be building towards something bigger, then simply stop.’

‘Murder?’

A pause. ‘I’d prepare yourself for that possibility.’

Frank says nothing.

‘And if he does kill,’ Charlene continues, ‘don’t expect him to leave you a body neatly beside the towpath. Not if the point is to demonstrate superiority.’

Frank looks towards the laptop screen, where the map of the canal is still open.

‘He’ll make her disappear. Like Dawn Haslop disappeared.’

‘Yes, and unlike Dupas he doesn’t intend to be caught. He wants to prove he’s smarter than Tyrone Dupas—and you.’

‘These two attacks have happened in relatively quick succession. How long before he strikes again?’

‘Hard to say. He didn’t achieve his objective tonight. He’ll be smarting, and sexually frustrated. A loss of face. He slipped up. And in my experience that creates an even greater desire to regain control. I’d say he’ll strike again. Very soon. It could even be tonight.’

31

Friday 26th June—6:55 am

The makeshift incident room is barely large enough to accommodate three desks, a whiteboard and the accumulated detritus of a fast-moving investigation. Empty coffee cups, folders, and printouts have already begun colonising every available surface.

DC Dinkel, however, looks remarkably content.

Laptop open, spreadsheets arranged across two screens, notebook squared neatly beside the keyboard. After two days on a narrowboat, he has rediscovered unlimited electricity, reliable Wi-Fi and a chair that doesn’t move beneath him.

Not that he’d hated the canal. Far from it. The scenery had been beautiful, the slower pace surprisingly agreeable, and then there was Maddie.

Zac had been the only drawback.

A marriage made in hell—so to speak.

Frank drops another folder onto the desk. ‘Just to reiterate: you’re office-bound for the moment, Dinkel. You’ve been seen on a narrowboat as an innocent holidaymaker. Last thing I need is you chatting with a uniformed officer down by the canal and blowing Prisha and Zac’s cover.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘PC Beth Renshaw is currently taking Frida’s formal statement.’

‘How is Frida?’

‘Shaken. Wants to go home to Sweden. Can’t blame her. Soon as Beth’s finished, we’ll get Frida over to Manchester Airport to meet up with her father.’

Dinkel nods, then hesitates. ‘Sir, there’s something else.’

Frank recognises the tone. ‘Go on.’

‘You’re aware of Maddie Lister?’

‘Aye. Name keeps cropping up like a bad penny. Lives on a narrowboat. Had underwear stolen and somebody looking through her window. What about her?’

‘Well, I sort of made friends with her.’

‘Good for you, lad. But I want your mind focussed on this investigation, not your overactive libido. I’m not too old to remember what it was like at your age.’

Dinkel’s cheeks flush. ‘No. That’s not what I’m trying to say.’

Frank stares down at him impatiently. ‘Okay. Get it off your chest, lad. But be quick about it.’

‘Maddie showed me her files last night.’

‘Oh, aye. That old chestnut.’

‘On Dupas and Dawn Haslop. She has a theory about the blue narrowboat. That Dupas went west after abducting Dawn, not east towards Skipton. She thinks the original investigation concentrated too heavily in the wrong direction.’

Frank’s expression hardens slightly. ‘Careful, lad. People have been picking holes in that investigation for thirty years. Most of them weren’t there.’

‘I know, sir. And I’m not suggesting anyone was incompetent. But there are a couple of interesting points. The least-effort assumption, the Lancashire boundary, the delay before the search properly expanded west—’

Frank raises a hand. ‘Dinkel.’

‘Sir?’

‘Our priority is the man attacking women now. Sophie Catterall. Frida Larsson. Whatever happened to Dawn matters, but right now we need to stop this bastard striking again. And another thing, you know my thoughts on these wannabe Miss Marples. Most of them are all wind and piss, trying to squeeze a few quid out of other people’s misery.’

‘Until yesterday, I’d have agreed with you, sir. But Maddie’s different. She genuinely cares. And she’s thorough. She has dossiers, and—’

‘Whatever she’s gathered, she’s gathered from old newspaper reports, books, documentaries, and other social media crusaders. I can assure you the official police file on Dawn Haslop will be ten times the size. It’ll contain things the public have no idea about, and never will.’

‘Of course. Sorry, sir.’

Frank sees his disappointment and relents. ‘Sorry, lad. Didn’t mean to shoot you down. I appreciate your enthusiasm for a case that’s been cold for thirty years. And as it happens, Dawn Haslop’s disappearance is one of those cases that have crept into my dreams and haunted me over the years.’ He pauses. ‘If you think there’s something in it, I’ll grant you access to the old files. But in your own time. Understood?’

Dinkel brightens. ‘Yes, sir.’

Frank gives him a faint, fatherly smile. ‘Actually, put the hours down as overtime. Just make sure you assign them to this investigation and not the disappearance of Dawn Haslop, otherwise Superintendent Banks will be all over me like the clap.’

Dinkel beams. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And this stays between me and thee. Got it?’

‘Sir.’

The door opens.

Andy Archer shuffles in wearing yesterday’s expression, yesterday’s shirt, and definitely yesterday’s body odour. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin is grey beneath the stubble, and the smell of minty mouthwash and aftershave does little to conceal the stale fug of alcohol.

‘Morning, boss.’

Frank checks the wall clock. Seven on the dot.

‘Where were you last night, Andy?’

The question catches Archer halfway towards his desk.

‘Sorry?’

Frank studies his face, searching for the slightest sign of a bruise or abrasion but draws a blank.

‘Beth tried ringing you. Twice.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Archer pats his jacket pockets. ‘I put my phone on airplane mode yesterday afternoon. I was focussing on the case and didn’t want interruptions. Meant to switch it back on afterwards and forgot.’

‘For the whole evening?’

He winces apologetically. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘You still haven’t told me where you were.’

‘I, erm… went to The Woolly Sheep for a couple straight after work.’

‘What time?’

Archer thinks. ‘About quarter past six.’

‘You knocked off at five-thirty.’

‘I grabbed a takeaway kebab beforehand. Look, what’s this about, Frank?’

‘I was worried about you not answering your phone, that’s all.’

Archer glances towards Dinkel. ‘Who’s he?’

‘This is DC Dinkel. One of my trusted officers from Whitby. He’s good with analytics.’

Dinkel briefly looks up from his laptop and waves. ‘Morning.’

Archer is about to sit down. ‘Right, any updates overnight I should be aware of?’

‘I’m taking you off the investigation, Andy.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Two reasons. I have Dinkel here now. And you have enough on your plate. As you explained before, you were already snowed under. I discussed it with Inspector Bell, and you were right. You can’t be flitting from one case to the next. Grab your stuff and return to your own office.’

Archer glares at him. ‘Is this because I like a drink after work?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘I just explained.’

‘That wasn’t an explanation. It was a reprimand.’

‘Grab your stuff.’

‘Fine.’

Archer pulls the cord from his laptop, picks it up and heads towards the door.

Frank follows him. ‘Have you heard what happened last evening?’

‘No. What?’

‘Another attack. Swedish tourist. West of Skipton near the A59 road bridge.’

‘Was she raped?’

‘No.’

‘Did she see him?’

Frank’s voice cools. ‘Don’t worry about that, Andy. You’re not on the case anymore.’

Archer recoils slightly. ‘Right. Okay.’

For several seconds neither man speaks.

Eventually Archer gives a humourless little shrug. ‘Right, I’d better get back to it.’

Frank fixes him with a steady stare. ‘Aye. You better. And you might want to keep your phone switched on from now on.’

A faint flush creeps into Archer’s cheeks. ‘Yeah. Point taken.’

Frank pulls open the door. ‘Been meaning to ask, Andy. It’s my birthday coming up and the missus keeps asking what I want as a present.’ He chuckles softly to himself as he stares at the floor. ‘To be honest, what the hell does a man of my age want or need? But, you know women. They like these rituals. Anyway, I’m quite taken with your aftershave. What is it, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Archer’s puzzled. ‘Kouros.’

Frank smiles. ‘Kouros. Right. I’ll let her know.’

The door closes.

Dinkel waits a few seconds before poking his head above the safety of his laptop.

‘That was rather frosty.’

‘Was it?’

‘I’d say.’

Frank wanders over to the whiteboard and writes beneath Frida Larsson’s name:

ATTACK — APPROX. 6:15 PM

He places the marker pen down. ‘Woolly Sheep—6:15 pm. What a coincidence. Dinkel?’

‘Sir?’

‘Find out what CCTV covers The Woolly Sheep. Outside, and nearby streets.’

Dinkel’s face darkens. ‘You don’t suspect—’

‘Just do it. Discreetly.’

‘Sir.’

Dinkel’s fingers are already hammering at the keyboard.

32

11:59 am

Frank saunters past the busy market stalls set up on the cobbled setts of Skipton High Street. The usual offerings are on display: fresh fruit and vegetables, cheese and deli produce, socks and underpants, tracksuits, and T-shirts, handbags, bangles, and jewellery. The smell of fried onions drifting from a hot-dog stand momentarily distracts him from his mission.

‘Maybe later,’ he mutters to himself.

He turns right onto Sheep Street and away from the swarm of shoppers and day-trippers. A short two-minute stroll and he’s standing outside The Woolly Sheep, the aroma of ale enveloping him like a warm, familiar blanket. It’s a small, old-fashioned pub, the type he likes.

He steps inside and the light drops away. Dark beams cross a low ceiling, brewery mirrors crowd the walls and the air smells of beer, polish, and something savoury from the kitchen. Six handpumps line the dark wooden bar.

He takes a look around. It’s unusually quiet for midday. One elderly man sits alone in a corner, staring at a full pint as though it’s an alien creation from another universe.

He saunters up to the bar, where a middle-aged woman is stacking glasses on the back shelf. She spots him in the mirror and spins around.

‘Morning, love. What can I get you?’

‘Half a pint of bitter shandy, please.’

She takes down a glass as Frank looks again at the old man in the corner, still staring at his untouched pint.

‘Is he going to drink that thing or have it framed?’

The woman grins. ‘That’s Tight Pete. Comes in every day and orders a pint of Taylor’s. Stares at it for ten minutes, then makes it last a good hour before he buggers off.’

Frank chuckles. ‘Old lad needs a hobby. What do I owe you?’

‘Two-sixty, please.’

Frank hands her a fiver and collects his change. ‘Were you working here last night?’

‘Yes. Why? Did you leave something behind?’

Frank pulls out his warrant card. ‘DCI Finnegan. CID.’ He opens his phone, swipes, and hands it to the barmaid. ‘Recognise this man?’

She nods. ‘I know the face. He comes in occasionally. Has a couple of pints, sometimes a whisky. Sits in the corner. Quiet type. Doesn’t stay long. Why? Is he in trouble?’

‘Was he in last night?’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘What time?’

The woman pulls a face and looks heavenwards. ‘Ooh, let me think. I’d say he came in about quarter to seven.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’ She nods towards the clock on the opposite wall.

‘Can you describe his state? His demeanour?’

A shrug. ‘Usual. Always looks a bit cheesed off with life. Ordered his pint and went and sat down.’

‘Not flustered, nervous, sweaty?’

‘A little hot and bothered but in this heat everyone’s hot and bothered.’

‘And you’re certain it was quarter to seven?’

‘Positive. Give or take a couple of minutes either side.’

‘Thanks.’

It’s not what Frank wanted to hear.

33

Prisha stacks the last plate on the draining rack and pulls the plug, watching the suds spiral away with a satisfaction out of all proportion to the job. She’s taken to living on a narrowboat like a duck to water. The first few days were trying. The cramped conditions, bumping into things, having to make sure breakables were stacked safely away. But once she’d found a rhythm her attitude changed. She’s realised that all the things she deemed so essential back at home are really just clutter. The ornaments, two sets of crockery, a cupboard full of bedsheets and blankets. Two wardrobes stuffed with clothes, most of which she hasn’t worn for years. A bathroom cabinet brimming with shampoos, conditioners, cleansing products, and so many miracle face balms she could open her own pharmacy.

A minimalist life has its merits.

There is one thing she has missed, though—entertainment. Going out to see a band. A trip to the cinema. The quiet drink in a beer garden after work. A meal out with friends. It can get lonely when for most of the day the only company you have is yourself.

The Skipton Canal Basin, where she’s moored, is a particularly busy spot. Pubs, cafes, a chandlery, and the hire-boat business, Pennine Cruisers. She has to keep reminding herself that she’s working. This is not a holiday. Still, if she’s undercover as a holidaymaker she has to act the part.

Outside, the towpath hums with people making the most of the warm afternoon. The British and their sunshine; always a novelty, always embraced.

She dries her hands on the tea towel and considers the question of food. There’s half a bag of salad wilting in the fridge, three mushy tomatoes, and a tin of half-eaten tuna which has turned an unpalatable grey. What she wants is a proper meal; a table, a menu, a glass of cold white wine and someone else to do the washing up. A pub in town does a fish pie she’s been thinking about for two days. The problem is company. She can hardly keep turning up everywhere with Zac; two boaters travelling alone who somehow eat every meal together get noticed, and noticed is the one thing they can’t afford.

Movement further along the canal catches her eye. Max King’s boat, King Cut Provisions, slides in alongside a moored narrowboat fifty yards down, engine barely turning over. An older couple emerge from the stern and there’s a bit of pantomime—pointing, laughing, the man patting his pockets. Max steps across onto their gunwale with a gas bottle balanced on one shoulder as though it’s a bag of sugar, swings it down into their well deck, and stands chatting while the woman disappears inside and comes back with a clutch of five-pound notes.

Prisha watches Max longer than she needs to.

Not her usual type, but he’s pleasant enough company. Knows everybody, easy-going. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing in the world, asking if he fancied a bite to eat. It would also, she reminds herself, be work. Max has local knowledge. Ears on the towpath. She files the thought under operational and knows perfectly well it isn’t entirely true.

She finishes the drying up, hangs the towel over the oven rail, and glances out of the window again as a figure comes into view.

It’s the youngish man she saw sitting on the towpath. Black jeans, black boots, black Metallica T-shirt, in this heat. Pale doughy complexion, long black hair flopping over his face, the ever-present Tesco carrier bag in his hand. He’s a big unit, over six foot. Not fat, but heavy-set. At least fifteen stone. It’s the third or fourth time she’s noticed him now.

He’s standing very still, looking at the ducks. Pulls something from the plastic bag and tosses it into the water.

Bread.

Her gaze drifts back along the towpath that heads to the castle.

Another man. Older. Mid-fifties. Stocky. Powerful. Greying hair. A five o’clock shadow. A pair of small binoculars dangling from his neck. And something else, an expression like a slab of cold granite.

‘You,’ she murmurs.

It’s the man she clocked on the bridge with binoculars. She’d marked him as a birdwatcher. But he’s not watching birds now. He’s watching the lad in black, and he’s not moving, and there’s something in the set of him she doesn’t like.

She steps out onto the stern and down onto the towpath, and times it nicely. Max is coming back from the narrowboat, empty-handed, sleeves rolled up.

‘Hi, Prisha. Going to be a cracking evening,’ he says.

‘Yes. Make the most of it while it lasts. Have you finished for the day?’

‘I wish. Another few hours and I’ll get the old girl back down to the boatyard at Snaygill and put her to bed.’ He checks the sky the same way farmers do, seeing things ordinary folk have no idea about. ‘A lot of moisture building up.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Thunderstorms. We’ll have a run of them. Mind you, we could do with the rain.’ He glances at the canal. ‘Water level’s dropping each day.’

‘Hmm… yes. Hey, I’m thinking of going into town tonight for a meal. Don’t suppose you’d care to join me? I always feel such a loser sitting on my own.’

His smile says it all. Benevolent but with a sliver of compassion. The way a father tells a daughter that no, she’s not getting a new bike for her birthday.

‘I’d have liked that.’

‘But?’

‘I’ve promised my mother a visit tonight, and if I cry off again, she’ll cut me out of her will,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Prisha replies, the pang of rejection biting even though, seconds before, she wasn’t really into him. There’s nothing like a snub to make you suddenly desire a person more.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, the sort where one person is waiting for the other to initiate the goodbyes.

‘Right, well…’ Prisha begins as she shoots a look back at Sleek Raven. ‘I think I’ll open my windows on the canal side. Hopefully there’ll be a cool breeze later on.’

‘Yeah, good idea,’ Max murmurs, but he isn’t listening. His gaze has gone past her shoulder, down the towpath, his expression now one of mild concern.

Prisha turns and follows his look.

34

Gavin Catterall has been following the Freak for twenty minutes.

He spotted him whilst on Mill Bridge. The lad was walking along the towpath from the castle side. It’s not the first time he’s seen him either. He vaguely recalls seeing him around town over the years. He might even work in one of the supermarkets, but can’t be sure. But recently, this is the third time he’s clocked him mooching along the canal. Same black clobber in thirty-two degrees, same plastic bag gripped tightly. Same drift towards the water like something pulled on a string. And the way he stops and stares at people, especially women, young women. No one bats an eye, like he’s invisible.

But he’s on Gavin’s radar.

Hasn’t seen him on a bike, though, and the police reckon Sophie’s attacker was.

Anyway, that means nothing. A dozen possibilities. The fact is this guy is weird and Gavin intends to find out what he has in that bag he holds so tightly.

Mr Finnegan’s all right, but he’s not here patrolling the canal, nor are any of his officers. Gavin understands about shortages, rising crime levels and all that, but still, his daughter was viciously attacked. Lucky to be alive. And if the police don’t have the resources or wherewithal to do anything about it, then he has.

He pulls his phone out and opens the recently formed WhatsApp group called Towpath Guardians, a rather pedestrian name for what, in reality, is a vigilante group. Only three members, including Gavin, but more have promised to join.

Types a message:

Spotted Freak near Mill Bridge acting all weird. Going to follow.

Hits send, and before he’s even set off, a reply pings.

Need help?

No. I can handle this wanker alone. Only going to ask him a couple of questions. No aggro.

On the towpath he hangs back, keeps a couple of dog walkers between himself and the Freak. He feels a surge rising in his chest, the one he used to get in his rugby days when his team were on top, and he could sense the ball coming his way. And when it did he’d take off like the wind. A sideways run, the try line beckoning, then the bone-crunching thump as he slammed into the full-back and a winger, and carried them over the line. Exhilaration, euphoria. No pain. That would come later in the middle of the night.

The dog walkers overtake the Freak. Gavin lifts his pace. He knows he’s taking the law into his own hands but he can’t help but think of Sophie. The little princess who used to stand on his boots as they’d dance around the living room to Sophie’s favourite, Get the Party Started by Pink, or his own preference, Come On Eileen. Now she sleeps with the light on. Flinches when the refrigerator kicks in. The radiant self-confidence that spilled from her like fairy dust and lit up everything and everyone around her, now gone.

‘Bastard,’ he growls under his breath.

Up ahead, near the canal junction, the Freak stops at the water’s edge and goes still, the way he does. To anybody else it might look innocent enough—a lad watching the ducks. But this guy’s mid-to-late twenties if he’s a day. He’s a man and what sort of man stops to look at ducks?

Because he’s not watching the ducks.

That’s his cover.

He’s waiting for the pretty young women to walk or jog past, eyeing them, judging them, weighing up his next victim.

Filthy fucking pervert.

And what’s in the bag, eh? What does a lad like that carry in a plastic Tesco bag? The way he holds it you’d think the crown jewels were in there.

Sophie couldn’t really describe him. Dark clothes, that’s all she could remember.

The Freak fits the description.

Gavin closes the last thirty yards at a stroll, calm as you like on the outside, heart going like a drum solo on the inside. For a second he notices how many people are around. That’s fine. He’s only going to chat. Look in his bag.

‘Oi, pal, got a minute?’

The words are benign enough but the delivery is loaded with threat.

The Freak turns around. ‘What?’

‘I’ve noticed you walking along the canal quite a lot lately.’

‘So?’

‘What you up to?’

‘Out for a walk.’

Gavin sniggers. ‘Smartarse. You don’t look like the outdoors type to me. What’s in the bag?’

The lad glances down as though he’d forgotten about it.

‘Bread for the ducks.’

‘Oh, really? Let me take a look.’

The lad pulls the bag behind him. ‘No.’

‘Come on, let me take a look.’

‘No. It’s my bag. You don’t have any right.’

Those last two words incense Gavin. ‘Right?’ he snarls. ‘Fucking right! Don’t you dare talk to me about rights, you sick, disgusting Freak. Now pass me the bag!’

The lad turns on his heels but Gavin’s already grabbed him by the shoulder, his powerful fingers clawing through fabric and into skin.

‘Don’t you walk away from me!’

Already, a few passers-by have slowed to witness the altercation.

The lad spins and knocks Gavin’s arm away. He’s more powerful than he looks.

‘Right, you shite, you asked for it.’

Gavin’s arm comes back, fist the size of a Christmas ham.

Bone slamming into flesh has an unmistakable, sickening sound.

35

Max is already moving briskly along the towpath, Prisha not far behind.

‘I don’t like the look of this,’ he grunts.

‘Who are they?’

‘Mr Angry is Gavin Catterall. It was his daughter who was attacked the other day. I met him at the hospital. And the lad he’s got hold of is Caleb Holt. Local. Bit peculiar but wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’

Prisha hears the sound she’s heard too often as the punch lands. A flat wet smack. The lad goes down like a bag of coal being slung to the ground, still clutching the carrier bag.

Max and Prisha break into a run as she grabs her phone, thumb tapping at the nine key. As they eat up the ground, her mind is in a state of high alert. Instinct is to arrest Gavin Catterall—he’s just committed an assault. But if she does, that’s cover blown. She fights twelve years of impulse as the call connects.

‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

‘Police, please. And quickly.’

‘Putting you through now.’

A click, then a new voice. ‘Police emergency, where’s your location?’

‘Skipton Canal Basin, towpath side. There’s a man being attacked. He’s just been hit, please hurry.’

Max arrives a second before Prisha and grabs Gavin in a bear hug from behind.

‘Leave it out, Gavin!’

Gavin spins, swinging Max around like a rag doll.

‘Get off me, yer bastard! This has nowt to do with you. That Freak’s a rapist. He deserves everything that’s coming to him.’

A small crowd gathers as Prisha puts herself between attacker and victim.

Max lets go and jumps in front of Gavin, grabbing him by the biceps.

‘Gavin. Gavin. Look at me. The lad’s harmless. That’s enough.’

‘Enough?’ Gavin’s voice splits clean down the middle. ‘Enough? You know what he is! Everybody knows what he is!’

‘Leave it to the police. I understand how you’re feeling, Gavin, really, I do. But this isn’t how to handle it. It’s wrong.’

‘Bollocks! Out of my way!’

A siren bleeds through the air. Prisha glances behind as two uniforms race towards the scene.

Gavin advances.

She holds her arm out. ‘No! Stop. You’ll have to get past me first.’

Hesitation. He could pick her up one-handed and toss her into the canal like an old chicken bone if he wished.

But he doesn’t wish.

Whether it’s the fear he can see in everyone’s eyes, or the sudden realisation he’s about to be charged with assault, he pauses.

Caleb sits up groggily, a smear of blood on his cheek.

Gavin knows his vigilante escapade is about to come to a shuddering halt. He pushes Prisha aside, snatches the plastic bag, and steps away.

‘This is what I’m after. I want to see what he’s got in here.’

Before anyone can intervene, he lifts the bag up and tips the contents onto the towpath: four slices of white bread. A dented water bottle. A tin that bursts open, scattering coloured pencils. A fat notebook that falls open—pages of birds, herons, mallards, kingfishers, swallows.

And lastly… two pairs of black knickers and matching bras.

36

Frank takes a seat in the interview room and places a cardboard cup of particularly insipid tea on the table.

‘Okay, let’s hear it,’ he says, loosening his tie, his blue shirt patched with sweat.

Prisha leans back in her seat. ‘How’s Caleb?’

‘Doctor’s given him the once-over. Swollen cheek. Bust lip. Shaken, not stirred. But nothing broken and no loose teeth. Looks like Gavin Catterall only gave him a warning tap. Gavin’s in the next room, waiting for the duty solicitor. So, what’s the go?’

‘Caleb and Gavin are the guys I saw on my run yesterday morning. Gavin on the bridge. Caleb was sitting on the towpath until he saw me, then got up and walked the other way. I’ve seen them both a few times now. Nothing particularly suspicious. Just odd behaviour. Then an hour ago, I was on the towpath speaking with Max King and we both noticed Gavin approach Caleb. We both sensed trouble and ran towards them. That’s when Gavin hit Caleb. He went down. I called it in. Max restrained Gavin for a moment before Gavin pushed him aside. He grabbed Caleb’s bag and emptied the contents onto the ground. A couple of uniforms arrived and arrested Gavin on suspicion of assault.’

‘I’ve already spoken with Max King and your versions are almost identical. We’ve now arrested Caleb on suspicion of theft.’

‘The knickers and bras?’

‘Yes. Dinkel and Renshaw are at his address now conducting a search. Caleb lives with his mother and stepdad not far from here. Two pairs of knickers in his possession is hard enough to explain. If we find a whole boatload, he’s in deep water.’

‘Have you interviewed him yet?’

‘No. I’ll wait to see what the search uncovers. His computer or phone could provide interesting reading.’ Frank takes a sip of tea and pulls a face. ‘So, during the fracas, and back at the station, was your undercover position compromised?’

Prisha shakes her head. ‘No. Simply a law-abiding witness willing to give a statement. No one blinked an eye when I gave my name.’

‘Good. And what about the underwear?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Evidence?’

Prisha laughs. ‘Nah, useless. Gavin picked them up, handed them to Max, who handed them to me, and I handed them to an officer. I was going to suggest putting them in an evidence bag but that could have raised suspicions. So, we have multiple sets of hands touching them. DNA would be useless.’

Frank raises an eyebrow as he stands and pushes the chair under the table.

‘Right, first stop is to hear what Gavin “Bubbles” Catterall has to say for himself.’

Prisha frowns. ‘Bubbles? That’s a rather odd name for such a formidable bloke.’

‘Ex-rugby league. Came by the nickname because he got sent off so often.’

‘I don’t get it?’

‘He spent more time in the changing room bath than he did on the field—hence the name, Bubbles.’ He rubs at his face. ‘A short fuse, but I do have some sympathy for him. However, he can’t go around acting as judge, jury, and executioner.’

‘What about the assault charge?’

