For a long time she just lay there as the water and oils worked their way into her skin, opening and cleansing her pores. As the water started to cool, she scrubbed around her injuries until her skin was pink. Then she washed her hair with great difficulty, shampooing twice and using a conditioner that she actually left on for the full ten minutes.

Feeling shiny and new she stepped out of the bath and watched the sc.u.mmy water drain away leaving a grubby grey coating on the enamel that made her ashamed. With a start of surprise Ginny realised that she felt better than she had done for days. Her cold had gone and the trace of her last nightmare had left her. Her mother, ever the mind-reader, tapped on the door. Ginny wrapped a towel round herself quickly and opened it.

'Here's another coffee. Hungry yet?'

Ginny realised that she was, for the first time in days. She nodded.

'You know what I really fancy?'

Her mother smiled, 'No, what?'

'Scrambled eggs on toast and bacon.'

Mum's face fell. 'I can do the toast part but your dad ate me out of eggs and bacon last night.'

'Never mind.' But Ginny did mind, she felt cheated.

'Don't look like that, love. Tell you what, I'll pop down to the corner shop whilst you get dressed.'

Ginny felt a spurt of fear. That meant she would be alone in the house. She told herself not to be so stupid. Her mother would be gone only a matter of minutes.

'If you don't mind?'

'It's no trouble. I'll be back before you know it, then I'll dry your hair and make us both a late lunch.'

Ginny heard her mother pick up her keys and handbag and close the front door firmly. It was only a small house and she had absorbed the sounds of it from the time she was in her cradle. She unwound the towel and started to rub in the body lotion sparingly, mindful that it was her mother's favourite.

A loud click made her jump. She listened in absolute silence, frozen with the tube of lotion still in her left hand. The house was quiet, the only sounds the hum from the fridge and the ticking of the immersion heater on the landing. Perhaps it had been that that had startled her, except that it sounded different, exactly like the back door closing.

She let out her breath slowly and put down the lotion, all thoughts of indulgence gone. She became acutely aware of her own nakedness. Her underwear was still in the airing cupboard and she wasn't about to go out there and find it but she pulled on her jeans anyway, ears straining to catch the slightest noise. All was still. She zipped them up, hardly making a sound. Her T-shirt was next. She pulled it over her head quickly, hating to have her ears covered, even for a second, then held her breath and listened. Nothing.

Her mum had pulled the bathroom door to without actually closing it. Ginny crept forward and put her fingers on the handle. She pulled it open another inch and peered out. As she did so there was a creak from the bottom stair, absolutely unmistakable. Someone was there! Her mouth went dry. Without taking her eyes from the top of the stairs in front of her, she found the bolt on the door and closed her fingers around it, ready to ram it home as soon as she slammed the door shut. Whoever was on the staircase had paused too, they must have done, otherwise she would have seen their head by now as it rounded the turn of the stair. Seconds pa.s.sed, feeling like minutes.

Suddenly, horribly, he was there, hurtling up the last three steps towards her, a knife in his hand. She screamed and slammed the door shut, yanking the cord from her father's dressing gown out of the way reflexively as it almost caught in the gap. He slammed his weight into the wood as the bolt went home, yanking the handle in a vain attempt to force it open. He was shouting at her, vile obscene words that filled her mind and made her panic.

Ginny screamed again. How long would the bolt hold? It was a tiny aluminium thing held onto the panel of the door by only two screws. Over the years the missing ones had never been replaced as it had been there for privacy, not security. Until now.

He was ramming the door hard, throwing his weight against it, again and again. The door groaned under the strain and Ginny screamed louder. She looked around, crazy with fear. The window above the sink only opened six inches at the top. She pulled the net curtain to one side and searched for something with which to break the gla.s.s. A marbled duck full of pot-pourri stood on the window ledge. Ginny grabbed it and threw it with all her force against the window as the door behind her creaked ominously.

The gla.s.s shattered, spraying shards across the small room. She trod on one of them in her bare feet but felt no pain. Grabbing the bath towel she swept the fragments from around the window ledge then wrapped it tightly around her fist to punch out the broken pieces that still held to the frame. Crying now, the sobs flowing into a constant whimper, she climbed up onto the sink, leaving a trail of bright red blood against the white enamel and screamed for help to the street below. It was deserted. The comforting patrol car that had been sitting outside all day was gone and the pavements were empty. There was a loud snapping from the door behind her and the bolt flew off.

