In the end it drives you mad.

Fifty-six.

OLIVE TREDWELL HAD had her name down for one of the new sheltered bungalows since the day her grandson had shown her the notice about them in the paper. She was ninety, she lived in a house with too many stairs, and although she hadn't had a day's illness in forty years, her sight was failing. The old neighbours had all died or moved away and the bigger houses had become flats. The streets were more down at heel than they had been, and it was not altogether safe at night.

She had spent six months getting rid of the acc.u.mulations of her long life, throwing away, giving away, taking to the charity shops. Her grandson had even made her several hundred pounds by selling things on eBay, things which she had not realised were of any value at all.

She had got him to drive her up to d.u.c.h.ess of Cornwall Close every week to watch the progress of the buildings. They were put together nicely, Anthony had said, and he would know, being in the building trade.

She had had the letter saying she had been allocated one of the bungalows, then another giving her the number 4. She had got rid of some more furniture and Anthony had gone with her to a huge superstore on the edge of Bevham, where she had spent most of her eBay money on new items. It was very different from the old post-war dark wood stuff and Anthony had been startled that she had wanted it, thinking her eyesight was even worse than she pretended.

'Nan, it's very Scandinavian you know, Swedish and that. Pale wood and checked covers. Do you think '

'I like it. Don't you?'

'I do, but well, it's not really . . .'

'. . . for someone of my generation. You'd be surprised. It isn't even very expensive, not for all new.'

'You do have to get someone to put the chest of drawers and things together everything comes flat-pack.'

'That's all right, isn't it? You can do that.'

Anthony wondered how much time he would have to give up to his grandmother after she'd moved. He hoped perhaps less. On the other hand she was ninety. The sheltered housing was a real plus. He'd dreaded having to come and live with her, if she refused to move and her health failed, but now he'd be able to carry on living in his flat in Bevham and come over to see her just not so often, not be tied to it. It was all systems go.

And then the first murder happened, followed so quickly by the second.

'Well, that's that,' Olive said. 'I'll just have to have the new furniture in here not that it'll look so well.'

'Listen, Nan, I agree with you there's no way you can move there yet, not for now, I wouldn't think of letting you '

'I wouldn't think of letting myself.'

'But once the police have caught him, which they will any minute now, and all the dust has settled, then you can go.'

'What difference would it make if they catch him or not?'

'Well, obviously '

'The place is tainted. It's got the mark of the devil on it. n.o.body in their right mind would dream of going there to live after what's happened, they'll have to tear the whole lot down and start again somewhere else. That's what they do. Remember Fred West? Remember Christie? Their houses were torn down and they didn't even build new ones on the s.p.a.ce, they left them like air. That's what they'll do here. Those bungalows will be haunted until they do and you don't think royalty would want their name a.s.sociated, do you?'

There had been no point in arguing with her about it.

The new Scandinavian furniture had arrived. New blue-and-white gingham curtains came as well, held by wooden rings on wooden poles, not by plastic clips on plastic rails, plus a lot of cheerful sunshine-yellow china and a bright red rug for the hall.

The remarkable thing was that now the old stuff had gone and the rooms were done, Olive was certain she could see better.

'It's made the world of difference,' she said to her grandson on the phone, the day everything was finished. 'What with that and the new light for the porch and the locks you got me. I don't really know now why I ever thought of moving.'

She pottered about the brighter kitchen, making hot milk in one of the sunshine-yellow mugs, pleased with everything, her eyes picking out detail she hadn't been aware of for a long time. This house had suited her for fifty-nine years. It had needed freshening up, that was all. It would see her out. If anyone moved into the sheltered bungalows now, they were fools.

But they never would, she thought, switching out the lights in the sitting room and hall, and struggling with the new lock on the front door, before going carefully up the steep stairs, carrying her drink in the sunshine-yellow mug.

She was a light sleeper and she put earplugs in because of the late-night and early-morning traffic noise, so she did not hear the sound of the back door being tried. But she had bolted the back door. The windows were well secured because of the locks Anthony himself had fitted.

Breaking in by smashing windows was a mug's game, for kids and amateur burglars. He had never broken a window, never would.

He had two others in mind if this one was tricky. That had always been the secret. If complicated locks and bolts and alarms were all in place, leave it.

He tried the front door, on the off chance. It was unlocked. He shook his head in disbelief. He went in, closing the door softly behind him.

Even without her earplugs, Olive would probably not have heard a sound.

She was deeply asleep when the stairs creaked, and creaked again, and the loose floorboard on the landing outside her room b.u.mped slightly.

She remained deeply asleep, even when the door of her bedroom opened, and only woke, startled and bewildered, when the light went on.

Fifty-seven.

THE CHIEF CONSTABLE heard him out without interrupting. She knew Serrailler well and she had seen him in many moods but never as angry as now. They had gone to Chalford Road together, to the house in which Olive Tredwell had been murdered, and where her body was still upright in the new white-painted chair with its bright blue cotton cover, in front of a large oak cheval mirror. The electrical flex was still tied tightly round her neck, knotted on the left-hand side, as all the others had been. She wore a long floral nightgown. Her feet were bare, the toenails freshly clipped.

When he had walked in and seen her, Simon had wanted to weep, with frustration, anger, grief, and with a terrible feeling of guilt. But he had shaken himself within seconds. The other emotions he accepted, but if anyone other than the killer was guilty, it was not him.

'I'll have the skin ripped off their b.l.o.o.d.y backs.'

'Simon . . .'

'I mean it, ma'am.'

The pathologist had been and gone and forensics had finished the first part of the job. They heard voices now, then the tread of footsteps on the stairs. The b.u.mp of a loose floorboard.

