'Wayne Griffiths?'

'If you say so. Never knew his name.'

'You a.s.sumed that I wanted to find the son not the father, why?'

But Smith went quiet and refused to say any more no matter how hard Fenwick pushed him. In the end, he decided he was wasting his time.

'If you remember anything at all, please call me on this number. It's important.'

'What's he done then?'

'I can't tell you that. We're just anxious to find him. He may have information that would be helpful.' Fenwick opened his scruffy notebook again and Smith looked at him with deep suspicion.

'What's that for?'

'Just need to confirm your name and address, sir.'

Smith rattled them off quickly, keen to see him go.

'And you live here with...'

'My wife, June.'

'Any children?'

Smith flushed and looked down at his workbench.

'We live on our own.'

'But you do have children?'

'I don't see it's relevant.'

'Just a formality.' Fenwick watched a vein at the side of the man's head pulse.

'One daughter, Wendy.'

'Age?'

Smith rubbed his forehead, leaving a slimy trail of oil.

'Twenty-three, I think. Haven't seen her for a while.'

'Did Wendy know her cousin or Wayne Griffiths well?'

'None of your f.u.c.king business.' Smith took a step forward, his body pumped, his face red. 'Now get out of my house and don't come back without a warrant.'

Fenwick wrote up his slim reports and wondered what his superiors would think about the flimsy results of a day of chief inspector's time. Not a lot probably, but at least he was starting to frame questions that would take his investigation further. Why had Fred Smith jumped to the conclusion that he was there about David Smith junior? And why had he said 'at last'?

He rang Emily Spinning and waited obediently while she put a video in to record Eastenders.

'Right, there, I'm all set, Chief Inspector. How can I help?'

'I spoke to Frederick Smith.'

'Ah. What did I tell you?'

'He mentioned that he had a daughter.'

'Oh yes, Wendy. Nice girl. Looked the image of her mother. Haven't seen her for years. Always wanted to be a nurse.'

'Do you recall anything about Wendy's childhood? How well did she know Mr and Mrs David Smith?'

'Gosh. You're taking me back now. Let me think...' There was a long moment's silence. 'I could be wrong but I think her uncle and aunt used to take her on holiday. They had nice summer holidays at a chalet they'd bought years before out in the country. I think Wendy went with them before the two brothers fell out.'

That was all she could remember. Fenwick left her to her television and checked his watch. He just had time to call the children before bed. Knotty came in as he was blowing Bess a kiss and did a hasty about turn. Fenwick called him back.

'Before you start I want you to listen to something. Sit down and relax, man.'

Knotty folded his long, gangly frame onto a convenient chair. He looked like a stick insect with a weird fungus invading its face. The acne had taken a turn for the worse during the day.

'Here are the facts as we know them about the Smiths: Mr and Mrs Smith had a son, David, who is now twenty-seven years old. They fostered Wayne Griffiths ten years ago when he was fifteen. He and David junior were in the same cla.s.s at school and were apparently mates. Mr Smith senior withdrew 300.00 in cash, every month for four years up to the point at which he disappeared. He had a major falling out with his brother Fred, even though previously he'd been generous enough to take his niece Wendy on summer holidays with them. Now what does that suggest to you?'

Constable Knots stared at him blankly. Fenwick waited. Intimidated by the silence the poor man eventually forced himself to speak.

'Ah, that we haven't got much to go on, sir?'

Fenwick grimaced wearily.

'Possibly, but we have got the first pieces of a jigsaw, we just don't know what picture to make yet. We need to create a credible hypothesis based on the facts as we know them, which might then lead us to ask further questions in order to test our a.s.sumptions and complete the pattern.'

Blankness changed to confusion. Fenwick missed Cooper and Nightingale. His sergeants would be ready with equal measures of scepticism and theories of their own. He sighed deeply and confusion morphed into despondency on Knotty's face.

'Go and get me some fresh coffee, black, no sugar. Leave your reports with me.'