‘I’ll have a word with the duty sergeant and inspector. See if they can go easy on him considering what’s recently happened to his daughter. Then it’s down to the CPS. Mind you, that won’t save him from a bollocking from yours truly.’ He pulls open the door, then stops and turns around. ‘Oh, and by the way, Miss Kumar, you’re free to leave but I require you to surrender your passport at the front desk. And I may need to speak to you again.’

‘You’re a funny man, Frank.’

‘Thanks.’

37

Gavin Catterall looks like a boxer dog that was caught eating the Sunday roast. Still fierce enough on the outside but a rather sad, sorry-looking affair underneath.

Frank eyes the solicitor, who seems more preoccupied with his phone.

‘Christ almighty, Gavin, what the bloody hell were you thinking?’

Gavin’s arms are tightly folded, his biceps bulging beneath the thin cotton T-shirt.

‘All I wanted to do was look inside that bag of his.’

‘But you ended up punching him instead.’

‘I’ll take the rap. I’m not going to start making up lies to get myself out of it.’

‘No, you’re a decent man. You take ownership of your actions. But why Caleb Holt?’

He lurches to the side, tilting his head. ‘He’s been acting bloody strange ever since I clapped eyes on him a few days back. Furtive, secretive, always with that bag in his grasp. I suspected there could have been something in there, you know, a trophy.’

‘And what did you think you’d find?’

Gavin puffs out his cheeks and sighs. ‘Our Sophie’s underwear and hair. It makes me sick to the core to think that bastard still has a piece of her. Like it weren’t bad enough what he did.’

‘You’re putting the cart before the horse, Gavin. We don’t yet know if he had anything to do with Sophie’s assault.’

He sniffs. ‘So how do you explain the knickers and bras?’

‘You heard what he told the arresting officer; he found them on the canal bank. Took them to put in a rubbish bin.’

He snorts. ‘Aye, and pink fairies live at the bottom of my garden. What’s a man doing with women’s underwear?’

Frank emits a long, deep sigh. ‘Your Sophie’s a tall, slim lass. I’ve seen the underwear from the bag. Let’s just say they’d fit a lady of, ahem, a more generous girth.’

There’s a pause in proceedings as Frank studies Gavin Catterall. Eventually they lock eyes.

‘You’ve been a bloody idiot, Gavin.’

‘And what if it had been your daughter, Mr Finnegan? What would you have done?’ he snaps.

Frank pushes away the unwelcome thoughts. ‘I understand your reasons. But this stops right here and now.’

‘What?’

‘You acting like the bloody Equalizer. I’ve no time for vigilantes. It could have been a far worse outcome. Luckily Caleb only suffered superficial bruising. But what if he’d hit his head on the ground, or had a thin skull, or some other medical condition? Instead of looking at a common assault charge you could be looking at manslaughter or murder. We’ve already had this discussion about repercussions.’

Gavin drops his head and mutters under his breath.

Frank places his arms on the table. ‘Once the duty sergeant has finished with you, you’re free to leave. Whether we take it any further, or Caleb Holt takes it any further, I cannot say. But I want your word—no more rough justice, understood?’

Gavin begrudgingly raises his head. ‘Aye. Understood, Mr Finnegan.’

Frank ends the interview and rises. ‘Let this be a lesson, Gavin. You got off lightly. Count your blessings. And take a minute to think about your wife and daughter, and what their future would be like if you’re not around.’

38

Less than a ten-minute walk from the police station, a real-life soap opera of its own is playing out inside a semi-detached in a well-to-do area of town. Dinkel and Beth are upstairs in the bedroom of Caleb Holt, accompanied by his mother, Yvonne Holt, who is less than impressed with the intrusion.

Floor-length black curtains are drawn against the brutal sun, the only light coming from a desk lamp angled over a drawing pad. Blu-tacked posters cover every inch of wall: Iron Maiden, Slipknot, Metallica, and hand-drawn sketches of birds. Black carpet underfoot, a black duvet kicked into a heap on the bed. The air is close with male sweat, and the woody scent of pencil shavings. Somewhere under the bed, a phone charger blinks blue in the gloom, a beacon of colour in an otherwise oppressively warm room.

‘I’ve seen what happens on TV. You’re not allowed to enter without a search warrant. I know my rights.’

Dinkel stops scrabbling around in a desk drawer, throws Beth a resigned look, then faces up to Mrs Holt for the third time.

‘Mrs Holt, I’ve told you twice already. Caleb’s under arrest for an indictable offence. Section 18, subsection 1, PACE 1984, gives us the right to search premises occupied or controlled by him if there are reasonable grounds to believe there’s evidence relating to that offence. The search has been authorised by an inspector. We’re well within our rights.’

Mrs Holt folds her arms, unmoved by the obtuse language.

Beth steps in and tries to put it in plain English. ‘What he means, Mrs Holt, is that because Caleb’s under arrest, an inspector has authorised us to search his room for evidence connected to the offence. We don’t need to apply to a court for a search warrant.’

Yvonne Holt is not moved. If anything, it only heightens her sense of anger and injustice.

‘Why won’t you tell me what he’s done?’

Dinkel sighs as he quietly shuts the desk drawer. ‘We’ve told you. He’s been arrested on suspicion of theft.’

‘Yes, I bloody well know that. But theft of what?’

‘Knickers.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Two pairs of black knickers and bras were found in his possession.’

Yvonne Holt takes a step back. ‘Knickers and bras? No, not my Caleb. There must be some mistake. He’s not like that. He’s not a pervert.’

‘Pervert or not, that’s the evidence, Mrs Holt.’

‘And where was this?’

‘Down by the canal. Does he frequent that area often?’

‘Yes. He likes to draw the birds.’

‘I see.’

‘You can’t keep him locked up. He hates being confined. That’s why he’s always out and about. Likes the open. When’s he coming home?’

Beth has a certain amount of sympathy for Yvonne Holt. She’s not responsible for the actions of her thirty-year-old son.

She steps in to appease her. ‘Mrs Holt. He’s been arrested on suspicion of stealing underwear. At the moment, it’s low-level stuff. I’m sure he’ll be home soon.’

This seems to placate her, for about ten seconds.

‘No, wait. That’s rubbish. If that were true, then why would you be here turning over his room like he’s some drug dealer? There’s more to this than—’ She halts abruptly as she joins the dots. Clasps a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. You think it’s him, don’t you? You think it’s him; the Towpath Prowler, the rapist. I’m going to call a solicitor. This isn’t right at all. You’re trying to fit him up.’

She scurries from the bedroom and clatters down the stairs.

Beth shrugs. ‘It’s never their little cherubs, is it?’

She pulls open a cupboard door and rifles through a pile of black T-shirts, releasing a foisty smell of damp, like when clothes have been put away still wet.

‘Dinkel,’ she says, lifting out a telescopic baton.

He glances across. ‘That’s illegal,’ he replies, taking over the search of the wardrobe as Beth bags the weapon. He’s about to close the door when a dark object, upright at the back, catches his attention. He reaches in and gently removes it.

‘Peculiar,’ he says, holding the ornate-looking cane aloft. ‘What would a lad like Caleb Holt be doing with a walking stick that would be more suited to an Edwardian gentleman?’

Beth stares at the object. ‘A shikomizue … a cane sword,’ she murmurs, as Dinkel grips the pommel and slides the blade free.

‘Nasty. You could cause some mischief with this.’

They seize and bag a laptop and numerous memory sticks but find nothing else of interest. As they’re about to exit the bedroom, Dinkel hovers in the doorway.

‘Did you check under the bedsheets?’

Beth pulls a face. ‘I’d rather not. God knows what unsightly stains are lurking there.’

Dinkel nods. ‘Yes, but all the same.’

With her gloved fingers, she delicately grips one edge of the duvet and pulls it back.

Nothing.

Dinkel nods. ‘Pillow.’

She lifts it up, pauses, then picks something up and holds it aloft.

Dinkel squints through the gloom. ‘Good grief! That’s the biggest dildo I’ve ever seen.’

Beth sniggers. ‘Not quite.’

She turns it over in her hand. A foot or so of black rubber, moulded solid, heavier than it looks, tapering to a thicker, weighted end.

‘It’s a rubber cosh. Sophie Catterall was hit a glancing blow to the temple. Bruising and swelling, but the skin never broke. Doctor said it had to be something with a bit of give in it, or she’d have needed stitches.’ She waggles the cosh back and forth. ‘This fits the bill.’

She slips it into an evidence bag, then reaches to put the pillow back when something catches her eye.

‘Hang on.’

She grips the edge of the mattress and lifts it.

Wedged between the mattress and the bed base is a black drawstring bag.

Dinkel crouches beside her as she pulls it free. ‘What have we got?’

She loosens the cord and peers inside. Then looks at him.

‘Oh, shit.’

One by one, she takes out the contents: a red lace bra, a white one, another in black. Then the knickers. Half a dozen pairs, different colours, different sizes, bundled together in the bottom of the bag.

For several seconds neither of them speaks.

Dinkel finally straightens.

‘I think we’ve got our man.’

39

The interview room is bleak, its only saving grace the Victorian station’s thick stone walls, which keep out the worst of the oppressive summer heat.

A camera is fixed high in one corner, red light steady. Caleb sits beside his duty solicitor. Beth takes the chair nearest the door, notebook open.

Frank comes in last and sits opposite him and immediately smells the body odour. Not enough to recoil. But not pleasant either.

Beth leans towards the recorder. ‘Interview commencing at 3:15 pm. Present are DCI Finnegan, PC Renshaw, Caleb Holt, and his legal representative, Mr—’

‘Whitfield.’

‘Mr Whitfield. Caleb, do you understand why you’ve been arrested?’

A nod.

‘Out loud, please.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Caleb stares at the table. ‘The underwear.’

Frank takes over. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Found it.’

‘Where?’

‘By the canal. In the grass near the castle.’

‘And you picked it up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I collect litter.’

Frank stares at him. ‘You collect discarded women’s underwear?’

‘I collect litter. I was going to put it in a bin.’

‘Are you aware women on narrowboats have reported underwear disappearing recently?’

‘No.’

‘And are you aware of the attacks on women along the canal in recent days?’

‘Whole town knows.’

‘So you can understand why finding you with women’s underwear might interest us.’

‘I didn’t steal it.’

‘Have you found any others?’

‘No.’

‘Certain?’

‘Yes.’

Frank nods at Beth. She rises and brings the three evidence bags to the table.

He points to them in turn. ‘Telescopic baton. A Japanese cane sword. Heavy rubber cosh. All recovered from your bedroom. Explain them.’

‘The baton and cosh are for protection. The sword’s just an ornament. I liked the look of it.’

‘Protection from what?’

‘We got broken into a few years ago. Short weapons are better indoors. I bought all three online.’

Frank taps the bag containing the cosh. ‘A young woman was struck from behind on the canal earlier this week with something capable of knocking her unconscious.’

Caleb looks up.

‘I didn’t do that.’

‘I didn’t say you did.’

Beth brings over one final evidence bag, larger than the others. Inside is the black drawstring bag recovered from beneath Caleb’s mattress.

‘Recognise this?’ Frank asks.

‘Yes.’

Beth consults her notebook. ‘Three bras. Red, white and black. Six pairs of women’s knickers, various colours and sizes.’

Frank looks across the table. ‘You told me thirty seconds ago you hadn’t found any other underwear.’

‘I hadn’t.’

‘Would you like to try that answer again?’

‘You asked if I’d found any. You can’t find something if you know where it is.’

Frank is befuddled. ‘You’ll need to explain that one.’

‘I saw a man throw them into the bushes.’

The solicitor looks up.

Frank leans back. ‘A man?’

‘Yes. I wasn’t sure what they were. After he’d gone, I collected them.’

‘And took them home and hid them under your mattress?’

‘I didn’t hide them.’

‘They were under your bloody mattress.’

‘I was going to burn them.’

Frank stares at him. ‘Why?’

‘There were too many to put in a bin. Someone might have seen me.’

‘But carrying them home and stuffing them under your mattress seemed less suspicious?’

Caleb says nothing.

Frank sighs. ‘Describe this man to me.’

‘Tall. Six-one, maybe six-two. About thirty-five. Thin, narrow shoulders. Blond hair, short at the sides, longer and wavy on top. Longish face, straight nose, blue eyes, stubble. Blue jeans, white Nike trainers, pale blue shirt over a white T-shirt. Sleeves rolled up twice.’

Frank stops writing. ‘That’s impressive memory recall. Anything else distinctive?’

‘Tattoo. Inside his right forearm.’ Caleb touches the spot on his own arm. ‘Black. About four inches long. A straight line down the middle, another across near the top, with two thin lines hanging from either side and curved shapes underneath.’

Frank sketches quickly, then turns the pad towards him. ‘Like this?’

‘Yeah.’

The scales of justice.

Frank studies him. ‘You saw him for what, a minute?’

‘About that.’

‘And you remember all that detail in a minute?’

‘I notice things.’

Frank watches him. ‘Where exactly did this happen?’

‘Near the castle. Same area as today.’

Frank sits back and turns a page. ‘Where were you Monday morning between half six and seven?’

‘In bed.’

‘Anyone who can confirm that?’

‘No.’

‘Your mam?’

‘At work.’

‘Stepdad?’

‘Leaves at quarter past six.’

‘So you were alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you leave the house?’

Caleb thinks. ‘Two o’clock. My Tesco shift starts at half two. I had library books to return first.’

Frank makes a note. ‘And where were you yesterday evening between six and half six?’

‘On the canal.’

‘Where?’

‘Near the castle.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Drawing a moorhen and its chicks.’

‘Anyone with you?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone who can confirm seeing you?’

‘There were people around. I don’t know them.’

Frank circles something on Caleb’s particulars. ‘You’re thirty years old and live with your mam and stepdad.’

‘Yes.’

‘No brothers or sisters?’

‘No.’

‘Part-time at Tesco.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you do when you’re not working?’

‘Video games. Walking. Drawing birds. Music. Play bass.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Boyfriend?’

Caleb looks up. For the first time, he smiles. ‘I’m not gay.’

Frank’s pen stops as he stares at Caleb’s smiling expression. For a moment he seems to be in a world of his own.

Beth sees the change in Frank’s demeanour. The seconds pass.

‘Ahem, boss.’ Beth gently nudges him.

Frank snaps from his daydream and looks down at the file. ‘All right. That’ll do for now.’

‘Can I go?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Frank nods towards the exhibits. ‘Because we’ve found a collection of women’s underwear under your mattress, a telescopic baton, a concealed sword and a rubber cosh consistent with the type of weapon that may have been used in a recent serious sexual assault. You’ve put yourself on the canal around the time of yesterday’s attack and you’ve got no alibi for Monday morning.’

‘You haven’t charged me.’

‘No.’

‘You can only hold me for twenty-four hours from the relevant time.’

Frank raises an eyebrow. ‘Yes. I am aware of the law.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘You go back to custody while we make some enquiries.’

Caleb’s jaw tightens. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’

Beth leans towards the recorder. ‘Interview concluded at 3:32 pm.’

Whitfield gathers his papers as an officer enters to escort Caleb back to custody.

At the door, Caleb turns. ‘You don’t believe me about the man.’

Frank considers him but doesn’t reply as the door closes.

Beth starts gathering the evidence bags. ‘What now, sir?’

Frank opens Caleb Holt’s file again. His eyes settle on the photograph. Then the date of birth.

‘Fast-track his DNA. High priority.’

40

4:03 pm

Frank parks across the road and glances at the house. The semi-detached sits behind a low stone wall, solid and respectable. Twin bay windows face a narrow garden of clipped shrubs and dazzling summer flowers. It’s the very picture of quiet suburbia. Not what Frank expected at all. He spots an older man with his back to him watering the borders, hosepipe in hand.

A few neighbours are out in their gardens, trying unsuccessfully to hide their interest. As Frank noted at the station, news travels fast. Bad news at the speed of light. He locks the car, pushes open the gate and takes in the immaculate lawn, the air warm and thick with the scent of rose blossom.

‘You have green fingers,’ he says, admiring the multicoloured parade of rosebushes on show.

The man with the hose gives him a cursory glance. ‘Aye, it’s all about the preparation. A hard prune towards the end of winter, then a good feed and a decent mulch come spring.’

‘Very true. I’m more a veggie man than flowers, but similar principles.’ Frank walks towards him and pulls out his warrant card. ‘DCI Finnegan. CID.’

‘Aye.’

‘I take it you’re Caleb’s stepdad?’

‘Aye. Paul Holt.’ He twists the nozzle until the water reduces to a drizzle. ‘Where is he?’

‘Still at the station.’

Holt’s face hardens. ‘Your lot have already turned his room upside down. Yvonne said something about stealing women’s underwear. Is it true?’

‘We found a few things we need to make further enquiries about.’

‘Has he been charged?’

‘No.’

‘Then how long are you planning on keeping him locked up?’

‘Not long. We’ve a few things to check and, unless anything else crops up, we’ll release him in the next hour or so.’

Holt drops the hose and glares at the neighbours next door. He shuffles closer and lowers his voice.

‘Finding a pair of knickers doesn’t warrant all this. Which means there must be more to it. So, let’s be straight with one another, inspector. Man to man. Do you suspect him of being involved in those attacks along the canal?’

‘As I said, we’re still investigating. So, is Caleb’s biological father on the scene?’

Holt looks surprised. ‘Biolog… no. Never has been. Why?’

‘No reason. And what about you—Caleb has your last name. How long have you been with his mother?’

‘Nigh on thirty years, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’

‘Is your wife—Yvonne, isn’t it—is she home?’

‘Aye.’

Frank nods towards the door. ‘Do you mind? I just thought I’d put her in the picture. Call it a courtesy call to let her know what’s happening.’

‘Suit yerself. But don’t expect her to roll out the red carpet.’

He smiles. ‘I have a thick skin. You need it in this game.’

Frank has declined the customary cup of tea and elected instead for a glass of iced barley water. The living room is standard fare—decent lounge suite, a large flat-screen TV, cream wallpaper. A few photographs, ornaments, a vase of roses on the windowsill behind net curtains.

Paul Holt is still busying himself in the garden. Over the years Frank has seen every incarnation of people making themselves busy when trouble or grief comes knocking on the door. Women who occupy themselves with folding washing, making tea, washing up. Men who resolutely study a newspaper, stare blankly at silent moving images on the TV screen, or tend to their garden. He recalls one distressed mother who would always knit, furiously, needles clacking at a hundred miles an hour. He never did find out what her creation was meant to be. It just multiplied and evolved like a woollen centipede, getting longer each time he visited.

Yvonne Holt is the folding washing type. She’s sitting opposite with a plastic basket at her feet, picking out socks, jumpers and pants and painstakingly folding them into their designated piles. Frank has already put her in the picture. He’s explained that Caleb hasn’t been charged, but that the search of his bedroom uncovered a number of items requiring further investigation, and that he’ll remain in custody while those enquiries are carried out. Probably another hour. No longer than necessary. The explanation neither alleviated her distress nor added to it. She merely nodded and said, ‘I see.’

As she busies herself, Frank studies her. She appears to be in her mid-to-late fifties, but moves with a nervous energy that makes her seem younger. Her face is tired, as though it’s spent too many years frowning instead of smiling. Thin lips, wrinkled hands. A woman who keeps occupied, not one who enjoys time to relax and think.

Frank has already done his homework. From the Holts’ house, it’s a steady twenty-minute walk along the canal to the A59 Road Bridge, where Frida was attacked, and forty minutes to the spot where Sophie was assaulted. On a bike, you could easily halve those times. On an electric bike, going at pace—halve them again.

Frank finishes his barley water and places the glass on a side table.

‘Thanks for that. Just what the doctor ordered.’

Yvonne merely nods and picks up a white shirt, inspecting the collar.

Frank leans forward, elbows on knees. ‘Forgive me for asking something personal, Mrs Holt, but does Caleb have any particular needs or difficulties with communication that we should be aware of? And I don’t just mean verbal communication.’

She stops mid-fold and glares at him. ‘He has high-functioning autism. Not that he’ll admit it to anyone. When he was a kid it was called Asperger’s, but you know how it is these days, they’re always changing the labels.’

Frank chuckles. ‘Aye, tell me about it. What’s deemed acceptable one year is classed as derogatory the next. I can’t keep up.’ He pauses. ‘That would explain a few things.’

‘Such as?’

‘When someone’s brought into custody, the sergeant runs through a set of questions. Anything that makes a person vulnerable—learning difficulties, mental health, autism—and we’re obliged to bring in what’s called an appropriate adult. A parent, usually. They sit in on the interview, make sure the lad understands what’s being asked of him. There’s nothing in the custody record about it. But if Caleb didn’t say, and outwardly he comes across as quiet, a bit nervous, then that would explain why nobody called you.’

‘He’ll not have said. He wouldn’t.’ She shakes out a shirt and lays it across her lap. ‘Thirty years old and his mam sat next to him, holding his hand in a police station—ha! He’d sooner cut his own arm off.’

Frank says nothing.

‘The subject is off-topic, inspector. Taboo. Always has been since he was a teenager. His choice. I think it gives him a sense of power…’ She hesitates. ‘No, not power—’

‘Control?’

‘Yes. Control. And I’ll not be the one to take that away from him. Nor will I let anyone else. He doesn’t have much, but he does have his dignity.’ She puts the shirt on the pile and looks up. ‘He isn’t simple, inspector, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

Frank holds his hands up in defence. ‘Not at all. I can tell he’s an intelligent young man. And a fine artist. I’ve seen his sketchbook. All those birds. Very impressive.’

‘He doesn’t draw them because he likes them. He draws them because he’s good at something.’ She reaches into the basket. ‘His mind’s an encyclopaedia of useless facts. Can name every team that won the Premier League title since it began. What year, who their manager was, how many points they got.’

‘Oh, he’s into football then?’

She gives a curt half laugh. ‘No. He’s never managed to watch more than five minutes before he loses interest. Doesn’t stop him memorising all the facts though.’

‘Has he always lived at home?’

‘Yes. And I can’t see him moving out anytime soon.’

Frank can’t detect whether there’s bitterness or regret in her tone.

‘Mrs Holt, can you tell me where Caleb was on the morning of Monday 22nd June, between 6:30 and 7:00 am?’

‘At home,’ she replies without looking at him.

‘And you know that for sure?’

‘Yes. I was here.’

Frank sighs. ‘Mrs Holt, Caleb has already told us you were at work that morning. You left the house before six. It would only take a phone call to your manager to verify that. Which I really don’t want to do.’

She says nothing.

‘Very well. What about yesterday evening, around quarter past six?’

Her eyes flick towards him. ‘What about it?’

‘Where was Caleb?’

‘I don’t know. Out somewhere.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘No.’

She rises, places the folded washing into the basket and picks it up.

‘I know what my son is and what he isn’t,’ she snaps. ‘And he’s not capable of… of whatever you’re accusing him of.’

‘We haven’t accused him of anything apart from the suspected theft of underwear, Mrs Holt. But I’m sure you’re aware of what’s happened recently. The whole district knows. There’s been someone pinching women’s underwear from boats along the canal, other incidents of stalking and voyeurism, and now two attacks on women. There could be a pattern. Caleb was found with two pairs of women’s knickers in his possession, and when we searched his room, we found a bag containing several more pairs, along with three bras. You can see how it looks from our point of view. That’s not to say we think he’s guilty of the assaults, but at the very least we need to rule him out of our inquiry.’

‘Is there anything else, inspector? Only we haven’t eaten yet and I need to make something for dinner.’

Frank stands and moves towards the door. ‘Of course.’

As she escorts him to the entrance, Frank makes small talk.

‘Nice place you have here. Have you lived in Skipton all your life?’

‘Yes. Apart from nine months, years ago, when I tried living in Bradford.’

‘Not to your liking?’

‘No. Too busy.’

‘So you’d have been around here when the incidents from 1995 occurred?’

Her eyes widen but she quickly looks away as she pulls open the front door.

‘I really must get on.’

As the door is quietly closed behind him, Frank turns his attention to the husband.

Paul Holt is carefully coiling the hosepipe around his arm.

‘Lovely weather, but we could do with some rain,’ Frank says.

Holt looks up, then moves towards the small garden shed. ‘Yes. Another couple of weeks of this and I reckon they might bring in a hosepipe ban. That’s why I’m giving my plants a good wet every night. How’d yer go with the missus?’

‘Good. I explained the situation in a bit more detail. I’m sure she’ll fill you in. Where do you work, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Holt steps inside the shed and hangs up the hose. ‘Local brewery. Assistant brewer, although jack of all trades, really. Been there three years. Decent place to work. They’ve been good to me.’

Frank laughs. ‘I missed my calling in life. I can’t think of anywhere better to work than a brewery.’ He moves closer to the shed. ‘Cycle to work, do you?’ he says, nodding at the bike.

Holt gives it a sideways glance. ‘Not on your Nelly. No, that belongs to Caleb.’

‘Electric?’

‘Aye.’

Frank smacks his lips together. ‘Talking of breweries, my throat’s bloody parched. I think it’s time to knock off and enjoy a few refreshing ales myself. Good evening, Mr Holt.’

41

Saturday 27th June—1:37 am

The Uber pulls up outside a newly built two-storey detached house in the semi-rural village of Bradley, a few miles from Skipton. Pale stone, integral garage, neat garden, views of the surrounding hills, and if you crane your neck from the upstairs master bedroom, you can just about make out the Leeds & Liverpool Canal and, beyond it, the River Aire winding its way towards Leeds.

Tom Shaw says goodnight to the driver, slams the car door shut a little too loudly and fumbles for his keys as he makes his way to the front door.

He struggles to get the key into the lock, as many drunken men do at such an hour. Eventually, he manages it. He gently closes the door, or so he imagines, not wanting to wake his wife, who was having an early night. Slips the top bolt across.

The house smells warm and welcoming, like only a home can. Even though he’s struggling to walk in a straight line, or even walk at all, he’s feeling peckish and plans to watch YouTube music videos of his favourite bands.

He slumps onto the couch, which swallows him like a warm marshmallow, then looks for the TV remote.

Of course, it’s nowhere to be found.

He searches down the edges of the cushions, under the cushions, under the couch, then spots it right in front of him on the coffee table.

‘Who put it there?’ he mutters, wobbling from side to side.

He thinks of getting another beer, then thinks again.

Enough.

He lost count of how many he had with the lads.

