Clay watched Francesca blinking rapidly in response to the street lights flickering into life against the darkening sky and wondered if she’d seen any natural light at all during the time she’d been in captivity.

As Riley untied Francesca’s feet and hands, Clay flashed torchlight into the confined space and took in the things in the back of the van. She felt her pulse quicken as she realised that the contents of Norma Maguire’s basement were stored in the back of a van on a quiet side street near Crosby Beach.

Two filthy mattresses were propped up either side of the van and the smell drifting from them was fetid.

Clay saw a metal table and on it a range of surgical implements. Coldness passed through her as she faced the table where the tools used to scalp and skin the faces of the dead women were gathered. On a shelf beneath the tabletop, chains were piled up.

A washing line ran from the doors of the van to the back of the driver’s cab. In the middle of the line was a sheet draped evenly over either side.

On the floor of the van, Riley helped Francesca to sit up and slipped her arms into the dressing gown. Francesca looked over her shoulder at the metal table.

‘Who abducted me?’

‘A man called Edgar McKee and his sister, Norma Maguire.’

‘Norma Maguire?’ She spoke her name as if all the reason on the planet had vanished in an instant. ‘Where are they?’ asked Francesca.

‘McKee and Maguire are in the cells in Trinity Road police station. Do you know Edgar McKee?’

‘No,’ said Francesca, looking deeply into the street light that broke up the mounting darkness.

Clay stepped up and into the back of the van.

‘I’ve got something for you, something that Norma Maguire stole from you.’

‘What did she steal from me?’

‘Kizzy.’

‘Kizzy? She went into my house and stole my doll? Why was I so surprised when you told me that Norma was involved in all this madness?’

Clay handed the rag doll to Francesca and she pressed her face against Kizzy’s body.

‘Take your time, Francesca,’ said Riley. ‘Wait for the feeling to come back into your limbs.’

Francesca rubbed her thighs with the palms of her hands.

‘I can feel pins and needles in my feet,’ she said.

Clay’s torch bounced from the metal table for a split second.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Eve?’

‘Yes,’ said Clay, quietly.

Wind screamed from the Irish Sea and, as the van rocked under its force, there was a noise in the confined space, metal against metal, as the surgical tools clattered on the table.

Riley stood up and nodded at the cover hanging over the washing line.

‘I want some fresh air,’ said Francesca.