Knots might not be the brightest penny in the jar but he was quick. Fenwick had only just finished reading the file when he returned with a tray.

'Supper, sir. Thought we might be here for a while. Chicken and ham pie or sausage roll?' Fenwick chose the pie and Knotty's face brightened.

He ate as he wrote while Knotty chewed as quietly as he could.

'Right, Knotty, this is our work for tomorrow.'

Constable Knots swallowed and read the notes with his mouth half open.

Hypothesis: David Smith Jnr met Wayne Griffiths in computer cla.s.s, became significant influence on him.

Persuades parents to foster Griffiths.

They engage in series of (s.e.xual) minor crimes and/or a.s.sault of Wendy Smith.

Frederick Smith finds out and blackmails brother.

Questions/Actions: Obtain doctor's records for the Smith family.

Try for warrant for Frederick and David Smiths' financial records.

Interviews re David Smith (snr/jnr) work, clubs, neighbours etc.

Is there a pattern in minor crime/s.e.xual a.s.saults in the local area at the time they lived here?

Find Wendy Smith. We know her parents, age and vocation nurse.

Speak to profiler re background of boys and Wendy.

'Blimey!'

Fenwick knew that he was showing off, and to the least demanding of audiences, but the reaction vindicated his use of the day. Had he sent Knots to do this work on his own they would be no further forward.

'You can start drawing up a list of interviews on question three.'

'Where are you going, sir, if you don't mind my asking.'

'To find a WPC and re-visit the Smith's old house. I'll see you back here.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

For two days he fought the urge to rampage through Telford in revenge for the girl's survival. He'd been unable to rationalise the fact that she'd managed to outwit him by playing dead long enough for the taxi-driver to return and act the hero. When the desire for action became too great he paced the hills around the cottage from sun-up to sunset, trying to drive the memory from his mind. Twice now he had failed to complete the task that he'd set for himself. It was all Griffiths' fault. He'd jinxed him with his stupid letters and half-a.r.s.ed ideas.

The police still hadn't linked the girl he'd killed in London to Griffiths' rapes. He'd taken the finger, just like he'd done with the b.i.t.c.h in Wales who had refused to die, so why hadn't they made the connection? Because they were stupid, that's why. He'd have to draw them a f.u.c.king map! But he didn't want to resort to sending letters again.

As he ran up one hill and then the next, forcing the blood to flow fast, a new idea began to develop. At the top of the highest rise he paused and drew in long breaths. It was extraordinarily simple. What if he just left Griffiths to rot in jail? He'd been stupid enough to get caught, let him pay for it. Wayne had never been more than an appreciative audience. Why had he saddled himself with such a loser in the first place? Smith couldn't admit to himself that adulation from someone like Griffiths had once mattered. As he walked back to the cottage the limits he felt he'd allowed Griffiths to build around his life dissolved.

He would do what he wanted to do in his own way and he would start with a quick visit to Wendy. It usually perked him up and the cottage was starting to drive him mad again, as it always did after a few days. He couldn't bear to be enclosed in one place for long. Constant movement about the country was the only way in which he could ease the tension that was now inside him all the time.

He arrived unannounced and woke Wendy from sleep.

'Any letters?'

He wanted to stop the postal service and destroy all links with Griffiths.

'I haven't been. You know I can't when I'm on nights.'

'You don't have to sleep all f.u.c.king day do you? Lazy b.i.t.c.h.'

'I've not been feeling too good. In fact, I've been quite ill.'

'Weak as dishwater you are. No stamina. Look, I want to know if I've got mail. Sort it.'

She struggled out of bed to find him a beer and food.

'I'll go tomorrow.' There was a pause and she picked at a dry bit of skin on the end of her sharp nose, a habit he hated. He'd kill her for it one of these days. 'How long are you here for?'

'Don't know. I'm working on a project. Might take a while.'

'What sort of project?'

'None of your business.'

'Oh.'

That was it. End of conversation. She left a lot to be desired but what little spirit she'd been born with had been beaten out of her by her old man. He considered her greatest a.s.sets her lack of imagination and low intellect.