The men with the body bag and the stretcher.

'Ma'am . . .'

'It's fine, get on with your job, guys. We're out of here.'

At the front door, the Chief said, 'Press conference?'

'Yes but the bare minimum for now. They're asking even more awkward questions, unsurprisingly, and an army of TV and radio vans are outside. I can deal with the press, but those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at Special Ops will hide behind their walls of secrecy. They think they're not answerable to anybody.'

'They're not, in the normal course of events, they're a law unto themselves, most of the time for good reason, but this is precisely why they can't make mistakes. n.o.body's going to cut them any slack, Simon.'

'Cut who any slack? n.o.body knows they exist. Punch them and it's like punching a hole in a cloud.'

'Forget revenge for now. Find this man before we have a fourth murder.'

'Fifth,' Simon said wearily. 'You're forgetting n.o.bby Parks.'

'You're sure about that? A different MO, though it definitely wasn't an accident.'

'Of course it wasn't. n.o.bby had to be shut up. He'd been talking to the press about the mobile-phone pictures. He might have seen and heard anything on his night walkabouts. That's what the killer was afraid of.'

'Did he see anything? Is there anything on the photos?'

Simon shook his head. 'That's the sad part. Not a thing. And I doubt if n.o.bby knew anything either, he was just enjoying his hour in the sun, poor b.u.g.g.e.r.'

Paula Devenish walked a few paces away from her waiting car so that they were not overheard.

'My resignation's gone in. Have you thought any more about it or is this all getting in your line of vision?'

'No. My line of vision is clear. As I said when we met on the train, I'm grateful for your vote of confidence but it's not for me.'

Simon watched her car speed off before going to his own and heading back to the station, seething with anger and more than ready to do battle. His mobile rang as he was taking the bypa.s.s fast so he had to ignore it. As he entered the building, Polly was coming down.

'Looking for you. Priority call two or three minutes ago. They wouldn't speak to me, but they'll ring back at ten fifteen.'

It was ten fourteen. Simon got to his office, closed the door and hung up his jacket.

The phone rang.

'DCS Serrailler?'

The voice was familiar by now.

'Can I have a name?'

'Floor Five. Your current situation has been under close consideration this morning. As you are aware, we can't answer questions, we cannot confirm or deny anything, or make comments on names or cases. But in view of the most recent incident we're prepared to pa.s.s on one piece of information.'

'Now listen '

'As I say we cannot comment or answer questions, so if you would just listen to me, Superintendent.'

Simon realised that this was to be as near as they would come to some sort of climbdown and face-saving exercise, though neither would ever be admitted. He also knew that whatever they were about to give him would be all.

'Go on.'

'I can tell you that we retrained the man you named as a plumber.'

'From what? What was his original trade?'

'No further information and I can neither confirm nor deny anything else.'

A climb-down. Jesus, what a way to work. Asking questions was a detective's default setting, but these guys worked strictly on a need-to-know basis. They asked no questions and answered none, they lived in little numbered boxes, among the anonymous, those with code names, and those going only by a number. Their cases were filed under computer-generated pa.s.swords and they had personal control over only a severely limited corner of a jigsaw, the rest of the pieces being under the control of many others, none of whom they necessarily knew. It would drive him mad, just as terrorist and code work would drive him mad, though surveillance and undercover operations had always got his blood flowing faster.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen, and after thinking hard for a few minutes about what he had been told, began to draw out a plan of action, writing furiously.

Then he called the whole team for a meeting in an hour's time.

'Olive Tredwell,' he said, pointing to the usual hideous pictures. 'Same MO, same clean crime scene no prints, no blood, no s.e.m.e.n. But forensics have the mirror and they're examining it for any trace of saliva. They have it as top priority. But they found nothing at the other crime scenes. Nothing on the mirrors or the surfaces.'

'Guv?'

'Yes, Steph?'

'Mrs Tredwell's place is nowhere near the sheltered housing.'

Someone else jumped in at once. 'But who'd risk going up there now we've got the patrols?'

'True. I just thought well, it's completely on the other side of town, and her street isn't entirely full of older people, it's got all ages.'

'Which could mean he's started walking about, looking, keeping watch. Not so easy, but nor is it difficult to find old people living alone. Most streets have them.'

'I think this is a copycat.'

Simon shook his head. 'Remember, we haven't released details about the MO. Nothing about putting the bodies in front of a mirror has got into the media and it won't, nothing about the toenail clipping. This isn't a copycat. Now, heads up. I know it's frustrating, I know you feel got at, you feel demoralised, you feel he's running rings round us. He has done that but he won't be doing it for much longer. He's getting c.o.c.ky now and once that happens, he'll make a mistake. c.o.c.kiness always leads to errors. They start thinking they're invincible. They believe that they cannot be caught.

'More important. I have a bit of inside info. I know we're looking for Alan Keyes. I don't know the name he's using, or whether he's changed his appearance, but he's working as a plumber.'

'So we need to find a plumber?'

'Exactly. OK, entrapment is the name of the game and let's hope to G.o.d it works. Can any of you come up with a likely venue? A small industrial area maybe with individual workshops, a disused repair garage. We'll be setting up a backstreet builders' base, with a couple of vans, workshop, carpentry and brick stuff . . . plastering . . . all the supplies will be there but not in huge quant.i.ties. Crummy office at the back you know the sort of place.'

'Girlie calendars from 2001 and no tea mug without a crack in it.'

'You've got it.'

'Are we trying to find this place and get the owner to vacate?'

'Too risky. We're setting the whole thing up ourselves. In Lafferton, doesn't matter too much where so long as it's tucked away.'

'Waterloo Terrace.'