Good night, though. Top night.

Sitting upright on the cushion, he sways from side to side as he presses the red power button on the remote.

Nothing.

‘Oh, fuck. She’s turned it off at the plug again. Why does she do that?’

He weighs up the effort of rising, walking two feet, bending down and switching the TV power back on.

His eyes are already drooping.

‘Maybe I’ll just relax for five, then I’ll do it. And make some cheese on toast with Branston pickle. Yeah. Just five minutes.’

He lies back into the comforting folds of the couch, which smells of Megan.

Perfect.

7:03 am

The genioglossus, one of the main muscles controlling the tongue, is malfunctioning. It must be, because Tom’s tongue has created some sort of powerful vacuum seal to the roof of his mouth.

And it doesn’t help that the front room curtains are already open, allowing a hateful, vicious, bastard sun to deep-fry his brain.

A gurgle. A grunt. A—for fuck’s sake.

The hangover.

The morning after the night before.

He rises from the couch like some primordial monster from the swamp and attempts to sit upright.

‘Oh, fuck. Never again.’

How many times has he said that?

His night out with the lads has lost some of the rosy glow it had six hours ago.

Funny about that.

He staggers into the kitchen, grabs a pint glass from the cupboard and fills it with tepid water from the tap. Gulps it down in four quick swallows, water and saliva dribbling down his shirt.

His stomach reluctantly thanks him for it. But not his head, which decides to go into a brain spasm.

For a moment he wonders if he’s having a fatal stroke.

And for a longer moment, he considers death as an easy way out.

Then it eases.

He glances through the kitchen window into the back garden.

‘Lawn needs mowing. It can wait until tomorrow. I’m doing nowt today.’

Flicks the kettle on. Drops a spoonful of coffee into a cup. Opens the fridge. Lifts out the milk. Shuts the door.

Stops.

Frowns.

Reopens the fridge.

Stares at the bowl.

Tuna salad with clingfilm over it. Last night’s tea, made by Megan. He’d wanted a jacket potato, something to put a lining on his stomach before his drinking session, but Megan is on some sort of low-carb diet—again. Always with the diets.

He definitely ate his before going out.

Which means—

He shoots a glance at the kitchen window, then spins around and looks through into the lounge.

The curtains.

They haven’t been drawn.

Megan always draws the curtains.

Always.

He puts the milk on the table as the kettle rumbles behind him. Something cold and foreboding crawls over his hangover.

‘Megan?’

He rushes to the stairs, bounds up them three at a time and bursts into the bedroom.

Empty bed.

Sheets unruffled.

‘Megan!’

Checks the spare room.

Bathroom.

Nothing.

‘Maybe she went for an early morning run and I didn’t hear her?’ he whimpers to himself as he flies back down the stairs.

Stares at the front door.

His gut drops.

The top bolt is still slid across.

Bolted from the inside.

‘Phone, phone…’

Finds it beside the couch.

Checks for messages and missed calls.

Nothing.

‘Think, think,’ he urges.

He paces back and forth. ‘I left at six. That’s right. She said she was going for a run and she’d eat when she got back.’

Tries to swallow but can’t.

He rams the bolt back, turns the key and rushes outside.

‘Ah, morning, Tom. Looks like it’s going to be another warm one.’

He spins around and faces his smiling elderly neighbour, Colin Crompton.

‘Colin, have you seen Megan?’

The urgency in his voice makes Colin slowly turn the nozzle on the hosepipe until there’s nothing more than a drizzle coming from it.

‘This morning? No. Missing, is she?’

‘What about last night? Did you see her last night?’ He yells the last bit.

Colin takes a step back. ‘Ye… yes.’

‘What time?’

‘About seven. She was in her running gear and was heading towards—’

Tom is already out of the gate and racing the six hundred yards towards the canal.

42

Three vehicles hurtle down the narrow lane towards the canal, blue lights flashing, sirens ricocheting off stone walls and cottage windows.

A marked patrol car leads the charge, an ambulance hard on its tail, followed by an unmarked Skoda with Frank behind the wheel and PC Beth Renshaw gripping the grab handle above the passenger door like her life depends on it.

‘There!’ Beth points through the windscreen.

Bradley Swing Bridge appears ahead.

The patrol car brakes hard.

The ambulance does the same.

Frank stamps on the pedal and the Skoda bucks to a halt behind them.

Doors fly open almost simultaneously.

Two uniformed officers spill from the patrol car. Beth knows them from Skipton nick. The ambulance crew are already moving, a male paramedic hauling a large red response bag from the side compartment while his female colleague grabs the monitor-defibrillator and oxygen kit.

Frank and Beth jump out.

‘Where are they?’ Frank shouts.

An older man is standing on the towpath twenty yards to their left, both arms waving frantically above his head.

‘Over here! Hurry up! Down here! She’s down here!’

Another man, much younger, is a further thirty yards along, half-hidden by the canal side vegetation, beckoning furiously.

The paramedics don’t wait for instructions.

They run.

Frank turns to the uniformed officers. ‘Names?’ he barks.

‘PC Blake,’ the young man says.

‘PC Holland,’ the even younger woman replies.

‘Blake, cordon off access to the towpath. Holland, same at the other end. Get onto control. I want more officers and forensics down here, pronto.’

‘Sir.’

Beth is already running after the paramedics.

Frank breaks into a jog, but his knee is playing up. After half a dozen strides, he settles for a fast walk as the older man beckons him forward.

‘I’m DCI Finnegan. Tell me who you are and what you know.’

‘Colin Crompton. I’m Tom’s next-door neighbour.’

‘Tom?’

‘Tom Shaw. That’s him there.’ Crompton points ahead.

‘What happened?’

‘I was watering the garden about thirty minutes ago when young Tom came bursting out of the house, all of a fluster, asking if I’d seen Megan.’

‘Megan?’

‘His wife. I told him I hadn’t seen her since last night.’

‘What time?’

‘Around seven. I saw Tom get in an Uber about six. He goes out with his mates most Friday nights. An hour later, Megan came out in her running gear. She’s a bit of a fitness fanatic. I was pottering in the garden. We had a quick chat and she set off for the canal. She runs along here most days.’

‘And you didn’t see her return?’

‘No.’

As they near the huddle, Frank holds an arm out in front of Crompton.

‘Wait here.’

Tom Shaw is rocking back and forth, anguish carved into his face, as the paramedics perform their initial assessment.

‘I think she’s dead,’ Tom cries. ‘She’s cold to the touch.’

The paramedics talk in short, sharp bursts, a well-rehearsed choreography.

‘She’s breathing. Shallow, but she’s breathing.’

‘Pulse fast and weak. Airway’s clear. Get oxygen on.’

‘No response to voice.’

‘Right. Monitor on. We need her out of here.’

Beth is already taking details from Tom—name, address, age, his wife’s name.

The female paramedic sets off at a canter towards the ambulance, calling for PC Holland to help her with the stretcher.

‘What’s happened to her? Could it be a heart attack? She’s as fit as a fiddle, but her father died of a heart attack when he was only fifty-four. Is she going to live?’ Tom splutters, tears mixing with snot and saliva.

The male paramedic pauses for half a second, shoots Frank a glance, then goes back to work without answering. Frank has seen that hesitation too many times.

And it never ends well.

‘Tom, did you find her here?’ Beth asks.

‘Yes. About twenty minutes ago.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I tried to wake her. Gently slapped her cheek. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing properly, so I called 999. They told me to put the phone on speaker and start pressing on her chest. I kept doing it until you arrived.’

‘Was Megan out jogging?’

‘Yes. She goes most nights, sometimes mornings.’

‘How long for?’

‘Forty minutes or so. Never longer than an hour.’

The female paramedic returns with the stretcher. ‘Okay, everyone stand back. We need some space.’

Frank, Beth and Crompton all move away.

Crompton shakes his head. ‘I think she’s a goner. I’ve seen dead bodies before. Saw active service in the Falklands. No response. Cold to the touch. Clammy.’

Frank gives him a severe stare, which shuts the old man up.

The paramedics manoeuvre Megan carefully onto the stretcher, working together in short, deliberate movements. Once she’s secured, they cover her with a blanket and set off at a brisk pace towards the ambulance as more sirens sound in the distance.

Frank glances down as they wheel her past.

A welt around her neck.

Her fringe missing a large chunk.

Tom Shaw is too distraught to notice as he follows the paramedics.

Beth catches Frank’s eye.

‘Did you…’

‘Yes. I saw.’

He takes a deep breath, jowls hardened.

‘The bastard’s struck again.’

43

Frank is standing in his office, the door cracked open slightly, waiting.

And fuming.

He spots Archer enter the station and walk through reception. Frank pushes the door open and steps forward.

‘Archer. My office.’

DS Archer looks over, surprised, but makes his way across.

‘I heard there’s been another one. Who is she?’

‘Megan Shaw. Thirty years old,’ Frank says as Archer enters the office.

‘Bugger. How is she?’

‘Life support. Touch and go.’

Frank slams the door shut.

Archer digs his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I heard it was over at Bradley.’

‘Aye, that’s right. On the towpath about fifty yards from the swing bridge.’

‘Christ. This guy’s on a mission. That’s three in less than a week.’ He glances around the office. ‘Where’s Beth?’

‘Her and Dinkel went over to Caleb Holt’s place to find out where he was last night. They’re due back any minute.’

Archer frowns. ‘I thought he was in custody.’

‘We released him just before five yesterday.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

‘Ballsy call. And where was he last night?’

‘According to Caleb and his mam and stepdad, he arrived home at five-thirty and stayed in all night.’

‘Ha! Of course they’d say that.’

Frank steps towards him. ‘Where were you last night between seven and eight?’

Archer cocks his head and bites at his lip. ‘Hmm… If you don’t mind me saying, Frank, you seem overly concerned with what I do after knocking off.’

‘Where were you?’

Archer turns away and gives a humourless laugh. ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’

‘Answer the question.’

Archer fronts him, eyes ablaze. ‘You really think I’m capable of this?’ he snaps, pointing indiscriminately at the outside world.

‘Megan Shaw left home around seven. According to her husband, she normally runs for about forty-five minutes. So I’ll ask you again. Where were you last night between seven and eight?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Anyone with you?’

‘No.’

Frank nods slowly. ‘Thursday at 6:15 pm, Frida Larsson was attacked near the A59 road bridge. You told me you were in The Woolly Sheep at 6:15.’

‘I was.’

‘No, you weren’t. I checked with the barmaid who served you. She remembers you coming in around 6:45. CCTV has you entering at the same time. You lied to me. Why?’

Archer’s eyes widen. ‘You actually checked up on me?’

‘Yes. Why did you lie?’

Archer rakes a hand through his hair. ‘All right. If you must know, every Thursday at six o’clock, I go to an AA meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous. It finished about twenty to seven. It’s just around the corner from The Woolly Sheep. Happy now?’

‘No. I’m not happy. I know how AA works. No names. No attendance register. Nice convenient alibi. Hard to verify.’

‘It’s the truth,’ he spits.

‘Then why lie?’

‘Because I didn’t want anyone to know about it, that’s why.’

‘I see. And straight after you bare your soul at an AA meeting, your next stop is the pub?’

‘Baby steps.’

‘Pig’s arse.’

Archer’s jaw tightens. ‘You’re bang out of order, Frank.’

‘You lied to me during an investigation into a violent sexual assault.’

‘I told you why.’

‘And I’ll be checking it.’

‘Go ahead. I don’t have to stand here and take this shit. You’re really pissing me off.’

‘Sophie Catterall was violently raped. Frida Larsson escaped by the skin of her teeth. And now Megan Shaw is clinging to life in a hospital bed at Airedale General. So I don’t REALLY FUCKING CARE IF I’M PISSING YOU OFF OR NOT!’

The office door opens. Dinkel and Beth walk in as if treading on eggshells.

Archer shoots them a furious glare. ‘Can you believe this? Frank thinks it’s me.’

‘Boss,’ Beth says quietly.

‘What?’

‘Before you go any further… it can’t be Archer.’

Frank turns towards her. ‘What?’

‘Monday morning. When me and the sarge went to interview Maddie Lister. I’ve only just remembered. He was in a foul mood and said he’d been working since half five that morning.’

Archer raises his eyebrows and stares pointedly at Frank.

Beth continues. ‘I got in early myself. He was already here. We were both in the office well before seven and we didn’t leave for Maddie’s until later.’

Frank’s anger evaporates, replaced by concentration. ‘Dinkel. Check the station entry records. Everyone uses their security pass to get through the staff doors and the system logs the time. Then check when Archer logged onto his computer.’

‘Sir.’

Dinkel hurries to his desk. The office falls silent apart from the rapid click-clack of the keyboard.

Frank remains eyeball to eyeball with Archer.

‘Well?’ Frank asks.

‘Give me a chance, sir.’ More clicking. ‘Right. His pass opened the staff entrance at 5:27 am.’

‘Computer?’

‘Logged onto the CID workstation at 5:31.’ Dinkel scrolls. ‘And there’s activity on his account throughout the morning. Case update saved at 6:29… another at 6:47.’

Frank purses his lips.

Beth looks back and forth between Archer and Frank. ‘Sophie’s Apple Watch data puts her at Thorlby Swing Bridge at 6:33. The attack happened not long after that.’

Frank exhales slowly. ‘Good.’

‘Good?’ Archer says.

‘Yes. Good. I’m glad I was wrong.’

‘A minute ago I was Britain’s Most Wanted.’

‘A minute ago you were a copper who’d lied to my face about where he was at the precise time a woman was attacked.’

‘I told you why.’

‘And I understand why. Doesn’t mean I had the luxury of ignoring it.’

Archer stares at him for several seconds, still furious.

‘Get over yourself, Andy. This is no time for wounded pride or delicate egos.’ Frank picks up a file from his desk and holds it towards him. ‘You’re back on the case.’

Archer doesn’t take it. ‘Are you joking?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

‘You’ve just spent five minutes accusing me of being a serial rapist.’

‘And now I know you’re not. I apologise. I was wrong.’ Frank pushes the file into his chest. ‘Memory tells me you used to be a good copper once upon a time. Prove to me you still have what it takes. We’ve got three women attacked in less than a week, one of them fighting for her life. You can hate me later.’

Archer takes the file.

Frank nods. ‘Good. Right, we have a bastard to catch.’

44

Prisha opens the double doors, steps onto the bow with the camera around her neck and takes a few photographs of the countryside. She rolls her shoulders, enjoying the warmth on her face, and focuses further along the moorings. Zac emerges onto the back of his own boat and catches her eye.

Neither speaks.

A small nod from him. One returned from her.

Two relative strangers who happen to be staying on the same stretch of canal.

Prisha is about to go back inside when she hears the familiar putter of a diesel engine. King Cut Provisions appears around the bend, Max standing at the tiller, one hand resting casually on the brass rail.

She waves to get his attention. He eventually sees her and waves back. The sound of a bicycle bell distracts her and she turns around to witness Daryl Cooper speeding along the towpath on his bike.

He smiles and nods at her. ‘Nice day for it,’ he shouts.

She holds a hand up in acknowledgement and watches him quickly disappear out of sight.

‘Hmm.’

The provision boat nears, and Max throttles back. ‘Morning, Prisha. You after something?’

‘Possibly. I think my gas bottle’s empty.’

He guides the boat alongside and loops a rope over a cleat.

‘Already? Shouldn’t be. Hire companies usually send them out with a full one, or near enough.’

‘Well, the hob’s stopped working.’

‘Let’s have a look before I rob you blind.’

He steps across and lifts the lid to the gas locker, crouches, peers inside and gives one of the cylinders a cautious rock.

‘Plenty in that.’

‘So why isn’t it working?’

‘Could be the regulator.’ He reaches in, fiddles, then sits back on his heels. ‘These things can trip occasionally. Usually when somebody opens the bottle too quickly.’

‘I deny everything.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

He turns the gas off, waits a few seconds, resets the regulator and slowly opens the valve again.

‘Try it now.’

Prisha goes inside and turns one of the knobs on the stove.

‘Nope. Nothing coming through,’ she shouts back.

‘Bugger.’

Max joins her, wiping his fingers on the thighs of his shorts. He checks the cooker, goes back outside, fiddles again, then returns.

‘Once more.’

This time the burner catches with a soft whump and a ring of blue flame.

Prisha grins. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘I turned something off and on again. Not sure I’d qualify for Mensa.’

She laughs and puts the kettle on. ‘Tea?’

‘Aye, why not.’ He leans against the worktop. ‘What do you actually do when you’re not floating around the countryside on boats?’

‘Corporate accountancy. Tax.’

He pulls a face. ‘Oh.’

‘Exactly. I can see the excitement in your eyes. It’s a real conversation stopper.’

‘Sorry. Nearly fell asleep for a second.’

Prisha laughs. ‘That’s why I take photographs in my spare time. Something creative.’

He nods towards the stern. ‘Heard anything more about those attacks?’

Prisha keeps her expression neutral. ‘Apparently there was another one last night. Near Bradley.’

His smile disappears. ‘Seriously?’

‘That’s what I heard.’

‘Christ. That’s three now.’

‘Looks like it.’

Max shakes his head. ‘Getting nasty.’

‘You knew that lad who got thumped yesterday. Caleb.’

‘Aye. Known of him for years. Wouldn’t say I know him well.’ He scratches at his chin. ‘Odd bloke. But harmless, far as I’ve ever seen.’

‘He had women’s underwear in his bag.’

‘I know. Doesn’t look good.’ Max shrugs. ‘Still doesn’t make him a rapist.’

Prisha studies him. ‘You sound convinced.’

‘I’m not convinced of anything. Just saying Caleb’s been wandering these towpaths since he was a kid. Talks to himself, draws birds, feeds ducks. People think strange means dangerous.’

‘Sometimes it does.’

‘Sometimes it doesn’t.’

The kettle clicks off.

Max straightens. ‘Where are you heading next?’

‘Gargrave. Thought I might get out of Skipton for a bit. Somewhere quieter.’

‘Nice up there.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Doesn’t bother you? Three women being attacked?’

Prisha gives him a look. ‘I can look after myself. Believe me.’

‘I’m sure you can.’

There’s nothing patronising in the reply. If anything, he sounds impressed.

She pours hot water into their mugs. ‘You’re up and down here every day. Seen anyone odd recently?’

‘Apart from half the people who live on narrowboats?’

‘Very funny.’

He thinks. ‘That YouTube bloke’s been around a fair bit.’

‘What YouTube bloke?’

‘Jake Merrick. Does all that unsolved murder stuff. Mate of Maddie Lister’s. Always poking about, filming things, asking questions.’

‘Anything suspicious?’

‘Not really.’

‘How long have you had the business?’ Prisha asks, changing the subject.

‘Couple of years.’

‘Always wanted to be a floating shopkeeper?’

‘God, no.’ He smiles. ‘Uncle died. Left me a bit of money. Nothing life-changing, but enough to buy the boat. I fancied a change.’

‘He didn’t leave it to your mam or dad?’

‘Nah. They’re dead.’

‘What did you do before?’

‘Cleaning, mostly.’

‘Where?’

‘Local hospital.’

They chat for another five minutes until Max quickly finishes his tea.

‘Right, back to it. I have a busy day.’

She follows him onto the stern.

He turns. ‘Thanks for the brew.’

‘My pleasure.’

Smiles at her with soft eyes. ‘Oh, and when you’re next back in Skipton. That meal you talked about. If the offer’s still open…’

‘Depends.’

‘On?’

‘Whether you make me pay for the gas repair.’

Max grins. ‘It’s on the house.’

‘Okay then. You’re on. I’m sure you’ll see me around.’

He steps back aboard the boat, unties the rope and pushes away.

Prisha watches him go, deciding whether she actually fancies him or not.

She heads inside. Her mug of tea is beside the dinette. Camera on the seat. Canal guide open across the table. And underneath it, almost completely hidden by a handful of printed photographs, is her warrant card, one corner showing.

‘Shit,’ she mutters.

45

Dinkel is standing at the main whiteboard, writing in neat, almost architectural capitals.

Frank watches him for a moment. ‘Bloody hell, lad. Were you a signwriter in a previous life?’

‘I like things legible, sir.’

‘Clearly. No pun intended. Carry on.’ Frank opens his laptop and spins it towards Archer and Beth. ‘Before we start—something you two need to know. For the past few days we’ve had two officers undercover on the canal.’

Archer’s eyes narrow. ‘Who?’

Frank taps a key. Prisha appears on screen at her dinette table. Zac leans into view, his face far too close to the camera.

‘Morning.’

‘You sneaky bastards,’ Archer says.

Prisha grins. ‘Good to see you too.’

‘Right.’ Frank claps his hands once and turns to the board. ‘Dinkel—finish up, then everybody look and learn.’

Dinkel completes the last line and steps aside.

SOPHIE CATTERALL — 28
Monday 22 June, approx. 6:30–7:00 am
Running, Gargrave to Thorlby Swing Bridge — attacked on the return leg
Bicycle bell — blow to head — unconscious — raped
Underwear taken — section of fringe cut — aftershave / cigar-pipe smoke

FRIDA LARSSON — 24
Thursday 25 June, approx. 6:15 pm
Cycling west, just beyond the A59 road bridge
Attacked from behind — dragged from the towpath — ligature around neck
Bicycle bell — aftershave / cigar-pipe smoke
Fought back — escaped

MEGAN SHAW — 30
Friday 26 June, approx. 7:00–8:00 pm
Running near Bradley Swing Bridge
Found unconscious — welt around neck — underwear taken — section of fringe cut

Common: Canal between Gargrave and Bradley — lone women — bicycle bell — sweet tobacco — aftershave — underwear — hair
Three women. Five days.

The last line reads worse written down.

Nobody speaks for several seconds.

Frank steps forward and points to one word on the board—hair.

‘And that stays in this room. Same as it stayed quiet in ninety-five. Outside a handful of coppers and his victims, the only living soul who knew about the hair was Tyrone Dupas. It’s the one card we hold, so guard it with your lives.’

Archer studies the board, arms folded. ‘Three different stretches of canal. Two different methods of attack. Sophie’s put down fast with a blow to the head. Frida stays conscious and fights him off. Ligature around the neck. Megan’s throttled and dumped in the vegetation overnight.’

Beth leans forward. ‘Where does that leave Caleb Holt, sir?’

Frank takes a deep breath. ‘Released just before five yesterday. Home by half past, according to Caleb, his mother and his stepfather. All three swear he never left the house.’

Zac snorts through the laptop speaker. ‘Family alibi.’

‘Quite.’

Beth counts it off on her fingers. ‘Rubber cosh. Women’s underwear in his bedroom. E-bike. No alibi for Sophie. Puts himself on the canal the evening Frida was attacked, albeit in a different location. And parents alibi for last night.’

‘And less than three hours after we cut him loose,’ Archer says, ‘Megan gets attacked.’

‘Which is either monumentally stupid,’ Frank says, ‘or monumentally arrogant—’

‘Or he didn’t do it,’ Beth says.

‘That too. We have nothing to indicate he’s a smoker, and he doesn’t use deodorant, let alone aftershave. But that’s not enough to rule him out.’ Frank turns to the screen. ‘Prisha, Zac—anything we’ve missed?’

‘The times,’ Prisha says. ‘Sophie before seven on a Monday morning. Frida at quarter past six, Thursday evening. Megan between seven and eight, Friday evening.’

Frank sees it at once. ‘Nothing during working hours.’

‘Yes. Suppose he keeps conventional daytime hours. Not nine to five—earlier. Seven-thirty to half four, say. Trades, factory, depot, grounds maintenance. Something with an early start.’

‘Or self-employed,’ Beth says. ‘Somebody who picks his own hours.’

‘Or retired with quick access to the canal,’ Archer adds.

‘Maybe somewhere to clean up as well,’ Dinkel says, pen still moving. ‘Changing rooms. Showers. Overalls.’

Frank jabs a finger at him. ‘Good. Get it all on the board, Dinkel.’

Working theory — employed / self-employed / retired, early hours?
Access to changing/showers? Easy canal access

Frank taps at the board. ‘What we actually know. He attacks before and after work. He rides a bike nobody notices, rings a polite little bell, then uses extreme violence. And last night he struck while every copper in the district was out looking for him.’

‘He’s confident,’ Archer says quietly. ‘And Caleb doesn’t strike me as confident.’

Frank strokes his chin. ‘No. Quite the opposite. Our man is brazen, and brazen men make mistakes. We just need to find the one he’s already made.’

‘Or make him make another,’ Zac says.

‘Aye. That too.’ Frank starts dishing out the work, quick-fire. ‘Caleb stays front and centre until we prove otherwise. Dinkel—chase the DNA and everything seized from that bedroom. Beth—Megan and the hospital, anything changes, I hear it first. Archer—you’re with me on every man questioned so far. We dig into their employment record. Prisha, Zac—carry on exactly as you are.’

A knock at the door.

‘Come in.’

The desk sergeant steps inside. Something in his face sends a chill through the room before he opens his mouth.

‘Sorry, Frank. Bad news, I’m afraid. Just heard from the hospital. Megan Shaw passed away ten minutes ago.’

46

Frank has been staring at the Montecristo cigar box for the best part of five minutes.

Not looking at it exactly. Looking through it as though it was made of glass.

His forefinger pushes the wooden box six inches across the desk, then drags it back again. Back and forth. Back and forth. The soft scrape of varnished wood on cheap laminate is beginning to irritate Dinkel, although not enough for him to mention it.

Beth and Archer are out chasing enquiries. The incident room seems strangely hollow without them.

Dinkel looks across his laptop. ‘I didn’t know you smoked cigars, sir?’

Frank stops pushing the box. ‘Hmm?’

‘The cigars.’

He looks down at the box. ‘Oh, I don’t.’

Dinkel waits. ‘Then… why… the?’

Frank sighs. ‘Long story. When I requested a little chat with Tyrone Dupas, he agreed on the proviso I bring him a gift.’ Frank lifts the box up. ‘Montecristo cigars. Come in a box of three. Not bloody cheap either. Just a way for Dupas to exert some power. Mind games, Dinkel. Men like Dupas like to play mind games.’

Dinkel seems intrigued and walks over, picks up the slender box and lifts the lid. Takes out one cigar and scrutinises it.

‘Sir,’ he begins tentatively.

‘What?’

‘Last night. I was going through the Dupas archive.’