The next morning he woke up with a clear sense of purpose. Directionless rage had been superseded by excitement for a plan so daring it left him breathless at his own audacity. He exercised for half an hour, feeling strong and powerful again, and tried to balance his desire to hunt down the policewoman with the decision he'd made overnight to go after the taxi girl a second time. Both were compelling but to contemplate killing specific victims was a new experience.

It was ten years since he'd first witnessed death and enjoyed that exquisite feeling of liberation. Despite the impact of seeing life expire close up, it had taken him seven years to cross the line and kill, and then it had been by accident. Only afterwards, when he'd pulled away from her and seen the bloodshot eyes and gorged tongue had he realised what he'd done.

After his first kill the others were easier but infrequent at first. He'd remained cautious, changing location frequently to avoid creating a pattern. The fringes of cities were places that bestowed anonymity and had an acceptance of random violence. This year he'd killed twice within a month, a pace that he found exhilarating. But he'd also failed to kill twice, he reminded himself bitterly.

After Wendy had left he wasted an hour trying to plan the taxi girl's death before giving up as there were too many unknowns. He would tackle it the way he did best, going prepared for every eventuality and then relying on instinct and opportunity. He would succeed despite the high risk.

With renewed confidence he opened up the files he'd extracted from the policewoman's computer. As she had gone online in an Internet cafe the majority of the stuff was irrelevant. For the rest of the day he trawled through hundreds of electronic files, his mood of elation dying. When Wendy returned from work he slapped her about a bit for making too much noise then bundled the rest of the printouts, his laptop and discs into a bag. As soon as she'd fed and bedded him he would leave. The thought of another night with her locked up in the flat suddenly nauseated him.

It was late evening when he drove away. During the ride home he thought about the implications of abandoning Griffiths. He might talk. It was unlikely but he had to be prepared. That would mean selling the house and cottage and moving. Abroad would be good. Wendy would have to be disposed of, but that would be at the last minute, in case he needed her beforehand. The idea of wiping out the remnants of his past and starting over was appealing. He'd managed to do so with his parents' lives, so his own should be easy.

The thought triggered an old memory and with it unease. Had he eliminated every trace of them? Nothing was left at the cottage but what about at the old family house? He couldn't be certain that he'd been as thorough back then. The idea grew into an obsessive need to check and be sure. It was important to him that every sign of his existence should be eradicated, otherwise the fresh start he wanted would be tainted. On impulse he decided to visit the house that night, to be sure that all traces of the Smith family had been destroyed.

Janine switched off the TV and put the guard around the fire. Even in the middle of summer the house felt damp. It was isolated and old fashioned but all they could afford. Ever since that policeman had called she'd felt unsettled. Carl had picked up on her mood and grizzled from the time he woke from his nap to when she put him down for the night.

Janine missed her husband with a pa.s.sion when he was on long haul in Europe. On top of that she was nervous out here on her own. When it grew dark she decided to go to bed early and watch TV. The doors were bolted but the old sash windows were easy to open. All someone needed to do was break the gla.s.s and flick the catch. She snuggled down under the covers.

He was hiding outside, excited and too impatient to wait for morning. He'd seen some ugly cows in his time but the b.i.t.c.h in there won the prize. He would be doing the world a service if he put her out of her misery. At least she went to bed at a decent hour. Not long now and it would be safe to go in. He told himself that he was only going to search for anything of his father's, stuff he should have burnt long ago. If she stayed asleep, and if he didn't need to go into the bedroom, then he wouldn't do anything. Or so he tried to convince himself as he sucked deeply on his cigarette but his free hand found the new knife lying snug in the pocket of his jeans. He stroked its warm smoothness and thought how different it became with the blade out.

'Come on, Constable, it's gone eight o'clock. I'm pushing my luck calling this late as it is. I thought you said you knew a short cut?'

'I did, I mean I do, sir, but the signpost was down. The river's over there so I just need to take the next right.'