He reached her just as she had one leg over the windowsill.

'Help me! Help me, please!' she cried to the empty air. His hand closed around her ankle and she kicked back viciously, fighting for her life.

'No!' Ginny clung on to the window frame, ignoring the edges of gla.s.s that cut into her bare palms.

A delivery van turned the corner of the road as she clung on. She willed it to stop, ignoring the burning pain that had started in her back and along her thighs. He was. .h.i.tting her now, harder and harder.

'Help me! Mummy, help me!'

The van drove past and she lost her grip, her b.l.o.o.d.y fingers slipping over the smooth ceramic surface. She fell back into the room below. There was blood everywhere. It must be hers. They hadn't been punches. He'd stabbed her in the back. Terror gripped her and she started to fight, kicking at him as hard as she could, despite the growing weakness in her legs.

She felt light-headed. Her screams seemed to be coming from a long way away. He was above her now, trying to undo her jeans. She wriggled but his weight pinned her down. He was not going to have her. If she was going to die, and with an eerie clarity she realised that she was, she would not be violated again by this animal.

Hatred gave her strength and brought clarity to her thinking. Shards of gla.s.s from the broken window lay on the floor. She found one and gripped it tight. Her arm felt incredibly heavy as she aimed a slicing cut at his exposed neck as he looked down to guide his fingers inside her jeans.

It was a weak blow but it ripped open a long flap of skin along his cheek. He yelled and swore at her. One hand went to his face and she watched as he stared in horror at the sight of his own blood. She slashed again, a laugh of triumph bubbling up from her mouth, sending him mad.

She felt his hands close around her throat as she stabbed at him with the last of her strength. The makeshift dagger sliced into his exposed neck then her arm fell. The last thing she heard before the dark beating of wings inside her head drowned out all other sounds was his long, anguished cry, and she smiled.

PART FOUR.

WENDY AND NIGHTINGALE.

The woman who cannot evolve a good lie in defence of the man she loves is unworthy of the name of wife.

ELBERT HUBBARD.

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand. Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

'Did she know we were coming?' Fenwick felt odd. Despite the heat he kept shivering; perhaps it was the flu.

'Yes. I distinctly told her three o'clock.' MacIntyre glared at Fenwick, regretting his promise to the Commissioner to see the profiler personally because of the Home Secretary's insistence.

She arrived at five past with a smile that dismissed the Superintendent's glare. In her office, MacIntyre forgot his diplomacy and pushed her hard for opinions on the probability of a relationship between Killers A and B.

'As I said in my report, Superintendent, I consider it a possibility but one can never be certain. It could be coincidence that two perpetrators took a finger from their victims' hands, selected exactly the same type of girl looks, age, physique and chose the same towns in which to prey on women. But I don't think that's likely.'

MacIntyre looked distinctly put out. Fenwick didn't know whether to be pleased at Professor Ball's conviction or worried that MacIntyre still had so many doubts.

'May I add more data?'

He told Ball everything he had uncovered about Griffiths' childhood and fostering, the little he knew about the Smith family, including their sudden disappearance, and the pattern of crimes that Robyn had discovered, dating from the boys' time at school. MacIntyre stopped pacing and started to take notes.

'Fascinating! This is very suggestive of an adolescent bonding reinforced by petty crime. Tell me more about the cousin, Wendy Smith.'

'I know no more, Professor. My theory is that Smith junior a.s.saulted her or she might have been a willing partic.i.p.ant over-awed into compliance. I think it happened when she was under age and that her father found out. Fred Smith is a loser quite capable of blackmailing his brother. It would explain the regular cash withdrawals. When the father was told about the boy's behaviour by the drama teacher, he commented that something similar had happened before.'

'And where is Wendy now?'

'We're still trying to find her.'

'Be careful when you do. There's a chance that she's still with him.'

'Would B be able to sustain a relationship? I mean, if he's a serial rapist and killer, surely, a partner would have suspected something and left him.' MacIntyre appeared determined to preserve his scepticism about Killer B's ident.i.ty.

'Sadly the two things don't automatically follow each other. I can list you a dozen of the worst male killers society has known who had a wife or girlfriend. It is not uncommon, particularly with someone as plausible and charming as Killer B. There are none so blind, gentlemen.'

Fenwick shook his head in disgust.

'And Griffiths? Would it have been a menage a trois?'

'I doubt it. Killer B, Smith in your theory, is the dominant member of the group. He might have let Griffiths use Wendy as an occasional reward but there would have been no relationship there.'