Frank grunts. ‘I thought I told you our priority was the current investigation.’

‘You also told me I could look at the old files in my own time.’

‘Fair point. Go on.’

Dinkel grabs his laptop, taps a few keys, then places it in front of Frank.

‘There was a photograph. One of the exhibits recovered during the Dawn Haslop investigation.’

Frank looks at the laptop reluctantly.

An old scanned photograph fills the screen. A ruler lies beside a smoked cigar stub on a white evidence sheet. Ash blackening one end. A faded brown-and-cream band remains wrapped around the other.

Dinkel contains his excitement. ‘It’s the same brand, sir. A Montecristo.’

Frank stares at the same yellow-brown band. Same white central medallion. Same wording.

‘Aye, so it is.’

‘The cigar stub was recovered from the canal towpath during the Dawn Haslop investigation. At Bank Newton, where we think she may have disappeared from.’

If Dinkel was expecting a hug and a rousing chorus of—For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow—he’s in for a shock.

Frank merely huffs. ‘Aye, found along with several thousand cigarette ends, chewing-gum wrappers, crisp packets and dog turds, no doubt.’

‘But it was retained as an exhibit.’

Frank looks at him.

Dinkel is warming to his subject. ‘If it’s still in storage, we could send it for examination. Saliva. DNA. Modern techniques are a lot better than they were thirty years ago.’

Frank sits back. ‘And if we get a profile?’

‘Compare it with Dupas.’

‘And if it matches?’

Dinkel hesitates. ‘Then we’ve linked Tyrone Dupas to the scene.’

‘No, we haven’t. We’ve proved Tyrone Dupas smoked a Montecristo cigar which ended up beside that stretch of canal at some point before a police officer picked it up thirty years ago. That’s all.’

‘But the timing—’

‘What timing? Did anyone see him smoke it on Bonfire Night 1995? Did anybody see him drop it? We don’t even know if Dawn was ever on the canal.’

Dinkel’s enthusiasm is quashed, which is not lost on Frank.

‘It’s a good pick-up, lad, and I admire your gumption. And yes, you could be right. Maybe Dupas did smoke it before he abducted Dawn. But even if we can prove it was in his mouth, it’s circumstantial. A very tenuous link at best. But keep digging—in your own time.’

A knock sounds, and the desk sergeant sticks his head round the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Frank. Got someone asking to see you.’

Frank closes his eyes briefly. ‘Who?’

‘Daryl Cooper.’

Frank recognises the name. Prisha mentioned him. The CRT volunteer scuttling about in bushes supposedly removing an invasive weed along the canal.

‘Send him in.’

A moment later Daryl Cooper enters carrying a GoPro in one hand and wearing the expression of a man bringing the Crown Jewels to Buckingham Palace. There’s a fresh red scratch running diagonally across his left cheek. And much to Frank’s disgust, he’s dressed in tight-fitting Lycra cycling gear.

Frank points to a chair. ‘Mr Cooper.’

‘DCI Finnegan.’

Daryl sits. ‘Thought you might want to see something.’

Frank looks at the gizmo in his hand. ‘What’s that?’

‘A GoPro. A small video-cam. I usually have it mounted to the front of my bike.’

‘Please don’t tell me you’ve filmed a narrowboat going through a lock backwards, or someone leaving a sluice gate open.’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘Okay. What have you got?’

‘I live in the old lock keeper’s cottage at Bank Newton. I’m retired but volunteer for the Canal and River Trust. The CRT.’

Frank is losing patience fast. ‘If you could get to the point, Mr Cooper.’

‘Ahem. Yes. Sorry. I like to keep an eye on things happening along the canal, and recently there’s been a lot of fly-tipping in one particular spot a few miles west of Gargrave. Bags of rubbish, old paint tins, even a bloody microwave last week.’

Frank’s right index finger is now drumming on the desk.

‘If this is about fly-tipping, then—’

‘It’s not.’ He holds the GoPro aloft. ‘I set this up in a tree last week.’

Dinkel looks interested even if Frank doesn’t.

Frank stares at him. ‘Mr Cooper, you do realise you can’t just go sticking cameras up on CRT land and secretly film everybody who walks past?’

‘It was to catch fly-tippers.’

‘Did you put up a sign saying people were being recorded?’

Daryl looks blank.

‘Thought not.’ Frank waves a dismissive hand. ‘I’m not the Data Protection Police, Mr Cooper. If CRT want to tan your backside over it, that’s between you and them. But unless you’ve caught someone dumping a dead body, I’m not particularly interested.’

Daryl’s smile broadens. ‘You might be interested when you see it.’

Frank wouldn’t know how to access a ProGo, or GoPro, if his life depended on it. He looks to Dinkel for help with the technology.

Dinkel takes the camera, removes the memory card and slots it into an adaptor in his laptop. A few clicks later, a video appears on the screen.

The viewpoint is surprisingly good. High enough to look along a decent stretch of towpath with the canal occupying the left third of the frame.

A green narrowboat is moored up on the bottom left, motionless. A red narrowboat, skippered by an elderly married couple, glides past. Nothing happens for several more seconds. Then a pigeon lands on the path.

Dinkel fast-forwards. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’

Daryl smiles. ‘It’s coming.’

A cyclist. Two dog walkers. A woman pushing a pram. Two teenagers larking about on e-scooters. Another narrowboat.

‘How long have we got of this?’ Frank groans, losing the will to live.

‘It’s motion activated,’ Daryl says proudly. ‘Only records when something moves.’

‘Is there not a setting that only records when something interesting happens?’

Daryl rubs at his neck. ‘I’m not sure the technology is that advanced that…’

Frank holds his hand up. ‘Joke. Get on with it, Dinkel.’

Dinkel speeds through clip after clip.

‘There,’ Daryl says. ‘Slow it down.’

A woman in shorts and a loose T-shirt emerges from the moored narrowboat and lowers a bicycle from the roof.

‘That’s Nancy,’ Daryl says. ‘Nancy Wilkes. Lives aboard part of the year. Nice woman. Mid-fifties. Keeps herself to herself. Understands canal etiquette. Unlike some.’

Nancy pushes the bike onto the towpath, climbs onto the seat and pedals out of shot.

Frank sighs, seconds away from a mini-explosion. He needs this distraction like a hole in the head.

Dinkel detects his impatience and advances the footage.

A few seconds later, the supply boat, King Cut Provisions, chugs into view.

Then chugs out of view.

‘Nearly there,’ Daryl says.

Ten minutes disappear on the timestamp in a matter of seconds, but still not fast enough for Frank.

Movement triggers the camera again.

A man enters the frame.

‘Here we go,’ Daryl says.

Frank sits up and pays attention.

The youngish man is tall. Slim. Backpack over one shoulder.

He walks past Nancy’s boat. Disappears. A few seconds elapse. The only thing keeping the camera rolling is the movement of the trees and the occasional bird flitting past.

The man reappears.

Stops by the boat.

Looks back.

Frank leans forward as the unidentified man checks in both directions again.

He steps from the towpath onto the narrow gunwale running along the side of the boat. There are indistinguishable items of clothing spread across the roof of the boat, presumably drying.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ Daryl mutters.

The man reaches up, grabs a handful of the smaller items and stuffs them into his backpack.

Frank’s indifference evaporates. ‘Stop.’

Dinkel freezes the image.

‘Back.’

The footage rocks backwards.

Frank moves closer to the screen. ‘Play. No. Back again. Can you enlarge his face?’

‘Give me a second.’

The image jumps larger and immediately loses definition.

Dinkel squints. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘What?’

‘I think I know him.’

Frank looks at him. ‘Who is it?’

‘Jake Merrick. The YouTube bloke. Unsolved murders, disappearances, old crime scenes. He did that video about Dawn Haslop. Maddie knows him. I’ve watched some of his stuff.’

Frank looks back at the blurred face. ‘You sure?’

Dinkel rocks the footage back again. ‘Pretty sure.’

‘Rewind. Play it again.’

Frank watches Jake reach upwards. Something dark appears on the exposed inside of his right forearm.

‘Stop.’

Dinkel freezes it.

‘Go back two frames.’

Click.

‘Forward one.’

Click.

Frank points at the screen. ‘There.’

Dinkel zooms.

The pixels break apart, but the tattoo remains just visible.

It’s impossible to make out definitively, but to Frank it looks remarkably familiar.

He feels a tiny tingle in his chest. ‘Well, well, well.’

Dinkel looks at him. ‘What?’

‘Caleb Holt. When I asked him to describe the man he claimed he saw dumping underwear, he described a tattoo. Right inner forearm. About four inches long. Vertical line, crossbar, chains hanging either side and two curved shapes underneath.’

Dinkel turns back to the screen. ‘Scales?’

‘Scales of justice.’ Frank points. ‘Can you sharpen that?’

‘I can try, but you can’t create information that isn’t there.’

Frank has no idea what that means. ‘Do what you can. Then copy the whole card before Mr Spielberg here accidentally wipes it.’

Daryl beams. ‘Told you I had something for you. A pervert in our midst. I was chatting to Nancy a couple of days ago, before I’d seen the footage. She happened to mention that she’d lost some underwear and assumed it had blown off into the water.’

Frank finally turns towards him. ‘You did well bringing this in, Mr Cooper.’

Daryl sits a little taller. ‘Thought you’d be interested.’

Frank’s eyes drift to the scratch on his cheek. ‘What happened to your face?’

Daryl touches it. ‘Oh, tree branch. I was pulling Himalayan balsam yesterday and didn’t see the bloody thing sticking out.’

‘Nasty.’

‘It will heal.’

‘Leave your details with the desk sergeant. And don’t delete anything from that camera.’

‘I won’t.’ Daryl gets to his feet looking immensely pleased with himself. ‘Do you think he’s your man? The Towpath Prowler, I mean?’

Frank shrugs. Obviously the news about Megan Shaw’s murder hasn’t yet filtered out into the community.

‘Leave the investigation to us, Mr Cooper. Thanks for your time.’

As the door closes behind him, Frank takes out his phone and taps at the screen.

‘Archer, it’s me. Where are you?’ A pause. ‘Right. On your way to the post-mortem. Good.’ He watches Jake Merrick reach for the underwear again. ‘If they recover foreign material, skin, blood, from under Megan’s fingernails, make sure I hear about it straight away. And get it pushed to the front of the queue for testing.’

Frank ends the call and nods towards the screen.

‘Dinkel, I want to know all about Jake Merrick. And get an address. And when you find that, get onto the magistrate. We need a search warrant pronto. It’s time we paid Inspector Clouseau a visit. Oh, and do a background check on our Mr Daryl Cooper.’

‘Cooper? Why?’

‘One—because I bloody said so, lad. And two—did you not notice the vicious scratch on the side of his cheek?’

The penny drops. ‘Oh, you think Megan might have scratched…’

‘It’s a possibility. And Cooper is a cyclist, retired, and lives on the canal.’

‘I actually thought he was really helpful. If he’s involved, why would he bring attention to himself?’

Frank stares at him. ‘The answer is in your question.’

47

Sunday 28th June—8:03 am

The station is subdued rather than silent, even for a Sunday morning. Dinkel is at his desk working through reports. Beth sits nearby, tapping quietly at a keyboard, while Archer nurses a mug of coffee and leafs through a file. The odd question passes between them, brief and low, followed by the rustle of paper or the click of a mouse.

Frank barely hears any of it. He was pleasantly surprised when all three turned up not long after he arrived at six, despite him telling them to come in later. Dinkel and Beth look fresh-faced and eager. Even Archer seems surprisingly energised.

That was two hours ago. Since then, Frank has retreated into his own private hell, a mug of tea slowly going cold beside him.

His mood is sombre. Grim. Dark.

He looks again at the overnight forensic reports open on the screen. One of them tells him absolutely nothing. There has been some cock-up with Sophie Catterall’s swab—contamination, processing, something buried beneath laboratory terminology—and they still don’t have the usable DNA profile he has been desperately waiting for.

Another delay. Another loose end.

The other report is different. Frank has read that one three times. Not because he doesn’t understand it, but because he does. He leans back and rubs a hand across his mouth, thinking again of Caleb Holt sitting opposite him in the interview room. The defensiveness. The lies.

And something else he noticed at the time but hasn’t yet mentioned to anyone.

He pulls up the recent mugshot of Caleb and lines it up beside the police photograph of Tyrone Dupas taken thirty years ago.

‘Christ,’ he mutters.

Dinkel and Beth glance across, but Frank doesn’t notice.

There are similarities. Differences too. No child looks exactly like their mother or father. Bits of both, usually. More of one than the other. But there is one unmistakable duplication.

He spotted it during Caleb’s interview.

The gap between his front teeth.

Exactly the same as Dupas.

At the time it had piqued his curiosity. Made him look twice at Caleb. Then at Caleb’s date of birth.

26 November 1995.

Frank had stared at that for a while as well.

Caleb was born two weeks after they arrested Dupas. Conceived, most likely, sometime in late February. A few weeks before the original Towpath Prowler’s reign of terror began.

And now the results in front of him confirm it.

The familial DNA match is conclusive.

Caleb Holt is the son of Tyrone Dupas.

Behind him, Archer says something to Beth. She answers. Frank hears neither of them.

He studies the two faces on the screen again. Thirty years between them. The same gap in the teeth.

The question is—apart from the similar looks and the teeth, what other traits has Caleb inherited?

Bloodline is dangerous territory. Frank knows that. A man does not inherit his father’s depravity any more than he inherits his criminal record. And yet nearly forty years in the job have taught him that nature cannot always be dismissed with a reassuring lecture about nurture. He has watched violence repeat itself through families. Watched sons become the very men they despised growing up. Watched the abused become the abusers. Watched the curse of suicide pass from generation to generation like a family heirloom.

Sometimes the apple rolls a very long way from the tree.

And sometimes it lands with a dull thud and takes root.

And what of Caleb’s mother—Yvonne?

She said she’d lived in Skipton all her life apart from a nine-month stint in Bradford.

Nine months.

Was she Dupas’s first victim and never reported it?

If so, it would explain her demeanour. A woman who takes no joy from life, merely tolerates it. A woman who battles with her memories every day when she looks at her son. And now, with Caleb the prime suspect, what demons does that resurrect?

There’s no greater force in nature than a mother protecting her offspring. Even if she suspects he’s tainted, that he carries the same warped genes as his biological father, she’ll protect him.

That’s motherhood. For better or for worse.

He jots the names down on a piece of paper.

Caleb Holt

Jake Merrick

Daryl Cooper

Each troubles him in a different way. Merrick and Cooper fit the profile of men whose time is largely their own. No clocking on or off for either of them. Caleb is a part-time worker. Another man with time on his hands. Caleb and Cooper know the canal well. Both loners in their own way. Merrick has an obsession with true crime. Whether it’s a healthy one or something darker, Frank intends to find out in a few hours, once they have the search warrant.

And there’s something else weighing heavily on Frank’s mind.

It’s a hell of a leap from stealing women’s underwear to rape and murder. Frank understands Prisha’s oft-repeated theory on escalation, and sometimes he believes in it too.

But in all his years he’s never seen it play out this fast.

No one goes from voyeuristic fetishist to rapist-killer in less than a week.

Which means the two may not be connected.

Something no one has yet considered.

Until now.

And lastly, he thinks of the undercover op. His two best officers effectively sidelined, casually cruising up and down the canal on the off chance they spot their man. It was the chief constable and Superintendent Banks’s idea, but one Frank had readily embraced.

Now it’s come back to bite him on the arse.

Dinkel excels at finding patterns in dense reports, pulling out connections others miss. PC Beth Renshaw is young and enthusiastic but lacks experience. And DS Archer is a functioning alcoholic, never the best qualification for critical thinking.

What Frank really needs is Prisha following some instinct of hers down an avenue that leads to a door no one else has knocked on.

And Zac arriving to kick it down with his size twelves.

They work well together—Prisha the scalpel, Zac the hammer.

His eyes settle on the DNA report again. The kinship analysis is conclusive.

Caleb Holt. Son of Tyrone Dupas.

For now, Frank will keep it under wraps. That confirmation does not move them one iota closer to proving Caleb’s guilt or innocence. And if he tells his team, sooner or later it will leak to the press. It always does. Especially when one of your officers has a habit of drinking more than he should.

Loose lips sink ships.

And that’s one clusterfuck neither he nor Yvonne Holt needs.

He looks up at the large clock on the wall. Always ticking. Always moving forward. Over the years he’s faced some formidable adversaries, but none as formidable as time itself. That’s one thief he’ll never catch, because in the end, it’s time pursuing him, not the other way round.

He closes the report, rises and reaches for his jacket.

Beth glances up, slightly concerned. ‘Going somewhere, sir?’

‘For a walk. Down by the canal.’

The other three look at one another.

He shrugs into the jacket and heads for the door. The room remains silent for a few seconds after he leaves.

Archer watches him exit the station. ‘Is he all right, Dinkel? Never seen Frank like this before. He’s barely said two words all morning. His spark’s gone. You don’t think he’s depressed, do you?’

Dinkel briefly looks up from his screen. ‘Oh no, don’t you worry about Mr Finnegan. He goes like that sometimes. Usually when he’s deep in thought. He likes to nut things out. Quietly.’

Archer raises an eyebrow. ‘I hope you’re bloody right. We can’t afford for him to go missing in action now.’

Dinkel smiles. ‘Trust me. He’ll snap out of it soon enough. Just you see.’

48

Frank nearly takes the door off its hinges when he returns an hour later. His three officers stop what they’re doing and look up in surprise.

‘Updates?’ he bellows.

Beth tentatively lifts a folded sheet of paper. ‘Erm… just got back with the search warrant for Jake Merrick, sir.’

‘Good.’ Frank flings his jacket at a chair and misses. ‘Let’s bring him in. Dinkel, get onto the managing director at the forensics lab.’

‘The MD?’

‘Yes. The head honcho. The organ grinder.’

‘But it’s Sunday, sir.’

‘I don’t care if it’s Pancake bloody Tuesday, lad! Get hold of him and put a rocket up his backside. I want those results from the Sophie Catterall swabs, and I want them yesterday. In fact, when you get the bugger on the phone, put him through to me and I’ll put the rocket up his arse myself.’

Dinkel adds it to his list.

‘Any developments from the door-to-door?’

Beth consults her notes. ‘Still ongoing, sir, and nothing that jumps out yet. They’ve also spoken to numerous people who were out and about near the canal around the time we think Megan went for her run.’

‘And?’

She winces. ‘Nothing of any note. There are still a few people they’re trying to trace.’

Frank looks at Archer. ‘Megan’s husband. Tom Shaw. Did you follow that up?’

‘Yes, Frank. I tracked down the Uber driver who picked him up on Friday night. He confirmed Tom got into his car at 6 pm. Same driver dropped him home again at 1:37 am Saturday morning. We have the digital record.’

‘And CCTV?’

Beth glances down. ‘Tom was caught on camera at various places around Skipton town centre with four other blokes, going in and out of pubs, sir.’

‘Good. I hate digging into a grieving husband, but it had to be done. You got a DNA sample from him, though? For elimination purposes?’

‘Yes, sir. And fingerprints.’

‘Good. We can all but rule Tom Shaw out. His DNA should confirm it.’ He turns to Dinkel. ‘What about Daryl Cooper?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Hmm. A cleanskin.’ Frank looks at Beth. ‘And you definitely checked Max King?’

‘Yes, boss. Nothing apart from a few minor motoring offences.’

He looks back at Dinkel. ‘Run Paul Holt through the system. Caleb’s stepdad.’

‘Right, sir.’ Dinkel adds another line to his list.

Frank hesitates for a moment, then stares at Archer. ‘You still here, sergeant? Shouldn’t you be halfway to Leeds by now to arrest Jake Merrick?’

Archer raises his eyebrows. ‘Me? I thought you might want to—’

‘No. You go. Take Beth with you. And Archer, arrange for five uniformed officers from West Yorkshire to meet you there. Make sure one of them brings the big red key. Knock twice. If Merrick doesn’t answer within ten seconds, take the bloody door off. Then get him back here ASAP. Fast-track him through custody and, once his duty solicitor arrives, get in there and put the bastard through the wringer.’ He turns to Beth. ‘And I want you in there with Archer. You can watch how an old pro operates.’

Archer visibly grows an inch and smiles. ‘Right. Onto it, Frank. Come on, Beth.’

They grab their things and rush for the door.

Frank calls after them. ‘And Archer—keep within the rules—but only by a cat’s whisker.’

Archer glances back. ‘I hear you, boss.’

Frank turns his attention back to Dinkel and points at the laptop.

‘Get Prisha and Zac on a video call. I need to speak with them.’

Dinkel looks down at his rapidly growing list.

‘What do you want me to do first, sir?’

‘All of them, lad! Bloody all of them!’

49

11 am

Sunday morning has settled warm and still over the Leeds terrace. Somewhere behind the houses, a blackbird warbles from a television aerial. Church bells carry faintly across the rooftops, competing with the distant growl of traffic.

Jake Merrick lies on his back in bed, hands clasped behind his head, feeling rather pleased with himself.

He’s already planning today’s video. The woman murdered beside the canal is perfect material. Fresh. Local. Horrific. Exactly the sort of thing his subscribers devour. If he can get down there mid-afternoon, shoot enough footage and have something uploaded by tonight, he’ll be ahead of the parasites who’ll descend on the story once the national press gets hold of it.

CANAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN has potential. Or maybe MURDER ON THE TOWPATH.

He’ll decide later. Thumbnail is more important. Police tape if he can get it. Flowers on the towpath. A close up of the attack site would be the jackpot.

He closes his eyes. Just another ten minutes.

A knock drifts into his sleep.

He opens one eye.

Was that my door?

Silence.

Probably next door.

He rolls onto his side and pulls the duvet over his shoulder.

Outside, DS Archer knocks again. Harder this time.

Beth stands beside him in jeans and a lightweight jacket, warrant folded in her pocket. Five uniformed officers fill the tiny front garden and spill onto the pavement behind them. One carries the big red key, its steel head resting against his thigh.

Archer glances at his watch.

Counts to ten.

Gets to six.

‘Right.’

The uniform with the enforcer steps forward.

‘Police! Search warrant! Stand clear of the door!’

The ram hits beside the lock with a tremendous BOOM.

Upstairs, Jake bolts upright.

‘What the fuck?’

The second strike tears the lock from the frame and throws the door inward.

Archer is through first.

‘Police! Stay where you are!’

Boots thunder into the narrow hallway. Beth follows him, two uniforms behind her. Archer takes the stairs two at a time, his knees complaining bitterly about the exercise.

A door opens at the top.

Jake Merrick appears in boxer shorts, hair flattened on one side, blinking down at them.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘Jake Merrick?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Archer reaches the landing. ‘Police. Jake Merrick, you’re under arrest on suspicion of theft.’

Jake stares at him. ‘What?’

‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘I haven’t stolen anything.’

‘Your arrest is necessary to allow a prompt and effective investigation and to preserve evidence.’

‘What evidence?’

Archer looks past him into the bedroom. ‘We’ll come to that.’

One of the uniforms takes Jake downstairs while Archer and Beth begin the search.

They don’t have to search for long.

Beth opens the wardrobe. ‘Sarge.’

Archer turns.

She’s holding a pair of women’s knickers between gloved fingers.

Archer comes across and looks into the bottom of the wardrobe.

‘Well, well.’

A pile of knickers and bras are bundled together. Different sizes, different colours.

‘Bag the lot.’

Beth crouches and pulls three pairs of gloves and a black woollen balaclava out.

Two eyeholes. One mouth.

She looks up at Archer.

He takes it from her and turns it over in his hands. ‘Interesting.’

‘Sophie thought her attacker might have worn a ski mask, sarge.’

Archer’s expression changes as he scans the room.

The cameras are everywhere.

Two DSLRs on the desk. A GoPro. Three small action cameras. Another fixed to a miniature tripod. Lenses. Memory cards. Batteries. External hard drives. A drone case pushed beneath the bed.

Beth slowly takes it all in. ‘Christ. Digital forensics will have their work cut out here.’

Downstairs, Jake starts shouting about solicitors and police harassment.

Archer ignores the protestations. ‘Get all of this photographed exactly where it is. Then bag it.’

Beth nods.

Archer rubs a hand over his stubble.

Frank wanted to know whether Jake Merrick’s obsession with true crime was healthy or something darker.

They may have their answer.

50

The three faces occupy separate boxes on Frank’s laptop screen. Prisha aboard one narrowboat, Zac on another, half a mile apart on the canal but united by the same look of frustration. And finally Frank, his ruddy face displaying plenty of its own frustration.

Dinkel sits at the neighbouring desk, ostensibly working, although Frank knows he’s listening to every word.

‘So,’ Zac says, ‘we’ve got Caleb Holt, Jake Merrick and Daryl Cooper in our sights. Plenty to make you suspicious of all three and not enough to charge any of them with the attacks.’

‘Pretty much.’ Frank hesitates. ‘And there’s one thing I haven’t divulged yet. We ran a kinship analysis on Caleb and Tyrone Dupas. Came back conclusive. Dupas is Caleb’s father.’

‘What the fuck?’ Zac gasps.

‘I know. I became suspicious when I noticed the same gap between the front teeth. There are facial similarities too. Caleb’s roughly the same age and build as his biological father was back then. Then I looked at his date of birth and started wondering.’

Prisha shifts in her seat. ‘It’s a bizarre connection, Frank, but in practical terms it means nothing. Nature and nurture—’

‘Yes, yes. I’m aware of that, Prisha. It proves parentage, not criminality. We can hardly stand in court and argue that Caleb inherited his father’s predilections. Nevertheless, I’ve known plenty of men who possessed their father’s temper. Or sense of humour. Evidentially, it’s no use to us. Privately, it’s something I’m bearing in mind.’ Frank takes a sip of tea. ‘And by the way, nobody’s privy to that information apart from me and you lot. We keep it that way.’ He glances at Dinkel. ‘That includes you, lad.’

‘Never heard a thing, sir.’

‘You’re learning fast.’

Prisha moves closer to the screen. ‘And Sophie’s swab?’

‘Still waiting. But I had a very forthright telephone conversation with the managing director of the forensic company ten minutes ago. By the time I’d finished with him, I think he was considering processing the bloody thing himself. He’s promised me they’re throwing everything they’ve got at it.’

‘When can we expect something?’

Frank sighs. ‘Tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

‘And at the latest?’

