'And then?'

'And then she left. And I walked into town. I met up with, uh ' he rubbed his arms again ' with Peter and Nial.'

'We went out for a beer,' Nial said hurriedly. 'The school had won a cricket match the day before so we felt like having a little celebrate.'

'The three of you?'

'That's right.'

'Are you old enough to be cruising round the local pubs?'

'Well no. Not really. We kind of used fake IDs.'

'Kind of?'

'Yes. Why? Are you going to give us a lecture on it?'

Zoe raised her eyebrows at him. Impressed by his guts. 'No,' she said. 'Of course I'm not. In the scheme of things it's not exactly the crime of the century. So what time did your little fake-ID celebration finish?'

Nial shot Peter a look. Peter scratched his head. 'What time was it? About midnight?'

'About that, yeah.'

'Where did you go, Ralph?'

'Home. Weston.'

'How did you get there?'

'I walked.'

'Did anything unusual happen on the way? Did you see anyone you knew?'

'No.'

'So let's backtrack a bit. You met Lorne. What happened while you were together?'

There was a silence. Ralph's head was quite still but his hands weren't. They made little trembling movements. His shoulders were shaking. He shook his head imploringly as if he couldn't trust himself to speak without crying.

Zoe met Peter's eyes. She jerked a thumb at the door. 'Give us a few moments here?' she mouthed. 'Some privacy.'

The other two boys and the two girls exchanged glances. Then, as if they were a single organism, capable of reaching decisions without words, they filed out. In the corridor they stood with their hands in their pockets, each with one foot up against the wall. Like the cover of a Ramones alb.u.m. It never went out of style to be skinny and sullen.

Zoe kicked the door closed, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the window-sill and turned back to Ralph. He had slid down the wall and was in a little huddled squat, his hands over his face. 'OK, OK.' She crouched next to him, put a hand on his shoulder and felt the warmth of his skin through the thin shirt. The tremor of his breath coming in and out. 'Look, you've done the right thing by coming to me.' She handed him a tissue. He took it and crammed it against his face. 'You can be proud of that.'

He nodded and wiped his nose. His breathing was thick and nasal.

'But I need to get it all clear in my thoughts, Ralph. I asked you if something particular happened at Beckford's Tower and that seemed to upset you.'

He nodded miserably. 'We had an argument. She wanted to tell everyone about us and I ...' He had to take deep breaths to calm himself. 'We split up. We split up and she said she never wanted to see me again and ... And ... And that's what happened. And it's all my f.u.c.king fault. All because I'm scared of my f.u.c.king parents.'

'It's not your fault, Ralph. It's really not your fault.'

'What's going to happen? Do I have to go to court? Are my parents going to know about it? My father'll be furious. He thinks lying should be counted as a mortal sin.'

She rested her arm on his shoulders. He really was just a little boy. She could see the faint white of his scalp at the neat parting of his black hair. 'I think, Ralph, that most parents would be more concerned about your welfare. And that you've had the courage to tell the truth.'

'Christ.' He'd used up the tissues so he wiped his nose on the shoulder of his shirt. 'I wish you were my mother.'

'Oh, no, no. I'd be a terrible mother. You can trust me on that one. Now, coming here was a huge decision for you, but it was the right one. This information is really, really important. With it we can build a picture of what happened to Lorne. But there's not a lot I can do with the information if I can't share it with my colleagues. If I gave you a guarantee that nothing will be said to your parents until you're happy for them to hear, would you come and tell the rest of the team? The ones who can make a difference? You could stop this happening again. To someone else.'

There was a silence. It took her a moment to realize he was nodding.

31.

The Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 had dictated that all interviews of suspects had to take place in a specially designated room well lit, well ventilated, soundproofed, with embedded recording facilities and access to a neutral 'break-out' s.p.a.ce should the interviewee decide he or she didn't like the way the interview was going. Councils around the country had had to dig deep to install PACE rooms and at Bath police station there were two.

Zoe sat at her desk with the door open so she could monitor the pa.s.sageway. Her office was at the place where the corridor branched off to lead to the interview rooms. If Ralph was moved from the side office near the incident room where Ben was speaking to him, it meant they had gone against every one of her instincts, every one of her requests, and were interviewing him as a possible suspect in the murder. But the station was silent for a long time. Hours. G.o.d only knew what they were doing with him.

She tried to concentrate on other tasks. She set up an intelligence request for missing women aged between sixteen and twenty-one. When she'd told Debbie that 'all like her' meant the killer was going to target girls like Lorne, she'd plucked it out of the air. But what if she hadn't been so far off the mark? It was worth thinking about. Except that, looking at the screen, it wasn't going to be easy the result of the search was terrifying. Name after name after name. Of course she knew most of the girls on the list were probably alive and well and had simply lost contact with their families, or were avoiding them. A good proportion would have returned and the police not been notified. Even so there were hundreds and hundreds and hundreds. One person couldn't work through all of those on their own. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. s.h.i.t. If one of those names had belonged to a victim of Lorne's killer and their body hadn't been found, there was no earthly chance the police would pick up on it.

