"You can't smoke that in here," he said, despite evidence to the contrary, as she was already tapping ash into his breakfast.

"The law doesn't count when you're with a copper."

"I hadn't heard that one."

A waitress started their way, looking like she was going to make an issue of it. Coleridge caught her eye and flashed his credentials. She backed off, flicking blonde hair with gray showing at the roots, like she was pissed off but not paid enough to make an issue of it.

"So, I hear you've got a witch working on the case," said Sam while he was watching the waitress' back.

"Fuck sake, who's talking? I don't even know if she's...ah, fuck off."

"So you do have someone working on the case, not a witch."

"Don't play games with me, Sam. I haven't had my breakfast, my boss wants my bollocks, and you've got about a minute before I stuff your money back in your push-up bra along with the bats you keep in there."

"Fuck me, testy this morning, aren't you?"

"And then some. What're you after?"

"Last night?"

"What about it? Nice moon. Big. Hunter's moon, is it? Winter's on the air."

"Don't fuck about. You know what I'm talking about."

Coleridge shifted uncomfortably, his gut rocking the table.

"What of it?" he said. "You know anyway."

"Confirmation."

"Not a fucking word, but yes, it's the same guy."

"How do you know?"

"Come off it, Sam. You know I'm not going to tell you that."

"What's the witch for?"

"She's not a witch. Where'd you hear that?"

"Confidential."

Coleridge shook his head. "Don't make out like you've got any kind of morals."

Sam shrugged as she stubbed her cigarette out in his tomatoes.

"That looks rank."

"It looked worse before you stubbed your coffin nail out in it."

"Not going to tell me how you know it's the same guy?"

"No."

"Not going to tell me about the witch?"

"No."

"She getting anywhere you're not?"

He sighed, his big chest heaving. "She only called yesterday, so I don't know who's talking, but they're full of shit. She's not working for us. She called. Once. That's it. No story. Leave it alone."

"As of when is she not working for you? As she's on call? Like on a retainer?"

Fucking Harvey. Snide little bastard.

"As of fuck off. That's as of."

"Thanks for fucking nothing."

Coleridge smiled. "Don't mention it."

"Can I have my hundred quid back?"

"Bye."

Sam growled. "You got to give me something. Come on. I'm flying blind as you are. I write this up, people read it, you might get a few leads."

It was true. He might. He thought about it. Felt the weight of the money in his jacket pocket.

"Alright. How's this read? Man knows the victims. No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. No leads. No suspects. No prints. No footprints. No DNA. No. Fucking. Nothing."

"Shit, Coleridge, I know all that."

"I know you do, Sam, because it's fucking obvious. Thanks for the hundred quid."

"Come on!"

Coleridge grunted. "You work it out. Connections. It's not what he left."

Sam frowned then smiled.

"The victims?"

He nodded. "You're a bit slow, but have a sausage on me."

She eyed his breakfast. Swimming in tomato juice and fat.

"I'm not hungry, but thanks."

"Don't mention it. Now, like I said, nice as it's been to see you..."

"I know, I know."

Sam smiled as she slid from the table. Coleridge noted she still had a great set of legs. Time would've been those legs might have worked more wonders than a hundred quid. That time was gone, though.

She blew him a kiss.

He gave her the finger, but when she'd gone, he smiled. Forgot how miserable he was, even if it was only for a minute.

Chapter Seven.

Coleridge hated driving. Hated it with a passion. The wheel got stuck on his gut. The seatbelt dug into his chest and his shoulders. The belt ran along his chest at the perfect angle to remind him he now had man boobs. Bigger tits than his ex. Thinking about boobs wasn't helping.

He needed to focus on the case. A killer who left no clues. No sign of entry, like he knew the people he killed. No fingerprints, like he wore gloves. No stray hairs, none of his own blood, no murder weapons...the list of things absent was endless. The list of things there were was pretty fucking short.

Dead bodies. That's all they had. The night after he spoke to the medium there'd been another. Same as all the others. Plenty of blood. A body. A ravaged chest missing a heart. A neck missing a head.

Who the fuck wanted to take hearts and heads?

Coleridge shook his head and watched the road. His mind ticked while he drove. Half his attention was on the road, a quarter on the case. The rest was thinking where he was going to get something to eat. His stomach moaned at him, rumbling and burbling in protest. He couldn't concentrate without a decent breakfast.

Ten miles out of Norwich he spotted a burger van at the side of the road. He pulled into the breakdown lane. Wendy's Buns.

Nice.

Wendy was a tired looking guy, about fifty. He wore a hair net over thinning gray hair and smoked a thin hand-rolled cigarette.

"Morning. What can I get you?"

"Two half-pounders. Cheese. Bacon. Onions."

"Tea?"

"Can of Coke and a coffee, please."

The guy kept his coffin nail going with an occasional puff. He didn't take it out the whole time he cooked. He scraped some grease off the hot plate, put some more on, stuck the patties and the bacon on the heat.

Coleridge could've talked to him, but now that he could smell food his brain kicked into gear.

He made an inventory in his head of things out of place at the murder scene. Walked through it again, start to finish.

The neighbor had called it in.

The autopsy was due this afternoon, but the coroner on the scene had estimated the time of death at between seven and eight in the evening.

The blood had probably still been warm when Henry Meakings' son discovered the body.

Discovered Henry's penchant for lesbian porn, too.

Bad night for Henry. Bad night for his son, too.

Porn on the PC. Online movie running in the background.

Coleridge had discounted the porn already. It wasn't relevant. He knew it. Intuition, maybe, a hunch, maybe, but mostly just common sense. The other victims were clean. No dirty little secrets that they could find. Besides, Meakings was a medium, not a priest. He didn't know if spiritualists had any rules about watching porn or fornicating or vibrators or anything like that.

He didn't care.

He ran it again. Henry, sitting in front of the PC. PC in a small study upstairs. Blinds drawn, a house in a tightly packed-together neighborhood. Nobody heard a thing.

Again. Back to the start. Through the front door, straight into a small front room. Cards on the table, TV off, cup of coffee on a coaster. Into the kitchen, no food left out, tidy. Tidy throughout, everything put away, vacuumed. Smell of polish, hint of coffee. Non-smoker.

Short upstairs hall, clean toilet. One spare room, not dusty. Main bedroom, tidy. Sheets made.

Study. PC running. Henry facing the PC. Probably not doing anything other than watching. His clothes were on, his trousers up. Maybe just starting to think about scratching an itch. The killer comes in behind...then...

"Here you go."

Coleridge blinked, remembered where he was. Cars rushed by. Another car had pulled up while he'd been daydreaming. His burgers, big things that would drip fat all over his shirt and tie, sitting on the metal shelf with napkins underneath.

"Thanks," he said, and paid.

He got back in the car and ate, uncomfortably squashed against the wheel with his elbows in the most awkward position possible for eating a messy burger.

It hit him after the first burger hit his belly.

The cards.

Why had the cards been on the coffee table?

Chapter Eight.

Back at the station in Norwich, Coleridge ignored his desk, his messages, and his co-workers. He headed straight down to the basement and the evidence room.

He signed in and went along the aisles, checking the labels on the boxes. He found the aisle, found the box.