‘Who bloody knows.’

Zac interjects. ‘That’s crucial, Frank. It could rule Caleb in or out.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘And what about Daryl Cooper, our helpful CRT volunteer?’

‘No history. Means bugger all. Could be a late starter or just never been caught.’

‘He rides a bike and knows the canal like the back of his hand.’

‘Aye. And as for Jake Merrick…’ Frank looks at the clock. ‘He should be back here shortly to answer some very difficult questions.’ Frank rubs at his forehead. ‘We’re in limbo. Waiting for laboratories, searches, witnesses, digital evidence. Waiting for our man to make a mistake. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s waiting. It gives him the advantage. He’s proactive. We’re reactive. That’s not how you win.’

Prisha adjusts the band holding her ponytail. ‘Then stop waiting.’

Frank frowns. ‘Meaning?’

‘Flush him out.’

Zac gives a short laugh. ‘With what? A ferret?’

‘I’m serious. Look, the towpath is crawling with uniformed officers. He’s not likely to strike now. There’ll be very few women walking alone. If he’s got any sense, this is when he lies low.’

‘Agreed.’

‘We don’t want him lying low.’

Frank’s expression changes. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Bait him.’

‘With what?’

‘His ego. Three attacks in a week. He’s confident, maybe arrogant. He thinks he’s smart. He takes risks. So use that against him.’

‘And how do we do that?’

Prisha smiles. ‘Not us. You.’

Frank huffs. ‘I knew I wasn’t going to like this.’

‘Hear me out. Get a few local journalists together. Nothing grand. No cameras, no official press conference. A background briefing. Off the record.’

‘And tell them what?’

‘Diminish him.’

Zac shakes his head. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Tell them he isn’t clever. He’s been lucky and his luck is running out. Say he attacks women from behind because he’s weak. A coward. An inadequate creep with obvious sexual failings. Make him sound pathetic.’

Zac holds up both hands. ‘Whoa. Sorry to interrupt this meeting of the fucking lunatics, but aren’t I normally supposed to be the reckless one?’

Frank almost smiles. ‘You have a problem with the idea, Zac?’

‘Aye, a big fucking problem. Let’s say he rises to the bait. He attacks again. Successfully. Do you two have any idea what that means?’

Frank nods. ‘Aye. Fallout.’

Zac is incredulous. ‘Fallout is the under-fucking-statement of the century. The press will erect the crucifix and Superintendent Banks will nail you to it, Frank. Publicly. You’ll be finished. Kaput. They’ll hang you out to dry and let the seagulls peck at your bollocks until there’s nothing left but an empty, bloodied ballsack blowing in the wind.’

Prisha’s lips curl in distaste. ‘Thanks, Zac. That’s a mental image I’ll struggle to forget.’

Frank raises a hand. ‘Calm down. We’re discussing possibilities. Let’s walk through it properly. I think Prisha has a point. We could use this bastard’s ego against him, but only if we control the risk. At the moment we’ve got around twenty uniforms on bikes patrolling between Bank Newton and east of Bradley. Call it ten miles. The heart of Dupas’s old hunting ground. For now I’m working on the assumption he stays inside it.’

‘For now,’ Zac stresses.

‘Let’s say we halve the visible patrols. Put the others into plain clothes. Walkers, joggers, dog walkers.’

‘Great,’ Zac says. ‘One copper every mile.’

‘Hear me out. Prisha made another good point. There’ll be next to no women walking alone along that stretch. That reduces the risk enormously.’

‘And defeats the purpose. No potential victims, no attack.’

Prisha tilts her head. ‘Unless…’

Zac closes his eyes. ‘Oh Christ, here we go.’

‘Unless he changes his method.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Narrowboats.’

Zac rubs his face. ‘So help me God.’

‘I spoke to Maddie Lister this morning. She’d been talking to Max King. Most of the boats have already headed east towards Leeds or west into Lancashire.’

‘Again,’ Zac says, ‘doesn’t that defeat the object?’

‘I said most. Not all. I’m still here. Maddie’s still here. There are a handful of others. Before Frank’s briefing gets out, we identify every woman travelling alone in the target area and offer to put a female plain-clothes officer aboard.’

Frank nods slowly. ‘Protection.’

‘Exactly. So far, every woman he’s attacked has been alone.’

Zac stares at Prisha. ‘Don’t tell me. Every solo woman gets protection apart from you.’

Prisha grins. ‘You stole my words.’

‘Funny about that.’

Frank sits back. ‘It mitigates the risk.’

‘It reduces it,’ Zac says. ‘Doesn’t remove it. If he takes the bait, somebody could still get hurt. Or killed.’

Prisha clasps her hands together. ‘There’s a risk either way, Zac. Do nothing and he attacks again when it suits him. On his terms. Provoke him and we might influence the when and the where.’

Frank nods in agreement. ‘And perhaps the who.’

He ruminates for a few seconds before making his decision.

‘No. Zac’s right. Way too risky. We do it the old-fashioned way. As much as I want to catch this bastard, and as much as he’s playing us, we can’t rush these things. Investigations take time and diligent patience. The old ways may be slower, but they get results—safely.’

Zac gives him a thumbs-up. ‘Right choice, Frank.’

Prisha is less enamoured of the verdict. ‘You don’t catch a predator by chasing it. You make it come to you with bait.’

Frank sighs, the weight of the investigation taking its toll. ‘Noted, inspector. Oh, and by the way, Prisha, send me every photo you’ve taken since you started this malarkey.’

Prisha scrunches up her nose. ‘Frank, I’ve sent you every male who’s walked past me on the towpath. The rest are just me pretending to be a wildlife photographer.’

‘Send them.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

Prisha shrugs. ‘Fine. It’ll take a while. I have a connection, but it’s not strong. I’m in the arse end of nowhere, and there are hundreds of them.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t be going through them.’ Frank half-turns towards the neighbouring desk. ‘Dinkel will.’

Dinkel slowly looks up.

For a man who normally loves nothing more than a mountain of data, even he looks daunted.

51

By the time the interview enters its second hour, some of Jake Merrick’s confidence has evaporated.

He still sits with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, still occasionally throws Archer a look suggesting the whole thing is beneath him, but the performance is becoming harder to maintain. The interview room is hot and airless. Sweat has darkened the collar of Jake’s T-shirt and a damp strand of hair is stuck to his forehead.

DS Archer looks considerably more comfortable.

Beth sits beside him, saying little. Jake’s duty solicitor occupies the chair to his right, notepad open in front of him.

Archer picks up the evidence photograph again.

‘Let’s try this one more time.’

Jake sighs. ‘I’ve already told you.’

‘Humour me.’

The photograph shows the black balaclava recovered from Jake’s wardrobe.

Archer slides it across the table. ‘It’s a ski mask.’

‘Big deal.’

‘You ski?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Where?’

Jake shrugs. ‘Different places.’

‘Name one.’

‘France.’

‘France is quite a big place. Where in France?’

‘The Alps.’

‘That’s a mountain range. Which resort?’

Silence.

Archer waits.

It’s something Beth has noticed about him during the past hour. He is very good at silence. He asks the question then simply sits there, apparently happy to wait until Christmas for the answer.

Jake uncrosses his legs. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘You went skiing somewhere in the French Alps and can’t remember where?’

‘It was years ago.’

‘Of course.’

Archer places the photograph down and picks up another. Women’s underwear spread across Jake’s bed.

‘And these, found in your wardrobe?’

‘I told you. Girlfriends.’

‘How many girlfriends?’

‘I don’t keep a fucking spreadsheet.’

‘No?’

‘Some girlfriends. Some women I slept with.’

‘And they all left their knickers behind?’

‘Not all of them.’

‘Quite a few, though.’

Jake glances at his solicitor, then back at Archer. ‘People leave things.’

‘Keys. Phone chargers. Toothbrushes. I’ll give you those.’ Archer studies the photograph. ‘But fifteen pairs of women’s knickers?’

Jake says nothing.

‘And seven bras. Odd match.’

‘So?’

‘You must be bloody irresistible. A real Casanova. And are these women so desperate to get out of your place on a morning that they forget to put their underwear on?’

Beth lowers her eyes to hide the beginnings of a smile.

Archer slides another photograph across the table.

‘Black gloves. Skiing again?’

Jake’s nostrils flare. ‘They’re fucking gloves. Millions of people own gloves.’

‘True.’

‘So what’s your point?’

‘I haven’t made one yet.’

‘You’re trying to make me look like some kind of nonce rapist.’

The solicitor immediately turns towards him. ‘Jake—’

‘You’re the first person to use that word,’ Archer says quietly.

Jake seems to realise he has supplied the accusation himself.

Archer lets the silence do its work for a moment before turning his laptop around.

‘Recognise this?’

A video fills the screen.

Towpath. Narrowboat. Late afternoon sunshine. The image is distant but clear enough.

Jake watches himself approach the boat. ‘That could be anyone.’

‘It could be. But it isn’t.’

On screen, Jake glances around, then reaches onto the roof of the narrowboat.

His hand disappears and when it comes back into view, he’s holding various items, small and black. He stuffs them into his backpack and walks away.

Archer pauses the video.

‘What did you take?’

‘Nothing.’

‘We’ve just watched you take something.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘So you’re admitting it was you in the video?’

Alarm spreads across his face. ‘What? Yes, I mean no. I’m admitting nothing.’

Archer gives Beth an almost imperceptible nod.

Beth composes herself and begins. ‘Where were you between 6:30 and 7 am on Monday 22nd June, the morning Sophie Catterall was attacked?’

‘At home in bed. I’m a late sleeper. I work late into the night editing my videos.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘No. I was alone.’

‘And what about Thursday 25th June, between 6:15 and 6:30 pm? The evening Frida Larsson was attacked?’

Jake crosses his arms. ‘At home. Editing. Alone.’

‘And Friday the 26th, between 7 and 8 pm? The night Megan Shaw was murdered.’

Jake swallows and looks down. ‘At home…’

‘Editing, alone?’

He sneers. ‘Yeah.’

Archer slides a fresh photograph across the table.

‘This photo was taken on Thursday 25th at 5:18 pm. About an hour before Frida Larsson was attacked near the A59 road bridge. It’s date-stamped. Bottom right. That looks like you in the photo?’

Jake leans forward and squints. ‘Looks like me, but it’s not.’

Beth points at the man in the picture.

‘Very similar tattoo on the inner forearm. The scales of justice.’ She nods at Jake’s forearm.

Jake appears indignant. ‘Where did you get that photo from? You can’t just go around taking photos of people without their permission.’

Archer chuckles. ‘That’s rich coming from you. You make a living filming people in public without their permission. And as you’d be aware, permission isn’t required if a person’s in a public place. Now stop playing silly buggers, Jake. We know it’s you in the photo. You told us you weren’t there. You were. You lied. What were you doing?’

Jake huffs and pushes back. ‘I’d been to Thorlby Swing Bridge. Filming.’

‘Filming what?’

‘Where the first attack happened. Footage for a future video.’

‘Then why the lie?’

‘I’m not stupid. You’re trying to fit me up for the attacks. You think I’m the Towpath Prowler.’

‘And are you?’

‘Don’t talk daft.’

‘Where’s your gear?’

‘What?’

Archer taps the photo. ‘You were filming. You must have had a camera. In this image you don’t seem to have anything. No gear, no backpack.’

‘It was in the bushes.’

Archer and Beth look at each other.

‘In the bushes?’

‘Yeah. Look, I had a backpack with my drone and a couple of cameras in there. I hid it in the bushes.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to do a bit of reconnaissance along the canal. Get a feel for the place. It was hot. The backpack’s heavy. I hid it while I explored.’

‘Expensive equipment to leave in the bushes.’

A shrug. ‘It was safe.’

Archer returns to the video footage. ‘This woman you stole underwear from, were you aware she was travelling alone?’

Jake looks away.

‘Answer the question, Jake. Did you know she was alone?’

‘No.’

‘Had you been watching her?’

‘No.’

‘Following her?’

‘No.’

‘Did you steal her underwear?’

‘No.’

‘Have you stolen underwear from other women?’

‘No.’

Archer taps the photograph of the fifteen pairs.

‘Then where did these come from?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘Women conveniently abandoning their underwear in your bedroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fifteen times?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got a sexual fetish? Do you like dressing up in women’s underwear?’

‘Fuck off.’

The solicitor raises a hand. ‘Detective sergeant—’

Archer sits back. ‘Fair enough.’

His tone changes. Almost friendly again.

‘Let’s talk about something you do care about.’

Jake glares at him.

‘Your YouTube channel.’

Jake’s eyes sharpen. ‘What about it?’

‘Quite successful, isn’t it?’

No answer.

‘Pays the bills?’ Archer pokes.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘We’ve made a formal preservation request to Google, which owns YouTube, in relation to your account. Videos, uploads, associated data. Anything that may be relevant to this investigation.’

Jake sits straighter. ‘You’ve done what?’

‘We’ve also referred the channel to YouTube Legal.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we need to establish whether material connected to criminal offences has been recorded, uploaded, monetised or otherwise used through that account.’

‘You can’t fucking do that.’

‘I assure you, we can. And we have.’

Jake looks at his solicitor. ‘Can they?’

The solicitor chooses his words carefully. ‘The police can seek preservation and disclosure of material through the appropriate legal process, yes.’

Jake’s face drains. ‘You’re trying to shut me down.’

Archer shakes his head. ‘I’m not really interested in your amateur dramatics and half-baked theories about past murders. What I am interested in is the attacks on three women. One of whom is now lying in the hospital mortuary. That’s murder, Jake. Also rape and assault. Your answers today have been deliberately vague at best.’

He leans forward.

‘Now, if you’re innocent, tell us the truth. There’s only one person we’re after, and it’s the man who committed those crimes. If it’s not you, convince us. Then you can go home and we can concentrate on looking for the real killer.’

Jake says nothing.

‘But if we can’t rule you out, you stay in the frame and we keep digging. Twenty-four hours. Thirty-six if a superintendent authorises it. After that, we can go to the magistrates. So you might want to start helping yourself.’

Jake taps at the table as the pressure builds, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

Archer sees it.

The crack.

He pushes on.

‘Fifteen pairs of knickers. Seven bras. A balaclava. Gloves. Cameras everywhere. Footage of you taking something from the roof of a woman’s narrowboat. A YouTube channel obsessed with violent crime. Lying about being on the towpath an hour before a woman was attacked.’

He shuffles the photographs together, clearly out of patience, and turns to Beth.

‘I think we have enough, constable. There’s no point continuing with this interview.’

Jake’s knee begins bouncing beneath the table.

‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t attack them. I swear.’

Archer rises and pushes his chair back, dismissive.

‘Yeah. So you said.’

Jake wipes both hands down his face. His knee stops bouncing. The swagger is long gone. What remains is a frightened young man.

He swallows. ‘Okay.’

Archer hesitates. ‘Okay, what?’

Jake wipes his nose with the back of his hand and sniffs, his eyes wet.

‘I’ll come clean and tell you the truth.’

52

Frank looks up as Archer and Beth enter. Their expressions convey neither elation nor frustration. If he had to give it a name, it would be uncertainty. And in his book that means another loose end, an open question, something that doesn’t set the investigation back but doesn’t move it forward either.

‘Well?’

Beth drops into a seat while Archer tosses his notepad onto a desk and sighs.

‘He confessed?’

Dinkel glances up from his keyboard. ‘To the attacks?’

Archer shakes his head. ‘No. To stealing the underwear.’

‘What’s his story?’ Frank asks.

‘It’s all about his bloody YouTube channel.’

Frank frowns. ‘What?’

Archer finally takes a seat. ‘Yep. His silly bloody true-crime videos. A week or so before the first attack, he met Maddie Lister and filmed an episode about the disappearance of Dawn Haslop.’

‘Yes, we’ve all seen the video,’ Frank says.

‘Maddie mentioned her stolen underwear and she’d spoken to a few women who’d been walking along the canal and felt they were being followed or watched.’

‘Those were the reports I was involved in, sir,’ Beth says.

Frank nods. ‘I remember.’

Archer continues. ‘Anyway, Jake had the bright idea of adding fuel to the fire.’

Beth takes over. ‘He thought that if he went around stealing underwear, looking through portholes late at night, hiding in bushes, then it would add to the rumours building on social media.’

‘And why would he bloody do that?’

‘Because he’s used that very speculation in his videos. Is the Towpath Prowler back? Are women safe on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal? Women, don’t walk alone here. All titles of his recent uploads.’

Frank sits upright, his face reddening. ‘He did all that to boost his views?’

Archer and Beth nod.

‘To artificially create fear and unease simply so he could profit from it?’

‘Yes,’ Archer replies.

‘And do you believe him?’

Archer shrugs. ‘I’m not sure.’

Frank turns to Beth. ‘And you?’

‘I don’t think it’s him, but I’m not certain. He has no alibis for any of the attacks. He continually lied to us. He has the underwear, the gloves, the ski mask.’

‘But?’ Frank prompts.

‘He only started to crack when we mentioned applying to have his YouTube channel suspended during our investigation. That’s what he cares about.’

‘If he went that far, what’s to say he didn’t go all the way and commit the attacks as part of his little publicity stunt?’

‘I know. I…’ Beth shakes her head. ‘I’m in two minds.’

Frank rises and walks over to the whiteboard. He stares at the three suspects written there in marker pen.

‘Right. I want that bastard kept in custody. We’ve got twenty-four hours, so use every bloody minute of it. DNA, fingerprints, phones, laptop, cameras, cloud storage, bank accounts, vehicle movements. Everything. If we’ve still got grounds when the clock runs down, I’ll go to the superintendent for an extra twelve. After that, we go to the magistrates.’

Archer nods.

‘And charge him with the thefts,’ Frank continues. ‘Every one we can prove. Find out who those fifteen pairs of knickers and seven bras belong to. Speak to every woman he’s frightened, followed, watched through a porthole or stolen from. I want to know what else will stick.’

‘Harassment,’ Beth says. ‘Possibly stalking.’

‘Then explore it. Voyeurism as well, if there’s evidence.’

Dinkel turns from his computer. ‘What about wasting police time?’

Frank’s jaw tightens. ‘I want more than that. If he carried on playing his stupid little games after these attacks started, knowing we were hunting a real offender, I want us to make a case for perverting the course of justice.’

Archer raises an eyebrow. ‘That might be a bit of a stretch, Frank.’

‘Then stretch it.’

He looks back at Jake Merrick’s name on the board.

‘Because if he’s telling the truth, then every pair of knickers he stole, every bush he hid behind, every woman he frightened was designed to make people believe there was a predator on that canal. And when the real predator appeared, where did that leave us?’

Nobody answers.

‘Chasing shadows,’ Frank says. ‘Sorting his bullshit from genuine sightings. Pulling officers off one enquiry to follow up another. Wondering which frightened woman had seen our man and which one had seen Jake bloody Merrick playing dress-up.’

His eyes move to Megan’s photograph.

‘And while we were doing that, somebody killed her,’ he adds softly.

The room falls silent.

Frank turns around. ‘So yes, I want my pound of flesh. But more importantly, I want him off the board.’

Beth frowns. ‘Off the board?’

‘He stays in that cell and sweats. And he can’t lurk around towpaths, steal underwear or frighten another woman. And if our prowler strikes again while Jake Merrick is sitting behind a locked door…’

Archer gives a slow nod. ‘We rule him out.’

‘Exactly.’ Frank returns to his desk. ‘So for the next twenty-four hours, Mr Merrick is the safest bloody man in Yorkshire. Safe from us charging him with murder, and safe from himself.’ He sits down. ‘After that, we’ll see. The little shitehawk.’

53

Monday 29th June—11:07 am

The printer has been churning away for the best part of five minutes.

Frank sits at the end of the incident room table, watching sheet after sheet slide into the tray. Across from him, Beth is buried in her computer. Archer is out talking to witnesses, and the one thing Frank actually wants—the result from Sophie Catterall’s swab—is still conspicuous by its absence.

Finally, the printer falls silent.

Dinkel gets up, collects the stack and begins sticking the photographs to the wall with Blu Tack.

Frank idly watches him, a mild distraction from his troubled thoughts.

They’re the pictures Prisha has been taking from the boat as she works her way along the canal. Men walking dogs. Men jogging. Cyclists. Fathers pushing prams. Couples strolling in the sunshine. Locks, bridges, towpaths and, here and there, narrowboats moving through the background.

Dinkel works methodically, placing each photograph alongside the last, adjusting one if it sits a fraction too high, pressing down the corners.

Frank finds himself wondering if the lad has obsessive-compulsive disorder.

When the wall is covered, Dinkel steps back, studies his handiwork, then scratches his head. He’s obviously not happy with something. After a pregnant pause, he starts pulling certain photographs down again.

Frank raises an eyebrow. ‘You know, lad, there are easier ways of passing the time.’

Dinkel doesn’t seem to hear him, engrossed in his work, fussing over the photographs like a curator organising an art exhibition.

He picks up the photographs he removed and begins putting them back in a separate line.

Frank walks over and runs his eye over them.

Jake Merrick is in one. Caleb Holt in another. Daryl Cooper. Gavin Catterall. Paul Holt, Caleb’s stepfather. And many others as yet unidentified.

‘What am I supposed to be looking at, Dinkel?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Oh, good. Wouldn’t want to be wasting time while we have a killer on the loose.’

‘They’re the people Prisha photographed along the canal.’

‘I can see that. What I can’t see is why you’ve deforested half the Amazon and doubled the station’s electricity bill printing them all out.’

‘It gives you the whole picture, sir.’

‘You trying to be funny, lad?’

Dinkel frowns. ‘What? Oh, no. What I meant was when you flick through them on a screen you miss things. This way you can stand back and take the whole thing in.’

Frank looks again. Different days, different places. Men going about their business. Walking, cycling, standing beside locks.

Proof of precisely nothing.

‘And I’ve already noticed something,’ Dinkel says as he sticks the last image to the wall and taps it with his finger, then taps a second image, and a third, and a fourth.

In each picture, somewhere behind the main subject, is a narrowboat. Sometimes close. Sometimes little more than a shape in the distance.

Dinkel taps another. And another.

‘Same boat in every one of these shots.’

Frank studies them more closely.

Dinkel looks at him. ‘Don’t you find that odd, sir?’

‘Not really. It’s hardly—’

Behind them, Beth suddenly gasps. ‘Sir!’

Something in her voice turns them both around. She’s glued to her screen.

‘It’s in.’

Frank’s pulse quickens. ‘What is?’

‘The DNA profile from Sophie’s swab. The lab’s finally got a usable result.’ She clicks rapidly through another screen. ‘And they’ve fast-tracked Jake Merrick’s sample. We’ve got Tom Shaw’s elimination sample as well.’

‘Like waiting for a bus. Nothing, then three of the buggers turn up at once.’ Frank heads towards her. ‘Come on, then. Let’s hear it. This is what we’ve been waiting for.’

Beth doesn’t answer.

The excitement drains from her face, replaced first by a blank stare, then confusion.

Frank stops beside her. ‘Well?’

She keeps reading.

‘Have we got a bloody match to anyone or not?’

She looks up. ‘No, sir.’

A painful stab of failure hits him. ‘Neither of them?’

She shakes her head. ‘No match to Jake Merrick. No match to Caleb Holt. Nothing on Tom Shaw either. They’re all clear.’

Frank closes his eyes and groans. ‘Kiss my blue arse.’

54

Frank sits in the car one street away from the Holts’ house. Dinkel is in the passenger seat while Prisha’s voice comes through the car speaker.

‘I think we should do it, Frank. Jake Merrick and Caleb are out of the frame. What have we got to lose?’

‘Quite a lot, actually.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Beside him, Dinkel opens the glove box and starts rummaging through it. Frank glances across.

Prisha continues. ‘The photographs, the profile, what Zac and I have picked up along the way. None of it amounts to much on its own, but taken together—’

‘Taken together, it’s still bloody tenuous.’

‘Maybe. But the more I think about it, the more I think it could be him.’

Dinkel is still digging around in the glove box. Frank leans across and slams it shut, nearly taking his fingers off.

‘Sorry, Prisha,’ Frank says, glaring at Dinkel. ‘What were you saying?’

‘I still think the plan’s worth trying.’

Frank rubs at his jaw. ‘It’s high risk. If it backfires, the world as we know it may cease to exist. Or more specifically, my world.’

‘It’s your call.’

‘I’ll decide later today. We don’t have enough to arrest him on suspicion, let alone obtain a search warrant.’

‘You could ask him to come in voluntarily to answer some questions.’

Frank considers it. For about two seconds. ‘No. That would raise his suspicions. He’d destroy his trophies then buy ten bottles of bleach and a dozen packs of cleaning scrubs. Where are you and Zac now?’

‘Moored just east of Gargrave. I’ll stay here for most of the day, then head off late afternoon. I’ll moor up near the bottom lock at Bank Newton for the night.’

‘Keep Zac close behind.’

‘Yes, Frank.’ Her tone is mildly exasperated, like a teenage daughter replying to an overprotective father.

‘Anything else?’

‘One thing. The hair.’

Frank frowns. ‘What about it?’

‘You said only a handful of people knew Dupas cut locks of hair from his victims.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So how did our current offender find out?’

Frank looks through the windscreen. ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing.’

‘Might be worth speaking to Dupas again. And while you’re there, check the old employment records.’

Frank is silent for a moment. ‘All right. I’ll make the call. Can’t guarantee he’ll see me though.’

‘You still have the cigars, don’t you?’

‘Aye. Fair point. Bribery. Right, stay in touch.’

The line goes dead. Frank pockets his phone, then looks at Dinkel.

‘You got the photo?’

Dinkel holds up the envelope. Frank nods and starts the engine.

‘Good. And in future, stay out of my glove box.’

55

Frank parks outside the house and glances towards the garden, where Paul Holt is busy with a pair of secateurs, pruning flowers.

‘We’re in luck, Dinkel. He’s home.’

Dinkel nods. ‘Good.’

‘Wait until I’m inside before you show him the photo.’

‘Got it.’

Frank gets out, retrieves the plastic carrier bag containing Caleb’s laptop and mobile phone from the back seat, and closes the door.

They saunter towards the house and push open the garden gate, which squeals on its hinges.

Paul Holt looks over his shoulder and sighs wearily, but says nothing.

‘Mr Holt. Not at work today?’