At a quarter to ten Ben walked past, going fast, carrying a stack of files. He didn't pay her any attention, but went into his office. She heard the door slam. She waited for a moment or two, then got up, went along the corridor and knocked on the door.

'Who is it?'

'Me. Zoe.'

A pause. A hesitation? Then, 'Come in.'

She pushed the door open. He was sitting at his desk, his elbows planted on either side of the stack of paperwork. He faced her but, she noticed, his eyes didn't meet hers. There was a blank, polite smile pasted on his face. 'What's happening?' she said.

'With?'

'You know what with. With Ralph. Are you still interviewing him? Did you get him an appropriate adult from Social Services?'

'He's seventeen. Doesn't need one.'

'I promised him his parents wouldn't be involved. Not unless he agreed to it.'

'Yes. And that's what we're working on. Him agreeing to it. They're going to find out eventually.'

Zoe let all the air out of her lungs. She came forward and sat on the chair opposite him. Ben eyed her, one of his eyebrows slightly raised, as if he really didn't appreciate the way she was making herself at home. 'It's not him,' she said. 'It's just not. He's too young young. Don't you remember, all those courses how these sorts of crimes take time to build? He's just a kid. He nicely and neatly fits a profile you've been sold, but it's a flawed flawed profile. Please see that. It's flawed.' profile. Please see that. It's flawed.'

Ben gave her a calm smile. 'I like to think I'm too much of a professional to be trammelled by psychological profiling, flawed or not. That would be a huge mistake remember what our trainers used to say? "To a.s.sume makes an a.s.s out of you and me."'

Zoe sighed. 'Come on, Ben I know you too well.'

He tapped his pen on the desk. 'Ralph Hernandez is a person of interest. That's all I can say at this point.'

'A "person of interest"? Oh, for G.o.d's sake you are such a b.l.o.o.d.y moron it's just not true.'

'Am I, Zoe? Have you got any better leads than this?'

'I gave you this "lead". I handed it to you on a plate and I really, really thought you'd do the honourable thing. Just goes to show how much I know about the world, doesn't it?'

At that moment the door opened. Zoe swivelled round. Debbie was standing there, serene in her white lacy clothes. She had started to speak, but when she saw Zoe her face changed. 'Aaah,' she said apologetically. 'Sorry.' She held up a hand and backed out of the room. 'c.r.a.p timing not my strong point.'

She closed the door. There was a moment's silence. Then Zoe turned back to face Ben. She shook her head and gave a small, mirthless laugh. 'Funny,' she said. 'You never usually let anyone in without knocking. Unless they're ... you know ...' She made her hands into a cup on the desk. 'Unless they're inner circle. Is she inner circle now?'

Ben stared back at her stonily. 'Have you got any better leads than Ralph Hernandez?'

'So whatever she says you'll believe it? You'll convict that kid in there because of it?'

'My alternative is what? Choosing anyone, any route, any lead, just anyone because they don't don't fit the profile she drew up? I've been watching your inquiries, Zoe, and what it boils down to is that you'd rather let the killer go free than have Debbie be right. So who is worse? You or me?' fit the profile she drew up? I've been watching your inquiries, Zoe, and what it boils down to is that you'd rather let the killer go free than have Debbie be right. So who is worse? You or me?'

Zoe's face burned. 'This is all because of whatever it was I said the other night, isn't it?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, Ben, let's be honest. One minute we were fine doing fine. The next, everything's gone. Just ...' she flattened her hand and mimed an aeroplane flying '... like that. Gone. And you're hostile and distant, and, frankly, acting like a d.i.c.khead.'

Ben gave her a cold look. 'We've got no future, Zoe.'

'What? Because I don't pretend pretend to give a s.h.i.t about people I really to give a s.h.i.t about people I really don't don't give a s.h.i.t about? Because I don't make a pantomime about how caring and give a s.h.i.t about? Because I don't make a pantomime about how caring and simpatico simpatico I b.l.o.o.d.y am? Is that my sin?' I b.l.o.o.d.y am? Is that my sin?'

'Why do you have to insist you're bad?'

'Because I am.'

'Why do you insist you don't care for anything?'

'Because I don't. Because I don't care care for anything and I don't for anything and I don't need need anything.' anything.'

'Well,' he said quietly, 'don't jump all over me and make me feel small when I say this, but, Zoe, some people like to be needed.'

'Like to be needed? Well, that's not me.'

'Bulls.h.i.t.'