'We should be going.' MacIntyre stood up, suddenly impatient to be gone.

'One final question.' Fenwick turned to the Professor as MacIntyre started his pacing again.

'Killer B has failed in his last two attacks. One victim survived because he left her to drown and it wasn't a spring tide. The second and I accept that it's only me who thinks B is the attacker was saved by a taxi driver who was killed for his bravery. How will B be feeling? And why is he making these mistakes?'

'Let's take your second question first and a.s.sume that your theory of a single attacker is correct. He's attacking outside, forced to behave in a manner to which he is not accustomed for motives you are better at a.s.sessing than I. That's one of the reasons he's making mistakes. Despite that he is becoming more confident. Killing the taxi driver before escaping was a bold act. If this is the work of one man he has killed three people and attempted to kill two others within the last ten weeks. That is extremely active, even for a serial killer. If it is one man then the pace of his crimes is accelerating. He's becoming increasingly daring. It's possible he may even consider himself invincible by now.'

'Is it possible, and I know this sounds crazy, I've already been told that in no uncertain terms, but could he return to kill one of the girls, say, his last victim?'

There was a long silence before Professor Ball spoke.

'It would be very stupid, and I think Killer B has significantly above average intellect even though he is an under-achiever. But...he'll be angry. He will be unable to accept that he has failed...and he certainly won't lack the confidence to do it.'

'Well? Could he?'

'It's possible but I've never known of such a case. When was the girl attacked?'

'Over a week ago. She spent the first five days in hospital, now she's back home.'

'He's left it a long time. I don't think of him as obsessive...' she paused, then looked confused, 'unless he needed to prove himself failure might eat away at him. I'm sorry I can't be more definite.'

'We'd better go. Professor Ball, as always, your insights have been most useful.'

'Could I have a word with you in private, Superintendent?'

Fenwick waited in the corridor, feeling like a scolded schoolboy. He could hear the murmur of voices through the closed door and occasionally identified his own name. MacIntyre was tight-lipped on the way back to his office but roused himself as they left the car.

'Are you OK, Andrew? You look pale.'

'I'm fine. It's just Ginny, I'm worried for her. If it were my case...'

'But it's not and for what it's worth I would have reacted in the same way as Cave. Nothing could happen in a few minutes.' MacIntyre slapped him on the back and told him to cheer up. 'If it'll make you feel better I'll call Cave again, find out how things are.' He was laughing as he walked into his office but stopped abruptly when he saw the urgent message on his desk to call Telford.

The men stared at each other, unspoken fear large between them. Fenwick switched on his mobile, desperately hoping that there were no messages but he was disappointed. He went to the window for a better signal and watched MacIntyre dial. Fenwick leant against the cold gla.s.s and listened to his answering service.

'Fenwick, it's Cave. He went back. I need you up here, now.'

Fenwick could taste bile in his throat. Behind him he heard MacIntyre talk to Cave. He was unable to turn around to witness the expression on his face. The message said only that he'd had gone back, it hadn't said that Ginny was dead. She could still be alive, but the dread around his heart told him otherwise.

'I see. We'll leave straight away. I'll call you for directions when we're closer.' MacIntyre replaced the receiver and cleared his throat.

Fenwick wiped his face and found it cold with sweat.

'I'm sorry, Andrew. Ginny's dead. She was strangled and knifed to death in the bathroom of her house this afternoon.'

He knew that he was going to be sick and ran to the bathroom, just making it to the sink. His stomach heaved and he retched, then again. He ran the cold tap and used a paper towel to clear the mess away, then washed his face with cool water. The door opened behind him but he kept his head low.

'Are you OK?'

He nodded. MacIntyre walked past, urinated, flushed and washed his hands. Fenwick was still staring into the sink when he'd finished.

'We have to go. They need us.'

'You go. I can't. How can I face them? It's all my fault.'

'Don't be b.l.o.o.d.y stupid! Do you know how ridiculous and arrogant that is? You did your best. You warned Cave, several times. It is not your fault.'

'But I knew he was going to do it. I should have stayed up there.' Fenwick straightened and winced at the burning pain in his gut.

'Nonsense. What could you have done?'

Anger filled him, a burning fury like vitriol.

'I could have saved her,' he shouted, his spittle covering MacIntyre's face. 'I could have sat outside her f.u.c.king house day and night until the b.a.s.t.a.r.d gave up and went away.'