‘No. Worked Sunday. Get time off in lieu.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘If you’re here to see Caleb, he’s at work. His shift finishes at five.’

‘Right. Is your wife home?’

‘Yes. She hasn’t been feeling well. Been off work a few days.’

‘Oh, dear. Nothing serious, I hope?’

Paul’s face hardens. ‘Stress. Brought on by you lot.’

Frank nods and looks down at the lawn. ‘Yes. I understand.’ He motions towards the open front door. ‘May I?’

‘If you must.’

‘Thanks.’ He turns to Dinkel. ‘Wait here, constable.’

‘Sir.’

Frank pushes open the door and pokes his head inside.

‘Mrs Holt?’

She appears from the kitchen. ‘Oh, God. What now? If you’ve come to arrest him, he’s not here.’

‘I know. Your husband told me. Actually, I’ve got some good news.’ He nods towards the living room. ‘Shall we?’

Yvonne leads the way and takes a seat with her back to the front window. Frank sits opposite.

‘What good news?’

‘We finally got the lab results back. Caleb’s in the clear.’

Her eyes widen and her clenched hands slowly loosen. ‘He’s… he’s in the clear?’

‘Yes.’

Frank leans forward and passes her the plastic carrier bag. ‘I expect he’s been missing these. Laptop and phone.’

She takes the bag and places it on the cushion beside her. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘As certain as we can be. We compared Caleb’s DNA with the DNA recovered from one of the victims. He’s in the clear.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ The relief escapes from her in one long breath. ‘It’s been a living nightmare.’

Frank hesitates, wondering whether to bring up the other matter at all. His gaze drifts towards the front window. Outside, Dinkel takes the photograph from the envelope and shows it to Paul Holt.

Paul studies it.

Then nods.

The two men begin talking.

Frank turns back to Yvonne and taps his fingertips together.

‘The DNA did tell us something else, though,’ he adds softly.

The concern returns immediately. ‘What?’

‘Have you heard of familial DNA?’

She closes her eyes and rocks forward. ‘Oh, God. You know.’

Frank says nothing.

‘I thought you might find out.’ She looks at him. ‘You’re probably here to have a go at me for not reporting it at the time.’

‘Not at all. We’re not monsters, you know. We do occasionally manage feelings like the rest of the population.’ He gives her a faint smile. ‘I was wondering whether Caleb knows.’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Of course not. How could I tell him his real father was a violent rapist?’

‘And your husband?’

‘No. I told Paul it was a one-night stand. Too much to drink. Some stranger whose name I never even knew.’

Frank nods. ‘I don’t like asking this, and you’re welcome to tell me to bugger off, but—’

‘Yes, he did.’

Frank pauses. ‘You don’t know what I was about to ask.’

‘He took my knickers and cut a chunk out of my fringe.’ Her mouth tightens. ‘Two days later, I moved into a friend’s flat in Bradford.’

‘I see.’ Frank gets to his feet and heads for the door. ‘If you ever wanted to make a complaint—’

‘No.’ She cuts him off. ‘I just want the whole thing to go away.’ She glances into the garden. ‘You won’t tell my husband, will you?’

‘No. You have my word. As far as Caleb’s concerned, our investigation is over. We’ll close it down and quietly file it away.’

He gives her a small nod.

‘Good day, Mrs Holt.’

Frank fastens his seatbelt as Dinkel presses the button to lower the side window and release some of the heat from inside.

‘And?’ Frank asks.

‘And what, sir?’

Frank is tired. Hungry. Thirsty. And he’s missing his wife, and his Whitby home. Digging deep, he reaches down into the well of his patience and refills the cup.

‘The photograph you showed Paul Holt.’

‘Oh. Yes, he knows him. But only casually. He confirmed they’d worked together for a short time. But there was never a friendship.’

‘Okay. We’ve killed two birds with one stone.’

‘Sir?’

‘Paul Holt knows nothing of Caleb’s true father. Which means neither does our main suspect.’

Dinkel shrugs. ‘I guess. And another thing, sir. I should have mentioned it earlier, but I’ve been so busy.’

Frank grits his teeth. ‘Get on with it, lad.’

‘The check we ran on Paul Holt. All clear. No history. And he has an alibi on the morning of Sophie’s attack. He was at work. I checked.’

‘Another one eliminated.’ He offers Dinkel a weary smile. ‘And then there were two. Time to lay the bait, lad. Let’s see if the rat takes it.’

56

Frank has chosen a table in the far corner of The Woolly Sheep’s beer garden, away from the handful of lunchtime drinkers sheltering beneath the umbrellas.

The day is warm and muggy, but the sunshine has gone. Heavy clouds are building over the rooftops, and somewhere in the distance thunder grumbles.

Opposite him sit three journalists he’s dealt with often enough to trust, as far as he trusts any journalist: two men and a woman, representing the Yorkshire Post, Telegraph & Argus, and the local paper, Craven Herald.

Pints sit in front of all three. Frank nurses a half of bitter shandy.

The woman from the Yorkshire Post looks around the table. ‘All very cloak-and-dagger, Frank. Should we have brought false moustaches?’

‘I thought you were wearing one.’

‘Haha. Very amusing.’

‘Only joking, Candice. You look lovelier than ever. Not a day over seventy.’

She kicks him under the table. ‘Watch it, Finnegan, otherwise you may be my next target in an undercover assignment.’

‘Now that would make very dull reading.’ Frank takes a sip of shandy. ‘Right, before we start, we’re clear on the rules. This is background. Off the record. You can use what I tell you, but my name doesn’t appear anywhere. Neither does North Yorkshire Police.’

‘Sources close to the investigation?’ asks the Craven Herald reporter.

‘That’ll do. And no recordings. Notepads, pens, and shorthand, if any of you can remember how.’

The three exchange glances and laugh.

‘Shorthand, Frank? That went out with the Dark Ages.’

Frank sets down his glass. ‘Right. The man we’re looking for thinks he’s clever.’

Pens and notepads appear.

‘He isn’t. He plans his attacks, covers his tracks and probably congratulates himself afterwards on how smart he’s been. But genuinely intelligent men don’t end up spending thirty years behind bars, which is where this one’s heading.’

‘You sound confident.’

‘I am. He’s made mistakes. He just doesn’t know which ones yet. We do.’

Another distant growl of thunder rolls across the town.

Frank continues. ‘Our assessment is that he’s a loner. Socially and sexually inadequate. The sort of man who can’t deal with women as equals, so he has to frighten and overpower them to feel powerful.’

The Telegraph & Argus reporter looks up. ‘That’s fairly strong language, Frank.’

‘I’m only just beginning.’

His pen goes back to the pad.

‘Strip away the planning and the theatrics and what have you got? A man who attacks women from behind. A coward. A bully. Someone who needs surprise and physical advantage because without them he’s nothing.’

Nobody interrupts now.

‘And like most bullies, he’ll fold when we get hold of him. They always do. All that power disappears once there’s a locked door between them and the rest of the world.’

Candice studies him. ‘You really believe that?’

Frank shrugs. ‘He’s a monumental loser who’s mistaken being lucky for being clever.’ He takes another drink. ‘But even a monumental loser wouldn’t be stupid enough to try it again.’

‘Why?’

‘Too much attention now. Too many police. He’ll crawl back into his hole and stay there until he thinks it’s safe. He’s spineless.’

‘For how long?’

Frank smiles. ‘Weeks. Months, maybe. Certainly not now. The inadequate little grub can’t be that thick.’

The three journalists look at one another.

The Craven Herald man slowly lowers his pen.

‘You do realise what sort of headline you’ve just given us?’

Frank picks up his glass. ‘What have you got in mind?’

‘Front page. I can see it now. CANAL COWARD TOO SCARED TO STRIKE AGAIN.’

He smiles. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

‘The question is, Frank, are you any closer to catching him?’

Frank pulls on his best poker face and buries the doubts gnawing away inside him.

‘Oh, yes. The net is tightening. We’ll have the bastard soon enough.’

57

The narrowboat chugs into view, its engine note carrying across the humid evening.

From the stone bridge, a figure watches through binoculars.

Keeping well back from the parapet, only the lenses and the top of a head are visible above the weathered stonework. The figure watches her holding the tiller, then ducks down as the boat passes beneath the bridge.

When she’s some distance away, the watcher rises and waits.

Five minutes later comes the unmistakable throb of another engine.

The binoculars rise again, pointing back along the canal.

Nothing at first.

Then movement.

The bow of another narrowboat rounds the bend in the distance, heading towards the bridge.

The focus adjusts.

The name painted across the side swims into clarity.

Mr Cheeky Chops

The binoculars disappear into a small rucksack at the watcher’s feet.

Beside it lies a coil of rope.

Old rope. Darkened with age and damp.

The figure picks it up and moves to the far side of the bridge, glancing once towards the towpath before crouching behind the parapet.

Slowly, carefully, one end is lowered into the water, then fed out as the figure walks across the bridge.

A glance over the side.

‘Perfect.’

It lies half-submerged across the canal, like a serpent ready to snake itself around a propeller.

The rucksack is picked up, and the figure slips away.

58

Frank scoops up the last succulent piece of meat and scrap of pastry with his fork and devours them. Leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, he checks his watch—6:07 pm.

He’s tired and looking forward to a pint or two before retiring to his room. Meera’s still on night shift, but she has a break around ten, so he’ll call her then—if he can stay awake.

He takes another look at the newspaper headlines already appearing online.

Yorkshire Evening Post
POLICE TAUNT CANAL ATTACKER: ‘YOU’RE A COWARD’

Telegraph & Argus
‘SPINELESS’ CANAL PREDATOR TOO SCARED TO STRIKE AGAIN

He knows from experience that the internet will already be abuzz with speculation and misinformation, people hammering the police, and innocent names being thrown around like confetti.

It was high risk. A smokescreen. And at some point he’ll have to deal with the fallout in the form of an incandescent Superintendent Banks. He’s surprised she hasn’t already been on the phone chewing his ear off.

But for now, explaining the leak can wait.

He picks up the menu and casually flicks through the pages, his eyes settling on the desserts.

Salted caramel chocolate pot, sticky toffee pudding, apple crumble…

‘I shouldn’t really,’ he murmurs, glancing around at the handful of diners enjoying a quiet evening in The Tempest restaurant.

A jagged flash of lightning splits the overcast sky outside. Seconds later, thunder comes barrelling across the Dales. Mist is already gathering beyond the windows.

He catches the waiter’s attention. ‘Excuse me. Could I order the apple crumble, please?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He pulls it out and looks at the screen.

Private Caller.

He taps the answer button and puts it to his ear.

‘Finnegan speaking.’

Silence.

‘Hello? Finnegan speaking,’ he says, louder this time.

‘Mr Finnegan.’

The voice is deep and slow, with an almost playful edge.

Frank recognises it instantly.

Tyrone Dupas.

He needs to play this cool, as though the call means nothing.

‘Tyrone. Bit late to be calling.’

‘I thought you wanted to chat, Mr Finnegan.’

‘I do. But not at this time of night, unless you’re happy to do it over the phone.’

A low chuckle.

‘No. Not over the phone. I’ve been caught out before.’

‘Fine. I’ll come and see you tomorrow. What time?’

‘No.’ A pause. ‘Tonight. Now.’

Frank closes his eyes and sighs. ‘Listen, Dupas, it’s getting late. I’m not in the mood for games. I’ve been on my feet all day. All I want to know is whether you’ve remembered a name. Or names.’

‘I assume you’re talking about the hair?’

‘Yes.’

Silence.

Frank waits.

‘Dupas?’

Nothing.

‘Are you still there?’

Several seconds pass.

‘Yes. I’m still here, Mr Finnegan.’

‘Well, have you remembered anyone you told about the hair?’

Another pause.

‘Tonight, Mr Finnegan. Or not at all.’

Frank clenches his jaw.

‘And don’t forget my reward.’

The line goes dead.

Frank stares at the phone for several seconds, then raises a hand and beckons the waiter over.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Cancel the apple crumble.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Frank pulls the serviette from his collar, tosses it onto the table and casts a woeful glance at the beer pumps rising above the bar.

‘Not tonight, Frank.’

He allows himself a wry smile.

Dupas thinks he’s in control.

He’s not.

59

Prisha pulls out two pouches of rice, tears the tops open at each corner and puts them in the microwave. After a quick stir and taste of the chilli, she takes a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours herself a modest glass.

She takes a sip and glances through the galley window towards the towpath. High above the Dales, ominous black clouds are periodically illuminated by distant flashes of lightning. It would normally still be broad daylight at this hour, but the gathering storm has turned the evening prematurely dark.

A low rumble of thunder echoes across the hills.

She takes another sip of wine and checks the chilli again.

For some reason, her thoughts return to the earnest conversation she had with Zac a few days ago about their ‘nearly’ moment.

It was the right thing to do. Draw a line under it. Nip it in the bud.

Still, it brings a pang of regret. Logic and reason are poor adversaries against desire.

At least everything is clear now. Out in the open.

Purely platonic.

Friends only.

The occasional drink after work. And when they’re working away together, it’s perfectly legitimate for them to share dinner.

Nothing wrong in that, right? They have to eat. Why eat alone?

Draining her glass, she twists her ponytail into a tight knot and picks up her phone.

A slight pang of anxiety.

Barely a signal.

A noise comes from outside, followed by the familiar tilt of the boat as someone steps onto the stern.

‘Permission to come aboard, Captain?’

‘Permission granted,’ she shouts back.

His feet appear first as he descends the steps. Then his legs, waist, torso—and finally his smiling face, eyes twinkling.

For a moment, there’s a slight awkwardness between them.

Then he holds up a bottle.

‘I brought Pinot Grigio.’

‘Great. My favourite. I’ve actually got a bottle on the go.’

‘No. Save yours. I’m the guest. We should drink mine.’

Prisha shrugs. ‘Fair enough. I hope you like chilli?’

‘Love it.’

‘It’s microwave rice, I’m afraid. Just a lot less hassle on a boat.’

‘Not a problem.’

Taps at the microwave. ‘I’ve made the chilli mild because I know not everyone likes it spicy.’ She places a tiny bowl on the dinette table. ‘I like mine hot. There’s extra chilli powder if you want it.’

‘Right. It smells wonderful.’

‘Thanks. The rice will be ready in ninety seconds.’

‘Great. I’m starving.’

A smile. ‘Excuse me a moment. I just need to powder my nose, as they say.’

‘I’ll pour the wine.’

He watches her go, then unscrews the top from the bottle and grabs two fresh glasses.

60

The journey to Bracken Moor High Security Psychiatric Hospital, on the exposed moorland north-east of Grimwith Reservoir, takes Frank around forty minutes. By the time he’s signed in, emptied his pockets—phone, keys, wallet—and passed through the various security checks, the clock is ticking past 7:00 pm.

The lightning and thunder have increased in frequency, but thankfully the threatened storm has yet to break.

As he’s led along the final corridor towards the interview room, he’s surprised to see Dr Conor Whelan waiting outside.

‘Doctor Whelan. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.’

Whelan’s chest rises as he draws a deep breath. ‘No. I’m not supposed to be. The duty manager called me. I thought it best to come in and supervise proceedings.’

Frank raises his eyebrows. ‘I see.’ Confusion curls through the words. ‘You couldn’t have left it to a junior?’

Whelan shakes his head. ‘No. I want to see this first-hand. It’s typical Dupas—getting everyone running around as though he’s the centre of the cosmos. What’s this about, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘He may have a name for me.’

‘A name?’

‘Yes. To do with our current investigation.’ Frank pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to him. ‘It’s not your area, but if you could search your system and tell me whether this man has ever worked here, either as an employee or contractor, it may help.’

Whelan unfolds the paper and stares at the name.

‘You’re right, it’s not my area. I don’t have access to that sort of information.’

Frank straightens. ‘I’m sure you can find someone who does.’

Whelan pockets the note. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll do my best.’

Frank nods towards the interview room. ‘Is he waiting?’

‘Yes.’ Whelan takes two items from his pocket and holds them out. ‘You’d better take these. He said you were bringing a cigar.’

‘Thanks.’ Frank takes the lighter and cigar cutter. ‘We’ll have a debrief afterwards.’

He follows the security guard towards the interview room.

Dupas performs the usual ritual, rolling the cigar slowly beneath his nose.

‘How was the drive, Mr Finnegan?’

‘Fine. The weather held off, but the fog’s getting thicker. By the time I leave, I dare say I’ll either be caught in a thunderstorm or driving through pea soup—or both.’

Dupas smiles and nods. ‘I miss driving.’

He picks up the guillotine, snips the end from the cigar with a neat squeeze, then flicks the lighter and turns the cigar slowly through the flame. He draws several times until the tip glows an even red.

Only then does he settle back in his chair, apparently satisfied.

‘So, what have you got for me?’ Frank asks.

Dupas takes another draw, smoke rising lazily towards the ineffectual extractor fan.

‘Everyone’s in a rush these days. I don’t miss that. Thirty years locked away can teach you a few things, Mr Finnegan.’

‘Such as?’

‘Patience. Mindfulness. The ability to take pleasure in silence and one’s own company.’

Frank knows the routine. If he wants the information, he has to play along with Dupas’s psychological manoeuvring. He clasps his hands and rests his forearms on the table, prepared to wait.

Dupas’s good eye roves slowly between Frank’s face and hands. There’s something unnerving about the way it fixes on things—too deliberate, too still—as though every detail is being catalogued.

‘You’re a gardener.’

Frank nods. ‘Yes.’

‘Your hands. A little rough. A few calluses. You don’t get those from signing off expense sheets and staring at a computer screen all day. Garden or allotment?’ He studies him more closely. ‘No, wait. Don’t tell me. Allotment?’

‘Right again.’

‘And you’re from Whitby, so I assume the allotments near the abbey.’

‘You know the place?’

A chuckle. ‘Google Maps. The internet is a truly amazing thing. The entire history of human knowledge is on there if you know where to look.’

‘I’m surprised you even have access to it.’

‘Tut-tut, Mr Finnegan. I need to keep abreast of the times. I’m looking forward to my freedom and I must be au fait with the modern world. It’s part of my rehabilitation.’

He places the cigar carefully in the ashtray, removes his glasses, then hooks a finger beneath the elastic of his eyepatch and peels it away, revealing the sunken knot of puckered scar tissue, pale and shiny beneath the fluorescent light.

‘I find it uncomfortable after a while. I hope my appearance isn’t too disagreeable.’

Frank shrugs.

The faintest smile crosses his lips. He picks up the cigar and takes a long draw, allowing the smoke to seep slowly from the corners of his mouth.

‘I saw the headlines. Your little ruse.’ A chuckle. ‘A rather obvious and clumsy attempt to tease your man out into the open. Do you think he’ll take the bait?’

‘Not sure. Would you have?’

Dupas considers the question, his tongue briefly pressing into the gap between his front teeth.

‘I’d have seen through it immediately… but I do like a challenge. So, possibly.’

Frank is growing impatient but hides it well.

Dupas twists the cigar around and around. ‘After your last visit, I did a little research. Newspaper archives are fascinating snapshots of their time. Nineteen ninety-five was a particularly traumatic year for both of us.’

Frank tenses.

‘I lost my liberty. You lost your daughter.’ He pauses to inspect the glowing end of his cigar. ‘I was playing with the thought. Which is worse—liberty or daughter?’

Frank’s hands ball into fists.

‘It was during the summer holidays. A crowded beach. You’d left her for barely five minutes. Went to get ice creams, I believe.’ Dupas smiles faintly. ‘I do enjoy a nice ice cream cone. Strawberry syrup on top. It’s been a long while since I had one.’

Frank says nothing as his anger froths.

‘When you returned, she’d vanished. Was she whisked away or carried out to sea? I suppose we’ll never know.’

He takes another draw.

‘It must have been hard for you. Blaming yourself. That can crush a man. The newspaper reports don’t go into detail, but I assume you had some sort of mental breakdown. Perhaps hit the bottle. Then some good soul took you under their wing and told you the best thing you could do was get back to work. And that’s how you ended up in Skipton. Searching for the Towpath Prowler.’

His smile widens a fraction.

‘The press do love a sensational name, don’t they?’

Heat floods Frank’s face as his jowls harden.

Dupas studies him.

‘Oh, my apologies. That was inconsiderate of me. It’s still raw, isn’t it, even after all this time?’

A slight shrug.

‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve never had children.’

Frank shoots a glance at the observation mirror and somehow reins in his fury.

‘Is this what you’ve been reduced to, Dupas? You brought me here on a false pretext just to taunt me. Pathetic.’

Dupas sniffs. ‘No. I simply found the story interesting.’

Frank leans across the table.

‘I could snap your neck like a twig before the guard even got the key in the lock,’ he whispers. ‘And believe me, I’m very tempted.’

For a split second, something changes in Dupas’s face.

Fear.

Then it is gone.

He relaxes. Grins.

‘But you wouldn’t. Because you have a moral code. Right and wrong. That can be such a handicap in life.’

Another puff.

‘However, we seem to have wandered off-topic. You’re after a name. Your investigation is going nowhere, this man is getting bolder by the day and you need my help. True?’

‘We’re closing in on him.’

‘That’s not what I asked, Mr Finnegan. You require my help, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Is that true?’

Frank nods.

‘I want to hear you say it.’

Silence.

‘Is it true?’

‘It’s true.’

Dupas’s tongue slides slowly across the gap in his teeth.

‘Good.’ He taps ash into the tray. ‘Then I shall give you a name. But first, I want it noted.’

‘Noted?’

‘Don’t look so confused, Mr Finnegan. The old cliché—there’s no such thing as a free lunch. I want it noted on police records that I assisted in your investigation. And if I’m right—and I’m confident I am—then when you catch this man, it will be because of information I supplied.’

Frank shifts in his chair. ‘I see. You think it’ll help at your parole hearing.’

Dupas chortles. ‘It can’t hurt. Now, do I have your word?’

‘You have my word.’

‘Very well.’ He rolls the cigar gently between thumb and forefinger. ‘I remembered yesterday. Whilst in the shower, of all places. A young man who worked here about three years ago. A cleaner. Quiet. Shy. Not particularly well educated, but naturally intelligent. A thirst for knowledge.’

Frank says nothing.

‘We began talking. Inconsequential things at first. Five or ten minutes a day—or at night, depending on his shift. Over time, we developed a rapport.’

‘His name?’

Irritation creases Dupas’s face.

‘Not so fast, Mr Finnegan. At least allow me to savour the cigar for a few more minutes. It’s the least you can do.’

Frank nods as he mentally chokes the life from him. ‘Go on.’

‘I began to educate him.’

‘In what?’

‘The classics, of course. I gave him homework. Of Mice and Men. The Old Man and the Sea. Animal Farm. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. He was like blotting paper. Soaked it all up.’

Dupas smiles at the memory.

‘And as time passed, he became interested in my own past indiscretions.’

Frank glares at him. ‘Past indiscretions? You make it sound like you spilt wine over someone while you were drunk. You attacked eight women that we know of. Raped six, and I know there were more. Those aren’t indiscretions.’

Dupas tilts his head and offers a grimace that almost passes for a smile.

‘Let’s not become bogged down in semantics. Do you wish me to continue or not?’

‘Yes.’

‘As I was saying, this young man became very interested in my past. At the time, I suppose it was a form of therapy for me. I’d never truly relived what happened. Not with the police. Not with the men in white coats.’

He glances towards the observation mirror.

‘It felt good to unburden myself. Cathartic. In some strange way, I believe it helped me put the past behind me. Draw a line under it.’

‘Bully for you.’

Dupas chuckles. ‘Don’t be like that, Mr Finnegan. We all make mistakes. And as I said during your first visit, I’ve atoned for mine. Thirty years is a lifetime.’

‘No, it’s not. Lifetime is until you’re dead.’

Dupas considers the response. ‘Huh. That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘Did you tell him about the hair? The fringes?’

Dupas fixes him with an unwavering stare.

For several seconds, he says nothing.

Then taps the cigar delicately against the edge of the ashtray.

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s the only person you ever told?’

‘Yes.’

‘Name?’

Dupas raises the cigar to his lips. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chats. We really must do it again quite soon.’

‘Give me his bloody name.’

Dupas removes the cigar from his mouth.

His pink tongue darts out and moistens his lips.

Then he smiles.

‘Max King.’

61

Prisha shakes the rice from the packets onto two plates and makes a well in the centre of each, then spoons two generous ladles of chilli on top. She turns and places them on the table.

He smiles up at her. ‘This looks wonderful.’

‘Sorry, but I have no cheese.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘Oops, almost forgot the wine.’

She turns her back to him, gathers the glasses and napkins, and sets them on the table.

‘Very civilised,’ he says.

‘One must do one’s best,’ she replies in an exaggerated Jane Austen voice.

‘Candles would have been a nice touch.’

‘Don’t push it. You’re lucky you’ve got a clean fork.’

He laughs.

Prisha takes her seat opposite. ‘Don’t be shy. Tuck in.’

He lifts a spoon, scoops up a portion and puts it in his mouth.

‘How is it?’

He chews for a moment, considering. ‘Just the way I like it.’

‘Not too spicy?’

‘No. It’s perfect, really.’

‘Good.’

Prisha dips a teaspoon into the bowl of chilli powder and sprinkles a generous amount over her own sauce.

‘Like I said. I like it hot.’

He watches her for a moment, amused. ‘Rather you than me.’

Outside, thunder rolls somewhere beyond the hills, followed by the first heavy drops of rain pattering against the roof.

He glances up at the ceiling. ‘Looks like it’s on its way.’

‘About time. I never thought I’d hear myself say I miss the rain.’

He reaches for his wine and raises the glass.

‘Here’s to you, Prisha. Bon appétit.’

She lifts hers, and they clink glasses.

‘Bon appétit, Max.’

62

Frank’s debrief with Doctor Whelan is predictably short.

‘Did you get all that?’

Whelan nods. ‘Yes.’

‘What can you tell me about Max King?’

‘Not much. I started here after he left. The duty manager vaguely remembers him. King was just another contractor working for a cleaning company. Everyone who works here is rigorously vetted, so there was certainly nothing in his background that would have prevented him from being employed.’

Frank reaches for his phone to call Prisha and Zac, only to remember it’s locked away in security.

‘Damn.’

‘What’s the matter, inspector?’

‘I need to call my officers. Tell them about Max King, but security’s got my phone.’

Whelan points towards the desk phone. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Thanks.’