'It's not not f.u.c.king f.u.c.king bulls.h.i.t bulls.h.i.t.' She pushed her chair back and leaned across the desk, putting her face close to his. 'I drove around the world on my own. I don't need you or anyone else. That's why I I'm solid and I I'm efficient. And anyway ...' She took a breath. Tried to put a bit more width and height into her shoulders. 'It doesn't matter because next thing we know you'll be having it off with Miss Cracker out there.'

He held her gaze. He had still, clear green eyes. 'Actually,' he said, 'I already am.'

Zoe stared at him. Something inside her was falling away. Dropping and dropping down into the floor. 'What?' she murmured. 'What did you say?'

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'But it's true.'

She was motionless, absolutely speechless. The scars on her arms ached, made her want to rip her sleeves up, but she held herself steady. She wouldn't let him know he'd poleaxed her.

'OK,' she managed to say. 'Then I suppose it's time I went.'

He nodded. The politeness, the openness of the nod, was the worst of it. This wasn't hurting him at all.

'But I'm right about Ralph,' she said. 'One hundred per cent right. He didn't kill Lorne.'

'Of course, Zoe.' He turned his computer screen around and put on his gla.s.ses. 'You're always right.'

32.

Sally called the NHS helpline. The woman she spoke to said Steve should go to his GP, but Steve had looked carefully at the wound and said that would be overreacting, that really it was just a hole in the skin, nothing more. Together they disinfected and bandaged it, cleared up the blood and put the nail gun, chisels and hacksaw into the boot of her car ready for the DIY on her house. After that they got on with lunch eating the tuna, picking through a bowlful of mango and raspberry sorbet, drinking coffee, and loading the dishwasher shoulder to shoulder, all without alluding to the conversation about David Goldrab. As if they'd decided, in a curious telepathic manner, to pretend it hadn't happened. It wasn't that they were solemn either in fact, they were light-hearted, making jokes about Steve's wound going gangrenous. How would it be if he lost his arm and had to walk around like Nelson for the rest of his life? Sally wondered if she'd dreamed the whole thing. If shady, raw acts like contract killings really happened, or if she'd somehow misunderstood what Steve was saying.

She got a text from Millie, who said she was getting a lift home in Nial's camper-van, and not to worry about coming to school, she'd see her at Peppercorn. She sounded happy, not nervous. Even so, Sally still made sure she was home by four thirty, waiting by the window in plenty of time to see Nial's half-painted van trundling along the driveway. Peter was sitting on the back seat, shades on, one arm draped casually around Sophie's shoulders. All of them were in summer school uniform, their hair gelled, spiked and decorated as much as they could get away with at Kingsmead. The van stopped and Millie got out without a word to the others. She slammed the door and strode up the path, her face like thunder.

'What's going on?'

She walked straight past Sally, down the corridor, into the bedroom and slammed the door. When Sally padded softly after her and listened, she could hear m.u.f.fled sobbing coming from inside. As if Millie was crying into the pillow. She opened the door, tiptoed in and sat on the end of the bed, resting her hand on Millie's ankle. 'Millie?'

At first Sally thought she hadn't heard. Then Millie sat up and threw herself at her mother, arms round her neck, head pressed against her chest, like a drowning victim. Sobbing as if her heart would break.

'What on earth's happened?' Sally pushed her back so she could see her face. 'Is it him? Jake? Did you see him?'

'No,' she sobbed. 'No, Mum. I can't handle it any more. Now he's with Sophie Sophie of all people. She's not even that pretty.' of all people. She's not even that pretty.'

'Who's not even that ...?' She thought about Sophie, with a dreamy look on her face in the back of the van, Peter's arm around her. She remembered what Isabelle had said about Peter being in love with Lorne and how it had upset Millie. This was all about him. Half of her was bewildered that her daughter couldn't see past Peter's blond hair and height, couldn't look into the future and see his beery red face at forty, his thick torso and rugby-club nights. The other half was relieved that this wasn't anything to do with Jake. Or Lorne.

'Hey.' She kissed Millie's head, smoothed her hair. 'You know what I've always told you. It's not what's on the outside, it's what's on the inside.'

'Don't be stupid. That's just c.r.a.p. No one looks on the inside. You're just saying that because you're old old.'

'OK, OK.' She rested her chin on Millie's head. Looked out at the fields and the trees and the clouds piled up like castles in the sky and tried to span her memory across the distance between fifteen and thirty-five. It didn't seem an eternity. But when she put herself in Millie's shoes and thought about her own mother fifteen years ago she saw how honest and clear that comment was. She let Millie cry, let her soak the front of her blouse.

Eventually the sobs died down to the occasional hiccup and Millie straightened up, her bottom lip sticking out. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. 'I don't really like him. Honestly. I really don't.'

'Is that it? Is that all that's upsetting you?'

'All?' Millie echoed. 'All? Isn't that enough?' Isn't that enough?'