Frank lifts the receiver, then hesitates.

‘What’s wrong?’

He stares blankly at the wall. ‘I don’t know either of their numbers. I just press their names on my phone.’

Whelan chuckles. ‘Ah, yes. Modern technology gives with one hand and takes with the other. In this case, our memories. Couldn’t you ring headquarters and get their numbers?’

Frank is already heading for the door.

‘You must be joking. It’d be quicker to repaint the Sistine Chapel.’

He hurries from the observation room, a security guard falling into step beside him.

Whelan calls after him. ‘DCI Finnegan. You’ll keep me informed, yes?’

Frank doesn’t reply.

63

Zac lies face down across the stern, one arm buried in the weed hatch as rain hammers against his back.

‘Come on, you bastard.’

His fingers find the rope again. Thick, sodden and wound tightly around the propeller shaft.

He yanks at it.

Nothing.

‘Where’s Dinkel when you bloody need him?’

Lightning flashes across the canal, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder.

Zac pulls his arm free and sits back on his heels.

‘I need a bloody knife.’

His phone rings.

He snatches it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Zac, it’s Frank. Where are you?’

‘Stuck in the arse end of nowhere with rope wrapped around the prop.’

‘Where’s Prisha?’

‘Ahead of me. Couple of miles, maybe. Bank Newton. You know that.’

‘Shit the bloody bed. I’ve just come out of Bracken Moor. Dupas confirmed the only person he told about the hair was Max King.’

‘Oh, fuck.’

‘This isn’t going as we expected.’

‘We still have Plan B, Frank.’

‘I wanted a fucking Plan A and a Plan B! That was the safeguard.’

‘Ring her.’

‘I have. Straight to voicemail.’

‘Yeah. Signal’s patchy out here. I’ll try.’ Zac looks towards the black canal. ‘And if that fails, I’ll get to her.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll run.’

‘Give me strength. Twenty-first-century policing and my detective sergeant’s going for a bloody jog. Right, I’m calling for backup. Bank Newton Locks?’

‘Aye. But it’s a long way from a connecting road. They’ll have to come in along the towpath.’

‘Okay. Enough talking. Get to her. Now.’

The line goes dead.

Zac tries Prisha.

Straight to voicemail.

‘Shit.’

He grabs his waterproof, pulls it on and jumps onto the towpath. Through the driving rain, a light glows from Maddie Lister’s boat farther along. He runs towards it and bangs on the side.

‘Maddie! Maddie!’

Nothing. He bangs again.

‘Maddie, it’s Zac!’

A curtain twitches. A few seconds later, Maddie’s face peers through the window, her expression tense.

‘Zac?’

‘Yeah. Sorry. I need your help.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I need your bike.’

‘What?’

‘Please. I need to get to Bank Newton.’

She stares at him, clearly unnerved. Zac realises how this must look. A man hammering on the side of her boat in the middle of a thunderstorm while half the canal is terrified of a prowler.

‘Sorry. Hang on.’

He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out his warrant card and presses it against the glass.

‘I’m police. Detective Sergeant Zac Stoker, North Yorkshire CID. I’ve been undercover.’

Maddie squints at the card then his face.

‘You’re police?’

‘Aye. Long story. I’ll explain later. Right now, I desperately need to borrow your bike.’

She hesitates. ‘Okay. The bike’s on the bow, under the canopy. It’s fully charged.’

He pats the side of the boat. ‘Cheers. You’re a lifesaver.’

Rushing to the bow, he unzips the canopy and hauls the bike onto the towpath, swings a leg over and switches on the light.

Maddie is now standing on the stern with a raincoat over her head, watching him.

‘Zac, what the hell’s going on?’

He turns the bike towards Bank Newton and pedals into the rain.

64

As they clink glasses, Prisha notes the generous measure.

‘You trying to get me drunk?’ she says with a mischievous smile.

Max grins. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’

She skulls half the glass and places it down as Max takes a sip of his.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘That wasn’t very ladylike, was it? I’m just so hot and thirsty.’

He shrugs and tucks into his food. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony for me.’

‘So tell me how you came by the boat again. I only got half the story.’

‘My uncle died and left me money in his will. I’m an only child, you see, and he didn’t have any kids. He wasn’t loaded or anything, but he’d saved a tidy sum. Enough for me to buy the business.’

Prisha pokes at her food and yawns.

‘I’d spent my life doing odd jobs. Menial work. Cleaning, handyman, that sort of thing. So when I saw the provisions business for sale I thought, why not?’

Another yawn.

Max looks up. ‘Am I boring you?’

Prisha’s eyes flutter. ‘What? Oh, no. Sorry. It’s me, not you. I’m just feeling very sleepy all of a sudden.’

‘It’s the heat and humidity.’

‘Yeah, I guess. Sorry, you were saying.’

He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand and blinks at the lamp. ‘I worked at the hospital, then left there and did a year at the brewery.’

‘Which hospital?’

He puts the spoon down. ‘Bracken Moor.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Bracken Moor. Now why do I know that name?’

‘Wacky World. That’s the nickname.’ He pauses. ‘It’s a psychiatric hospital. For the criminally insane.’

‘Ah, that’s right.’ Her eyelids flutter as she stifles another yawn. ‘That’s nice aftershave you’re wearing. What is it?’

Max stares at her, expressionless.

‘Kouros.’

‘Hmm… Sorry. I interrupted. And what about relation… relationships?’ She struggles with the word.

‘Sorry?’

‘Girlfriends.’

Max shrugs. ‘Nothing serious. Never seem to find the right girl. Or maybe it’s just me.’ He gives her a wry smile and wipes his top lip with the back of his hand.

Prisha gets to her feet and staggers towards the sink. ‘I think I need some water. And maybe a coffee.’

Max rises and moves beside her. ‘Let me help with that.’ He flicks on the kettle and spoons ground coffee into the cafetière.

Prisha gulps down a glass of water. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel so woozy. And tired.’

Max smiles benevolently. ‘Why don’t you relax on the sofa? I’ll bring the coffee over when it’s ready.’

‘Yes. Thanks. Good idea.’

Max chatters as the kettle begins to boil.

Prisha sprawls across the sofa and looks up. Max is staring at her. Gone is the genial good humour.

She points to the table. ‘Could you pass me my phone, please?’

He moves to the table, picks the phone up, then places it down again. Instead, he lifts his wine glass and in two large gulps swallows the contents.

‘There’s barely a signal out here at the best of times. During an electrical storm, you’ve no chance. Anyway, who could you possibly want to call when we’re having such a pleasant evening?’

‘No one. Just a friend.’

‘A friend?’ His smile widens. ‘Would that friend be your police colleague, Zac?’

‘What? How did you know?’

He chuckles. ‘I had my suspicions from day one. Then I saw your ID badge on the counter.’

She tries to push herself upright as Max wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and blinks rapidly.

‘Has the penny dropped yet, DI Kumar?’

‘What do you mean?’

He takes a step closer, breathing more heavily. ‘The Towpath Prowler?’

She glares at him. ‘It’s you?’

A grin spreads slowly across his face. He holds his hands beside his head and waggles his fingers like a clown at a kid’s birthday party.

‘SURPRISE, SURPRISE!’ he yells, making her jump. ‘Helpful Max. Considerate Max. Nice, dependable Max. You didn’t have a fucking clue.’

The grin vanishes. He pulls something from his pocket.

Prisha stares at the shiny silver object sitting in his palm.

He flicks the lever with his thumb.

Brrring. Brrring.

A bicycle bell. Bright. Cheerful. The sound of a paperboy on a summer morning.

He places it back in his pocket. ‘By the way, sorry about the wine.’

‘The wine?’

‘Yes. I spiked your glass. That’s why you’re feeling groggy. When I came aboard to fix your gas bottle the other day, you said you could handle yourself. I couldn’t take another chance. Not after that Swedish bitch hit me over the head with a bicycle pump.’ He touches his hair at the back. ‘Still have a bloody lump.’

Prisha sits upright, swaying slightly. ‘It was you who attacked the backpacker?’

‘Yep.’

‘And raped Sophie Catterall?’

‘That was me.’

‘And murdered Megan Shaw?’

‘Spot on again. They were all supposed to die. Call it first night nerves with Sophie. I thought she was dead. Imagine my horror when I saw she’d climbed back up to the towpath. Must admit, I panicked a bit. Then, because I’m smart, I thought I could use it as great cover. I came to her aid and called an ambulance. Her saviour. The Swedish bitch had a bit of fight in her, fair dues. And Megan…’ he chuckles. ‘Easy as.’

‘You sick, twisted—’

He wags a finger at her. ‘Ah, now, now, now. No need to get nasty. Anyway, don’t be so judgemental.’

He moves towards the couch with a slight wobble and stands over her.

‘You see, Dupas would never have thought of something this clever.’

‘What?’

‘All my women heard a bell,’ he says, watching her face. ‘And the police, being the police, assumed the attacker was on a bike. That’s where you put your effort—finding a cyclist who never existed. A classic misdirection.’

‘They’re not your women,’ Prisha spits.

‘Oh, yes, they are my women. I’ll forever keep a piece of them.’

She lurches towards him, but he pushes her back. He sits down beside her, heavier than he intended, and the boat rocks gently. His hand goes to her hair.

‘What are you doing?’ she mutters, squirming back into the cushions.

He pulls the bobble free. His voice softens.

‘We need to undo this ponytail. That won’t do at all.’

He brushes her hair with his hand until it falls around her shoulders, then carefully pulls a clump forward to form a long fringe.

‘There. That’s better.’

He fumbles in his back pocket and brings out a small pair of scissors.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Snip, snip,’ he chortles, with a twisted grin. ‘I’m the lock keeper.’

‘You’re fucked in the head, that’s what you are.’

‘Now, don’t be like that. You should be honoured. You’re my last one—for now. You see, Tyrone Dupas is such an arrogant, patronising prick. Thinks he’s top dog. Smarter than the rest. Well, he’s not. That loser was sloppy and got caught. Me? I’ll get away with it. And the icing on the cake—a female police officer mysteriously disappears, never to be seen again. Just like Dawn Haslop all those years ago.’

He pulls at the collar of his T-shirt and blinks repeatedly.

‘And tomorrow I’ll be helping with the search as concern mounts over your whereabouts. I’ll shy away from talking to the TV cameras. A lot of killers do that, and it never works. There’s always someone out there who spots something not quite right about them. And I’m not sure who leaked to the press, but oh, my—they’re in for a rough ride. Daring me to strike again. You thought I’d go for one of the other women alone on their boat. No doubt they’re all under surveillance. But you never imagined I’d come after you.’

‘Are you going to kill me?’

He leans forward, tilts her head up and gazes into her eyes.

‘Of course. Eventually. After we’ve had our fun together. But first, I need to move the boat. I have a very special place for you.’

‘And you’re doing all this to prove you’re better than Dupas?’

‘You’ve got to have a goal in life. Plus, once Dupas polluted my mind, I really did get a taste for it. It makes me rock hard. It’s an aphrodisiac,’ he adds, rubbing a hand across his crotch.

He spreads his legs and straddles her, scissors in hand.

‘First, the hair.’

He leans in, brushes the hair away from her neck and kisses her nape as she squirms.

‘We’ll be alone,’ he whispers. ‘In private. I want to take my time with you.’

65

Prisha waits until both his hands are occupied—one holding the scissors, the other gripping a thick section of her fringe.

He sways slightly and shakes his head.

‘Damn. It is hot,’ he mutters.

Picking the perfect moment, Prisha drives her left knee up with the force of a battering ram, straight into his balls.

A guttural groan tears from him. The scissors fall to the cushion and he folds in half, collapsing onto the floor clutching his groin.

Prisha springs to her feet. ‘How’s that for an aphrodisiac, Max? Okay, DS Archer. You can come out now.’

The bedroom door slides open and Archer steps into the galley, looking distinctly shaken.

‘Christ almighty, Prisha. You left that late.’

‘Did you get everything?’

He holds up his phone while Max continues writhing on the floor.

‘Watched the whole thing in real time. You wouldn’t think you could get such good quality from a tiny camera.’ He nods towards the innocuous plug in the wall.

‘Good. Handcuff him, arrest him and caution him.’

Archer pulls out the handcuffs, grabs Max by the scruff of the neck and hauls him to his feet.

‘Sorry about the wine, Max,’ Prisha says. ‘I pulled the old switcheroo. You’re going to feel groggy for a while. You were good. But not perfect. I asked you out for dinner the other day, but you declined as you were seeing your mother. Then the very next day, when you fixed my gas bottle, you said your parents were dead. That’s all it took to get me thinking.’

‘Hands behind your back,’ Archer barks, spinning him around.

As he turns, Max snatches the bowl of chilli from the table and flings it straight into Archer’s face.

Archer cries out and staggers backwards, blinded, swearing as he crashes into the table.

Prisha tries to squeeze past, but he’s blocking the narrow galley.

Max is already scrambling up the steps.

‘Get your head in the sink!’ Prisha yells.

She shoves Archer aside, turns on the tap full blast, then bolts for the door.

66

Zac is less than two hundred yards from Prisha’s boat when his headlight catches movement ahead.

A figure is running up the rise beside the first of the Bank Newton locks, slipping and recovering on the muddy towpath.

Zac eases off the pedals, squinting through the rain.

‘What the—’

Prisha appears on the stern of the boat.

She points towards the lock. ‘Slippery bastard escaped.’

Zac looks from her to the fleeing figure. ‘Aye, I’d gathered he wasn’t out stargazing.’ He twists the throttle. ‘I’ll get the twat.’

The bike surges forward.

The towpath climbs beside the lock and the mud fights him for every yard, but he’s gaining.

Max glances over his shoulder and runs harder.

Zac powers up the incline, tyres spinning erratically beneath him.

The gap closes.

He can hear him now—shoes slapping through puddles. Then it all goes quiet and Max is nowhere to be seen.

Zac brakes hard. The headlight sweeps across the lock, the towpath, the dripping hedgerows.

Nothing.

‘Max! It’s over!’

Only the rain. Zac puts one foot to the ground and listens. A slight noise.

Wood creaking.

His head snaps towards the lock.

Movement.

A shape ducks beneath a sagging length of plastic tape and hurries onto the narrow wooden footbridge crossing the lock chamber.

Zac pedals closer.

A metal sign is staked into the ground.

DANGER — BRIDGE CLOSED FOR REPAIR

‘Max! You can’t get away. Hand yourself in.’

Even as he says it, Zac realises how bloody ridiculous it sounds. He abandons the bike and runs towards the bridge.

Max stops halfway across, one hand gripping the rail, the windlass in the other.

Zac realises he must have snatched it from the boat. Solid steel, and heavy enough to do some serious damage.

‘Okay, Max. It’s over. Come quietly. You’re finished. Put the windlass down.’

Max turns. ‘Sorry, Zac. I can’t do that.’

Zac edges onto the bridge. It is barely wide enough for one person, rotten boards glistening beneath the rain.

Below, the lock chamber drops away into darkness. Water gushes somewhere near the gate.

Max stands motionless in the middle of the walkway as Zac advances one careful step at a time.

‘Come on, Max. Stop playing silly buggers.’

Something small and silver spins out of the dark. Zac flinches. It strikes him above the eye—a sting, absurd and trivial—then drops onto the plank with a bright, cheerful brrring!

Zac rubs at his head. ‘What the fuck was that?’

Max takes his chance and rushes him wielding a windlass.

Zac manages to raise an arm and parries the blow away.

The momentum spins Max around. Feet slide beneath him. He drops the windlass as he desperately claws for the handrail.

He stops himself from crashing fifteen feet below.

Until the creak and splinter of wood.

Zac sees his eyes, wide, terrified.

The rotten wood gives. Max reaches out.

‘Help me,’ he gasps.

Instinctively, Zac leans forward, arm outstretched.

Too late.

Max disappears.

The blackness swallows him before the sound arrives.

Not a splash.

A flat, wet crunch, chased by a scream with the pitch of an animal caught in a snare.

Zac peers into the gloom. The chamber is fifteen feet of black stone, streaming with rain. At the bottom, in four feet of water and decades of silt, Max King is flailing.

One leg is wrong—folded where legs don’t fold—as he drags himself through the shallows in circles, clawing at slimy, green walls and offering nothing, his voice bouncing off the stone.

‘Help me! HELP ME! I can’t—my leg—YOU HAVE TO—’

Zac stares down at him. His breathing slows.

No one would know.

A gurgling sound rises from below.

Then a splutter.

The desperate choking of a drowning man.

Zac watches with contempt as footsteps approach from behind.

‘Help him, Zac.’

Prisha.

He doesn’t turn around. ‘He took a swing at me. Lost his balance. Fell. Accident.’ Zac looks down into the chamber as the choking sounds become less frequent. ‘Another minute and he’ll be gone. One less wanker in the world.’

‘Help him. You need to get down there and lift him over your shoulder and bring him up. I’m not strong enough to do it.’

He gives a humourless laugh. ‘That bastard killed Megan Shaw.’

‘And if you stand there and let him drown, what does that make you?’

Zac looks at her.

She holds his gaze.

‘But no one would know, Prisha,’ he pleads quietly.

‘We would.’

Another choking gurgle from below.

Zac swears under his breath. ‘For Christ’s sake, Prisha!’

He moves from the bridge to the edge of the lock and spots the metal rungs set into the wall.

‘I can’t believe you want to save him.’

He lowers one foot onto the first rung.

Prisha watches him. ‘I’m not saving him. I’m saving you.’

67

Tuesday 30th June—7:30 am

The incident room looks exactly how Frank feels.

Knackered.

Coffee mugs litter desks, takeaway cartons overflow from the bin and nobody appears to have managed more than a couple of hours’ sleep.

Prisha sits opposite him, arms folded. Zac nurses a bruised forearm and a swelling above his eyebrow, while Archer’s eyes are still red and watery from the chilli. Beth stares into a mug of coffee as though hoping salvation might be lurking at the bottom.

Frank rubs at his face. ‘Right, heads up, everyone. Just received an update from the hospital about Max King.’

Zac grunts. ‘Let’s hope it’s bad news.’

‘Broken leg, fractured hip, assorted cuts and bruises. He’s under police guard and doped up to the eyeballs. Doctors reckon he won’t be fit for interview until later today at the earliest. More likely tomorrow.’

‘Shame,’ Zac says. ‘How are his testicles?’

Frank grimaces. ‘More like—where—are his testicles. From the video footage I saw, I assume they’ll be trying to extricate them from his neck.’ He looks at Prisha. ‘That was one hell of a blow, lass.’

She shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Runner’s legs.’

‘I’ll make sure I never get on the wrong side of you, otherwise I could be singing soprano for the local boys’ choir.’ Frank looks down at his notes. ‘So, the good news is we’ve got the galley recording. Picture and sound are both clear. Everything from Max King coming aboard to Archer making his grand entrance.’

Archer grimaces. ‘Followed by my less-than-grand exit.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Andy, chilli always makes my eyes water too.’

‘Funny, Frank. Very funny.’

‘You’ll survive.’ Frank turns a page. ‘Then there’s the search of Max King’s boat. Two pairs of women’s underwear and two locks of hair, individually bagged and stored away.’

The humour dissipates.

‘Forensics have got the lot. If those trophies match Sophie and Megan, and King’s DNA comes back against the swabs, then between that and the video, we’ve got him nailed down from every direction. Unfortunately, nothing came back from under Megan Shaw’s fingernails. Probably taken from behind by surprise.’

Prisha shifts in her seat. ‘She’d have never stood a chance. One more thing, Frank. That first theft from Maddie’s boat—weeks before Merrick ever met her, weeks before he started playing his games. That must have been Max King.’

‘Aye,’ Frank says quietly. ‘He was hunting long before any of us knew it.’ Frank looks around the room. ‘He’s our man. We got him.’

He pauses.

It should feel good.

It doesn’t.

‘We just didn’t get the bastard soon enough.’

Nobody says anything.

A woman is dead because somewhere along the line they were one step behind.

Frank picks up his coffee, discovers it’s clap cold and puts it down again.

‘One other thing. Credit where credit’s due.’ Frank glances at the wall. ‘Dinkel’s photo montage. The lad was onto something. He spotted Max King’s boat in half the bloody shots, which I wrongly dismissed. He was an inch from him before Prisha raised her suspicions, and long before Dupas confirmed his name.’

‘The boy done good,’ Zac comments.

‘Lastly, the coroner has been considerate, and released Megan’s body for burial. The cause of death was never in dispute. Megan Shaw’s funeral is this Friday at 11 am, St Mary’s Church, Bradley. I expect you all to be there to pay your respects. Smartly dressed. We’ll keep out of the way at the back.’ He turns to Beth. ‘Full uniform for you.’

‘Sir.’

‘Right. I know we’re all tired, but there’s still a lot of hard work to get through. Let’s gather all our evidence together. No mistakes. Then hand it over to the CPS. Okay, jump to it.’

Zac glances around the room and frowns.

‘Speaking of hard work… where the hell is Dinkel?’

Frank eyeballs him. ‘I’ve given him two days off. He’s gone fishing.’

They all stare at him as though he’s lost the plot.

‘As you were. Carry on rewardless.’

68

9:32 am

Dinkel squeezes the brakes and brings the bike to a stop.

He pulls the water bottle free and looks out across the countryside. He’s on one of the quietest stretches of the canal, between Bank Newton and Barnoldswick, close to the North Yorkshire–Lancashire border.

It’s already warm, with another scorcher forecast. Thankfully, last night’s thunderstorm has freshened everything up, releasing the sweet, earthy smells of wet hedgerows, grass, and soil.

He takes two gulps and wipes the sweat from his brow.

Clamped to the handlebars is his phone, displaying a modern GPS map. Folded inside his rucksack is something potentially more useful: a copy of an Ordnance Survey map from 1995, dug out for him by a local librarian.

Finding a narrowboat which may or may not have existed thirty years ago is his mission.

And he has two days. No more.

Mr Finnegan made that perfectly clear.

Dinkel suspects it’s also a test. His test.

He pulls the old map from his rucksack and unfolds it across the handlebars.

Thirty years have changed more than he expected. On his phone, housing estates, and industrial units spread across what were open fields in 1995. Farm tracks have become roads. Boundaries have vanished. Smaller holdings have been swallowed by larger ones or disappeared beneath bricks and bitumen.

He traces the canal westwards with a finger.

Everything rests on a hunch, built largely on Maddie Lister’s theories about Dawn Haslop.

In his spare time, it’s become something of an obsession. The more he turns it over, the more sense it makes.

If Dawn was on the canal that afternoon and somebody abducted her, how did they move her without being seen? A narrowboat would have been ideal.

And buried in the old witness statements is that half-remembered blue-trimmed boat called Otter. Or something like it.

A boat which, according to the original police searches, didn’t exist.

This stretch west of Bank Newton had barely featured in those searches.

Dinkel understands why.

If Dawn was abducted near Bank Newton and taken west by boat, her killer would first have had to work through the flight of six locks, then negotiate the painfully slow twists and turns beyond—the curly-wurlies, as boaters call them.

A lot of effort.

A lot of time.

A lot of opportunities to be seen.

Head east towards Skipton and it’s a much easier run, broken only by the occasional swing bridge and lock.

If you were moving a body by narrowboat, which direction would you choose?

The path of least resistance.

East.

Unless, of course, you knew that was exactly what everyone else would think.

Then you’d go west.

And after Dupas was arrested, the mysterious boat became little more than a footnote. Dupas had attacked women along the canal. Dawn had vanished beside the canal. The conclusion almost wrote itself. Except the police could never prove it. No body. No witness. No forensic evidence. Dupas denying everything. The investigation stalled, then slowly withered away.

Which is why Dinkel is here—unofficially.

Properly reopening Dawn Haslop’s disappearance would mean a formal review, superintendent sign-off, resources, budgets, old exhibits dragged from storage, forensic reviews, fresh statements—the whole bureaucratic circus.

Mr Finnegan isn’t asking him to solve a thirty-year-old case.

Just find something.

One loose thread.

One lead strong enough to justify reopening the case.

Dinkel studies the old map.

Three farms lie close enough to the canal to interest him. A trawl through archived local newspapers has provided another useful nugget: at various times, all three advertised storage space, barns for dry-mooring or outbuildings for rent.

He’s already checked two.

The first farm is gone. Where its farmhouse and barns once stood is now a housing estate of neat semis and cul-de-sacs.

The second has disappeared beneath a small industrial estate. Two possibilities. Two dead ends. His early enthusiasm waning.

One name remains.

Hartley Farm.

Unlike the others, it appears on both maps.

1995 and today.

Dinkel folds the map, pushes it back into his rucksack and mounts the bike.

‘Third time lucky.’

69

Dinkel closes the steel farm gate behind him, mounts his bike and navigates the potholed gravel driveway. The old farmhouse sits at the end of the track, a cluster of outbuildings and sheds arranged in a semicircle around it. Most are modern—large steel structures he assumes are used for machinery or grain.

He parks his bike against the farmhouse and knocks on the door.

No answer.

He knocks again.

Silence.

He scans the farmyard.

Not a soul. Not even the sound of a diesel engine.

‘Can I help you?’

The voice startles him and he spins around.

A man in his mid-fifties approaches, dressed in jeans, wellington boots, and a checked shirt.

Dinkel produces his warrant card.

‘Detective Constable Dinkel, North Yorkshire CID. I believe this is Hartley Farm?’

The man eyes him with a mixture of annoyance and weariness.

‘Caught the bastards, ’ave yer?’

Dinkel frowns. ‘Sorry?’

‘I filed the report two weeks back. Heard bugger all since. No doubt I’ll get no compensation and they’ll get a slap on the wrist. It’s not worth bothering the insurance company about. Not with the paperwork and the increased premiums next year. But it’s still money out of my pocket. Money I work bloody hard for.’

Dinkel scratches nervously at his neck. ‘I’m sorry, but I think we’re at cross-purposes.’

The man’s face hardens. ‘The diesel siphoned out of my tractor a fortnight ago. I take it that’s what you’re here about?’

Dinkel relaxes and inadvertently chuckles. ‘Oh, no. Nothing to do with that.’

‘Typical.’ The man sniffs. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Dan Hartley.’

‘Ah, just the man I wanted to see. You own the farm?’

Dan’s impatience deepens. ‘I do. Look, lad, I’m a busy man. Forty acres of winter barley stood ripening out there, shedding grain in this heat. Last night’s rain’s put me back a morning and I’ll not get a better week to cut it. So whatever you’ve got to say, say it, and say it quick.’

‘Right, yes. Sorry. I know this is a long shot, and it’s going back to 1995, but I believe your farm used to offer dry storage for canal boats.’

‘Still does.’

Dinkel hesitates. ‘Oh.’

‘Started with me fatha. One of his harebrained schemes.’

‘Is your father still around?’

‘Oh, aye. He’s still around. In the cemetery at Barlick.’

‘Barlick?’

Dan huffs. ‘It’s what we locals call it. To outsiders it’s Barnoldswick.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Dinkel glances towards the canal. ‘It’s about four hundred metres away from the water. How do you get narrowboats up here?’

Hartley juts his thumb to the west. ‘Boatyard a mile along. They crane them out. Back in Dad’s day, he’d stick a low-loader behind the tractor and fetch them himself. These days the yard delivers and collects.’

‘Ingenious.’

Hartley stares at him as though he’s an idiot. ‘Not really. It ain’t bloody rocket science.’

Dinkel looks towards the sheds. ‘So you carried on with the dry storage?’

‘Aye. Expanded it, actually.’

Dan points towards one of the larger steel buildings on the edge of the yard.

‘Purpose-built that one. Takes five narrowboats. Proper cradles, concrete floor, dry, secure.’

‘Worth doing?’

Dan gives a humourless laugh. ‘With farming you’re at the mercy of the weather, world grain prices, diesel costs, and supermarkets holding a gun to your head over what they’ll pay. Boat storage won’t make me rich, but it brings in a tidy few quid every year whether it rains, snows or the price of barley falls through the bloody floor.’

‘How much?’

‘Three to four grand a boat, depending on length. Five of them adds up. And once they’re inside, they don’t eat anything and I don’t have to muck them out.’

Dinkel smiles.

Dan doesn’t. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

‘I’m chasing a narrowboat connected to a missing-person case from 1995. I came across an old advert for your farm in the Craven Herald archives.’

‘Thirty years ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ.’

‘Do you have any boats that have been stored here for a particularly long time?’

Dan’s expression changes slightly. ‘There is one.’

Dinkel feels a twitch in his stomach. ‘How long?’

‘Longer than I’ve owned the place. Been here since Dad’s time.’

‘Thirty years?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Who owns it?’

Dan shrugs. ‘Couldn’t tell you.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Storage fees are paid through a firm of solicitors in Leeds. Craddocks, Shaddocks, summat like that. They pay every year, regular as clockwork.’

‘And nobody uses the boat?’

‘Not that I’ve ever seen.’

‘Nobody comes to check it?’

‘A bloke comes once a year. Same firm, I assume. Turns up, spends ten minutes looking it over. Checks the hull, has a poke around for rot, makes sure it’s still in one piece, then buggers off again. Bill gets paid a few weeks later.’

‘Same man every year?’

‘Never paid much attention.’

Dinkel’s pulse has started to quicken. ‘Is the boat called Otter? Or possibly Trotter?’

Dan grimaces. ‘Nah. Nowt like that. Summat to do with money, I think. Can’t rightly remember.’

‘Could I see it?’

Hartley studies him for a moment. ‘Suit yourself.’ His phone lets out a bright ping. He reads the message and grimaces. ‘Damn and blast.’

He shoves the phone back into his pocket.

‘Look, you’ll have to excuse me. One of the combines has broken down. More expense, and worse than that, if I don’t get that barley in today its yield’s going to be buggered.’

He points towards the large storage shed.

‘Boats are in there. The old one’s furthest along on the left. Feel free to have a look. Just shut the doors when you’re done.’

Dan turns on his heel and heads towards a quad bike with the hurried gait of a stressed man.

The large metal doors slide apart with a heavy rattle. Light floods into the purpose-built storage shed.

Dinkel steps inside and stops.

Five narrowboats sit side by side on steel cradles above the concrete floor. A raised walkway runs alongside them, giving access to each boat at cabin level.

Four are uncovered.

The fifth, furthest along on the left, is hidden beneath a large grey tarpaulin.

Dinkel starts with the nearest.

SUMMER BREEZE

Nothing.

The next is ELSIE MAY

Then NORTHERN SOUL

The fourth, SECOND CHANCE

None of them are blue. None of the names means anything.

That leaves the covered boat.

He climbs the steps onto the walkway and approaches it.

The tarpaulin is dusty, the fabric dulled with age. Dinkel grips one corner and pulls it back.

‘Blue,’ he mutters, his mouth already dry.

He moves along, folding the cover onto itself until the name painted on the cabin side is revealed.

The disappointment hits hard.

He stares at the letters as his excitement drains away.

Blue boat. Right age. Wrong name.

He lets the tarpaulin fall back into place.

Another dead end.

70

Dinkel closes the farm gate behind him and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

He’s hot, bothered and thoroughly deflated.

For a moment he considers the possibility that the boat once had another name. Painted over thirty years ago, perhaps.

Possible.

Proving it would be another matter.

Forensics might be able to examine the paintwork, identify older lettering beneath the newer coats, perhaps even recover something useful from inside.

Then Superintendent Banks enters his thoughts. Conservative at the best of times. The Praetorian Guard of the police budget.

Would she authorise a forensic team to crawl over a thirty-year-old narrowboat on the strength of what?

It’s old.

It’s blue.

That’s about it.

Dinkel sighs. No chance. The boat shed had been his only real lead and it has taken him precisely nowhere.

Mission over.

He mounts the bike and pushes off along the towpath. A hundred yards along, something nags at him.

The name of the boat.

He pedals on.

Why does it bother him?

He squeezes the brakes hard. The tyres skid across the path and the back wheel slews sideways. For one alarming second he thinks he’s going into the canal.

He plants both feet on the ground.

‘Wait.’

His heart begins to thump.

‘I remember Mr Finnegan saying that Dupas won the lottery.’

He stares back towards the farm.

‘Oh, bloody hell.’

Minutes later, he’s back inside the storage shed.

He climbs onto the walkway and pulls the tarpaulin away from the old boat.

The faded lettering stares back at him.

LOTTERY WIN

He moves closer and places his hands over the first and last letters.

What remains stops him breathing.

OTTER

‘Found you.’

71

Dinkel is feeling the heat in more ways than one.

It’s now mid-afternoon, the temperature nudging thirty-four degrees, and with the sun blazing down, a dozen officers to coordinate, Charlene Marsden’s forensic team to contend with and an increasingly irate farmer demanding to know when he can have his yard back, Dinkel is sweating physically and mentally.

The farmyard shimmers in the heat. Dust hangs in the still air. Somewhere beyond the buildings, a tractor drones monotonously across a field, while the metal skin of the storage shed occasionally creaks and pops as it expands beneath the sun.

To add another layer of complication, the farm falls within Lancashire Police jurisdiction. Their uniformed officers have cordoned off the yard and are guarding the entrances, but Dawn Haslop’s disappearance was investigated by North Yorkshire thirty years ago, so Frank has made it clear they retain the lead.

Frank himself is on his way.

Until he arrives, he’s told Dinkel to hold the fort, coordinate, and take no bullshit from anyone.

Which feels suspiciously like another test.

Zac is in Leeds, following up the solicitors who’ve apparently been paying the boat’s storage fees for years. Everyone else is still tied up with the Max King investigation.

Despite the pressure, Dinkel thinks he’s done reasonably well.

Warrant secured. Lancashire informed. Scene locked down. Everyone briefed. Nobody trampling where they shouldn’t.

The only person he hasn’t handled particularly well is Dan Hartley.

Dinkel has yet to master the dark art of dealing with gruff, plain-speaking Yorkshire farmers. And apparently, Lancashire farmers are cut from the same brash cloth. Being a southerner with a polite, middle-class accent appears to make matters considerably worse.

‘DC Dinkel?’

His thoughts are interrupted as a bunny-suited forensic officer appears in the entrance to the storage shed.

‘Yes?’

‘Charlene has something for you.’

His heart skips. ‘Right.’

He takes another gulp from his water bottle and heads over. The young woman raises a hand before he can enter.

‘Hood up, mask on, bootees and gloves.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

Dinkel pulls the hood over his head, fits the mask and shoe coverings, and follows her inside.

The shed is cooler than the yard, though still oppressively warm. Four narrowboats sit untouched on their cradles, isolated behind forensic tape. At the far end, LOTTERY WIN is surrounded by white-suited figures, equipment cases, and portable lights.

Camera flashes pulse against the aluminium walls. Dinkel climbs onto the raised walkway. The diminutive figure of Charlene Marsden appears at the stern.

‘Ah, DC Dinkel. I have something to show you.’

He follows her through the rear doors and down the steps into the galley. Sections of cupboards have already been removed and labelled, evidence markers dotting the cramped interior.

Charlene points towards a clear evidence bag resting on the worktop.

‘Probably before your time.’ She lifts it. ‘This is what driving licences used to look like.’

Dinkel leans closer and studies the faded green paper. Then sees the name.

‘Dawn Haslop.’

‘Yes. And date of birth matches.’

He peers at it again. ‘No photograph.’

‘They didn’t have photo IDs in those days.’

Charlene reaches for another evidence bag and holds it up. Dinkel blinks rapidly. A small lock of hair.

‘Found with the licence,’ Charlene says.

Dinkel looks around the narrow confines of the boat.

‘But no body?’

Charlene shakes her head. ‘Not yet. But there’s one place we still have to look.’

She leads him back onto the stern and out onto the raised walkway, then along towards the bow.

Two forensic officers are kneeling on the well deck immediately outside the front double doors. One has a high-powered drill trained on a metal inspection plate set into the deck.

‘Water tank,’ Charlene explains quietly. ‘Underneath.’

The whine of the drill fills the shed.

One fixing comes free.

Then another.

Dinkel watches as each is carefully bagged and labelled.

The final one gives with a metallic crack.

The officer puts the drill aside and uses a chisel along the edge of the plate to tease it free. It resists at first, sealed by age and years of creeping rust, before finally lifting with a scrape of metal against metal.

He shifts it carefully to one side.

Charlene hands him a torch.

The officer switches it on and shines the beam down into the water tank beneath the deck.

He leans closer.

Stops.

The torch beam remains perfectly still.

Dinkel feels a trickle of sweat run down his back.

The officer slowly looks over his shoulder.

‘You might want to see this, Charlene.’

She steps forward and takes the torch.

Dinkel follows.

A smell rises from the opening. Stale, enclosed air. Dampness.

Charlene crouches and angles the torch into the tank.

Dinkel sees fabric first.

Then something pale.

Bone.

The curved dome of a skull, hair still intact, lies partly obscured beneath what remains of the clothing. The torchlight glints off something metallic.

Dinkel turns his head away and swallows.

For several seconds nobody speaks.

Thirty years.

Thirty years she has been inside this boat.

Charlene’s voice is barely above a murmur.

‘Looks like we’ve found Dawn Haslop.’

Dinkel forces himself to look again.

All those searches. All those years. And she had been here.

‘Yes,’ he murmurs.

He lowers his head.

‘God rest her soul.’

72

Three days later: Friday 3rd July—11 am

The sun is already high by the time they reach St Mary’s, throwing hard shadows across the churchyard and turning the stone almost honey-coloured.

It is, Frank thinks, a beautiful day for something so bloody awful.

The six pallbearers carry Megan Shaw towards the church. The coffin lid is covered in crimson Sweet Williams. More of them fill vases inside: on the window ledges, beside the lectern, clustered around the altar. Their warm, spicy scent permeates the still air.

Tom Shaw follows behind the coffin. His face is grey, eyes swollen, as he walks between two relatives who seem to be holding him upright by sheer force of will.

The police contingent takes two pews near the back.

Frank sits with Prisha and Zac. Archer is beside them, then Dinkel, with Beth rigid in full uniform at the aisle end. Inspector Bell has come too, sitting a row behind, along with Daryl Cooper, the Canal and River Trust volunteer and, for a day or two, a prime suspect.

Nobody says much.

There is nothing useful to say.

Dinkel keeps his head bowed through most of the service. Once, during a reading by Megan’s sister, he presses his fingers hard against his eyes and sniffles into a handkerchief.

Frank notices, as does Prisha.

They exchange a look with each other, but neither of them comments.

They have all been here before, in one form or another. Frank, Prisha, Zac and Archer have stood at too many gravesides and watched too many families discover a simple truth—grief always says hello but it never says goodbye.

Dinkel is younger.

Perhaps that is why he looks shocked by the raw impact.

One man believes another human being exists for his gratification. And takes what he wants.

And now a woman is dead, a husband broken, parents are burying a daughter, a sister is bereft, and friends have lost someone they assumed would always be there.

That is the arithmetic of evil.

Bones laid bare.

It never stops with the victim.

That’s only the beginning.

As the final hymn begins, the congregation rises.

The organ fills the little church with the opening bars of Morning Has Broken.

Frank glances towards the stained-glass windows and the blazing blue sky beyond them.

The mourners sing.

Even Tom Shaw.

Barely audible, his voice breaking on every other line.

Frank cannot bring himself to join in.

There is always ritual, but there is no God.

If there was, then why is Megan’s cold body in a wooden tomb and Max King is lying in a comfortable prison cell?

Standing amongst the crimson flowers, he listens to everyone else sing about the coming of another morning, and the abundance of life—and hates every moment of it.

73

Frank takes his seat without a word. He’s still wearing the dark suit and black tie from Megan Shaw’s funeral.

Dupas notices. ‘You’re looking very smart today, Mr Finnegan.’

Frank offers a thin smile. ‘Thanks.’

Dupas studies the tie for a moment longer. ‘A funeral?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’

Nothing more. No sympathy. No curiosity.

Dupas rolls the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, then raises it to his nose and sniffs.

‘Not bad news, I hope?’

‘Aren’t funerals always bad news?’

Dupas offers a smug smile. ‘Depends on your definition of bad news. It’s a matter of perspective.’

He clips the cigar, lights it and takes his time getting it going with long, slow, satisfying puffs.

Frank waits patiently, which seems to please him.

‘You said you came to see me out of courtesy,’ Dupas says eventually.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe that. Courtesy could have been extended by telephone. Or through my solicitor.’ His good eye fixes on Frank. ‘Which means you have another reason for your visit.’

Frank says nothing.

Dupas tilts his head, quizzical. ‘I thought so.’ He draws on the cigar. ‘I assume Max King has been arrested?’

‘He has.’

‘Then I was right.’

‘You were.’

The smile broadens. ‘I imagine my assistance has been properly noted on the official police record?’

‘It has.’

Dupas settles back, visibly enjoying himself. ‘An excellent result all round, then. You catch a killer and I get another little tick against my name come my parole hearing. A win-win.’

Frank simply stares. ‘When did you remember him?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Max King. When did you first remember his name?’

Dupas watches him over the glowing cigar. ‘I told you. In the shower, the morning before your second visit.’

‘No. That’s when you decided to give me his name. I asked when you first remembered him.’

Dupas chuckles. ‘You really are becoming rather good at this, Mr Finnegan.’

‘You knew on my first visit, didn’t you?’

A nonchalant shrug. ‘What difference does it make?’ Dupas examines the cigar as if he’s only just noticed it. ‘Had I given you everything during our first conversation, there would have been very little incentive for you to return.’ He takes another luxurious draw. ‘And I do enjoy a Montecristo.’

Megan Shaw’s coffin flashes through Frank’s mind.

Tom Shaw.

The church.

The flowers.

The grieving family.

The silence as six men carried her down the aisle.

He leans across the table until his nose is almost touching Dupas’s.

‘A young woman is dead. A family shattered. A husband devastated. If you’d told me on that first visit, Megan Shaw would still be alive.’

Dupas’s expression barely changes. ‘Max King killed her. Not I.’

Frank’s anger bursts. ‘Megan Shaw is dead because you wanted another fucking cigar!’

‘No, Mr Finnegan. Megan Shaw is dead because Max King murdered her. I think it’s important we allocate responsibility accurately.’

Frank wants to reach across the table and smash his face into it.

Instead, he sits back.

Calms.

‘Sorry. You’re right.’

Dupas raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m not here to do your job for you, Mr Finnegan.’

Frank readjusts in his seat. ‘Let’s talk about Dawn Haslop.’

Dupas takes the cigar from his mouth. ‘Oh, dear. This is becoming rather tedious, Mr Finnegan. We both know it’s a fruitless discussion. Wasn’t there. Didn’t do it. Move on.’

Frank clears his throat. ‘Lottery Win.’

Dupas’s good eye twitches. ‘What?’

‘It’s a narrowboat. Belongs to you. You bought it for cash thirty years ago, after your lottery win. That’s what you named the boat. We’ve located the original owner. Of course, the boat wasn’t called that when he owned it. I believe it was called Albatross.’

‘There are thousands of narrowboats, Mr Finnegan.’

‘Blue trim. Stored at Hartley Farm, just over the border in Lancashire. Been there thirty years. Storage paid every year through a firm of solicitors in Leeds. A long-time arrangement. They send out a surveyor to check on the boat. You pay the solicitors by standing order. The solicitors pay the farm.’

Dupas gives a tiny shrug. ‘Owning a boat is hardly a criminal offence.’

Frank’s face hardens. ‘True. But abducting a woman, killing her and hiding her body in the water tank is.’

For the first time, Dupas doesn’t have an answer ready as Frank notices a faint sheen forming across his forehead.

‘What’s wrong, Tyrone? Cat got your tongue?’

He waits for a response but gets none.

‘Fair enough. Let me continue. Your fingerprints and DNA were found all over the boat.’

Dupas gives a false laugh. ‘Of course they were. It’s my boat. What were you expecting?’

Frank ignores him. ‘Along with other incriminating evidence. Dawn Haslop’s driving licence. A lock of her hair. And a Saint Anthony medal still attached to a chain around her neck.’ He takes a long, deep breath. ‘On the back it was inscribed—To Dawn, Love Mam and Dad. The irony, eh? Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.’

He pauses. Taps a finger on the table. ‘Of course, her parents are long gone. Went to their graves never knowing the how, why or the where. That's a burden I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Not even you.’

Dupas takes a nervous draw on the Montecristo.

‘All circumstantial, Mr Finnegan. Thirty years. Anyone could have had access to the boat during that time. I was locked up, remember. You’re clutching at straws.’

Frank blanks him. ‘And Dawn’s underwear. Preliminary DNA on the semen is a match to you, Tyrone. The full profile lands next week—but we both know what it’ll say. Oh, and a ligature still around her neck. The same type used on your other victims.’ He pauses. ‘You were in a rush. You made mistakes.’

Dupas glares at him, but the superiority has gone.

Frank leans forward and whispers. ‘You left her inside that boat for thirty bloody years, you cowardly bastard.’

Dupas’s fingers tighten around the cigar until it snaps.

Loose tobacco spills across the table.

Frank rises and calmly fastens the button of his jacket.

‘Tyrone Dupas, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the abduction and murder of Dawn Haslop. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm…’

Dupas’s right eye flickers uncontrollably as Frank reads out the caution.

‘You’ll regret this, Finnegan!’

Frank turns towards the door and knocks. ‘I doubt it. If you want your own solicitor, I suggest you call them now. DI Kumar and DS Stoker will be arriving shortly to formally interview you.’

Dupas jumps from his chair, raging, spittle frothing from his mouth.

‘I’ll get you, Finnegan! Do you hear me? I’ll make it my life’s mission to get out of here, and when I do, I’ll come looking for you. Your wife. Your family.’

As the door opens and security enter, Frank turns.

‘I’m looking forward to it.’ He raises his large hands. ‘See these? I used to be a boxer in my younger days. A good one. You never lose it. Please, come and find me, because I’d like nothing more than five minutes alone with you. That’s all I need. Believe me.’ He turns to leave. ‘It’s another warm one. On my way back I think I’ll stop off and treat myself to an ice cream cone with strawberry sauce.’

A final glance over his shoulder.

‘See you in court, Tyrone. And I’d scrub that parole board meeting from your calendar if I were you. That’s never going to happen. You’ll die in here.’

As Frank follows security, the shout reverberates down the corridor.

‘FINNEGAN! YOU BASTARD!’

74

Sunday 5th July

A light breeze drifts across the allotments, carrying the faint hush of waves breaking against the cliffs in the distance. It’s warm without being oppressive, the sort of morning that makes it difficult to imagine anything bad happening anywhere.

Frank drives the spade into the rich soil, takes off his jacket and hangs it over the handle.

He fetches a wooden tray and drops it beside the row, then bends and grips the green stems, easing the first plant gently but firmly from the earth.

A clutch of new potatoes dangles from the roots.

‘You little beauties.’

He gives the plant a shake, picks off the potatoes and drops them into the tray.

Working methodically along the row, he repeats the process. Once he’s taken everything hanging from the roots, he falls to his knees and works his way back, plunging both hands deep into the loose earth in search of the escapees.

This is the part he enjoys most.

Warm soil beneath his fingernails. Dirt ingrained into his palms.

No screens. No phones. No paperwork. No death.

Ten minutes later, the tray is overflowing.

He picks it up and gives it a gentle shake, loose soil raining back onto the ground, then tips his precious cargo into an old hessian sack.

Next come the peas and broad beans, followed by a couple of lettuces and a few early courgettes.

Passing the cherry tomatoes, he plucks one that has almost turned fully red and pops it into his mouth.

He chews thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. Nearly. Another week.’

At the gooseberry bush, he selects one of the larger berries and bites into it. His face immediately puckers at the sharp acidic bite.

‘And at least another week for you lot as well.’

A sweet, aromatic drift of smoke reaches him.

For a moment it transports him back to the claustrophobic interview room at Bracken Moor. He looks up.

Old Arthur is shuffling towards him, pipe clamped between his teeth, flat cap pulled low, bony wrists protruding from the sleeves of a moth-eaten jumper.

‘I see yer back, then.’

‘Looks like it.’

Silence settles between them, punctuated by the occasional soft pap-pap-pap as Arthur draws on his pipe.

‘Saw the papers. Rum do.’

Frank nods. ‘Aye.’

Arthur gazes contentedly at the distant ruins of Whitby Abbey.

‘Yer got the bugger in the end though.’

‘We did.’

Arthur scratches his cheek with the stem of the pipe.

‘Mind you, he’ll get life and be out in fifteen.’

Frank shrugs. ‘Happen as maybe.’

‘If I had my way, I’d hang, draw and quarter the bastard. An eye for an eye.’

‘If only.’

Arthur’s gaze falls on the freshly tilled patch of earth beside the strawberries. He lifts his cap and scratches his head.

‘Bit late to be putting seed in t’ground, lad.’

Frank raises an eyebrow. ‘Preparation for next year.’

Arthur doesn’t look convinced. ‘Hmm.’

‘By the way, Arthur, thanks for watering while I’ve been away. This lot would’ve curled up and died if you hadn’t.’

Arthur chuckles. ‘T’weren’t me, lad. It were your Meera.’

‘Meera?’

‘Aye. She were up here every day while you’ve been off gallivanting around t’countryside. Gave everything a right good soaking, she did.’

Frank smiles. ‘First time for everything.’

‘Reet. I can’t stand around here nattering to you all day. I’ve things to do.’

And there endeth a typical Yorkshire conversation.

Frank watches the old man totter away, then stares at the aqua-blue horizon.

The niggling thought returns. The question Arthur asked him three weeks ago, which he’d swatted away.

Is it time to pack it in?

It’s taken him three long, hard years to knock his team into shape. Prisha, headstrong, razor-sharp, intuitive. Zac, moulded in Frank’s own image. Dependable, old-school. And Dinkel, a whizz with modern technology and a knack for seeing patterns in data that others miss. All different in their own ways, but now meshing together like well-oiled gears.

‘Maybe it is time,’ he murmurs.

The creak of the gate interrupts his reverie.

Meera saunters up the path. ‘Are you nearly ready, Frank?’

‘Just about, love. How was the Sunday service?’

‘Uplifting. Spiritual. I feel refreshed and ready to face a new week. You should try it sometime.’

‘I was in church only the other bloody day, if you’d forgotten.’

Meera realises her mistake. ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. That’s the only thing that can drag you in these days. Funerals.’

Frank shrugs. ‘I’ll spend plenty of time at church once they lower me into the ground.’

‘You’re such a cheerful soul,’ she replies, surveying the abundance of greenery around her.

Frank picks up the box of vegetables and hands it over.

‘Be a love and put these in the boot of the car.’

Meera pouts but accepts the load as Frank leans in and pecks her on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’ she asks, surprised.

He nods at the allotment. ‘For watering this little lot, and because I love you.’

Her face softens into a smile as she heads back down the path.

‘Don’t be long, Frank. I have the roast on, and I’m parked on a double yellow.’

‘I could give you a ticket for that.’

The gate rattles shut behind her.

Frank locks the shed and slips into his jacket.

‘One last thing.’

From his pocket he takes a packet of seeds, tears it open and scatters them across the freshly prepared soil.

A few gentle strokes of the rake cover them, followed by a light sprinkling from the watering can, the fine shower darkening the earth.

‘Next year.’

He lifts the lid of the compost bin and is about to drop the empty packet inside when the picture on the front catches his eye.

He pauses.

Crimson Sweet William

Megan Shaw’s favourite flowers.

The packet drops to the bottom of the bin as he replaces the lid.

Swinging the hessian sack of potatoes over his shoulder, he walks towards the gate.

THE END

Don’t panic. Frank is not retiring just yet. He and the gang return in Jackdaws Well, book 14 in the DCI Finnegan series.
Jackdaws Well→Read on.

JACKDAWS WELL

Two teenagers lost to the summer of ’69.
A secret walled up for over half a century.
A Yorkshire fishing village that remembers its curse.
And for DCI Finnegan… a murder older than his career.

Order Jackdaws Well

BEYOND THE LAST PAGE

Sign up to the Ely North newsletter and receive the free
DCI Finnegan prequel:
👉 Aqua Phobia

Explore the DCI Finnegan series here:
👉 Official Ely North Website

Or browse the series on Amazon:
👉 View the DCI Finnegan Series on Amazon

ONE SMALL FAVOUR

If you enjoyed this book, a rating or short review on Amazon or Goodreads helps enormously.

Paperbacks are available through all good bookshops and libraries via IngramSpark.

For enquiries: ely@elynorthcrimefiction.com