Thomas pulled a chair up and sat beside her at the table. Clay looked over the laptop and through the French windows at a pair of cat’s eyes glinting back at her as it slunk across the top of the wall at the bottom of their garden. She felt the weight and warmth of Thomas’ arm as it rested on her shoulder.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, with a smile in his voice.

‘What do you think it is?’

‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s work-related. The Ghoul…’

‘Him?’

‘He’s pulling his victims from internet dating sites. One in particular. Pebbles On The Beach. We’ve all set fake profiles, we’re all projecting ourselves out there as pretty blondes in our mid twenties. Look.’ She pointed at her profile picture. ‘This is me. Natasha Jones. Read all about me. Tell me what you think.’

Thomas spent a minute reading through the fiction Eve had projected about herself and said, ‘It’s nothing like you.’

‘Exactly. We pulled the profiles of the victims and noticed similarities.’

‘Natasha Jones comes across as a bit of a pushover. When did you last toast a marshmallow on an open fire?’

‘I’ve had a good look across the site,’ said Eve. ‘In spite of the clichés, the men and women on it seem genuine, solid, dependable types. They come across as worn out by the world. All they want is love and commitment.’

The luxury of her own personal situation hit Clay and she looked closely at her husband in the green light of the screen, saw that he was thinking.

‘Go on, ask the question that’s on your mind,’ said Clay.

‘So, when you say you’ve all put up fake profiles, that means everyone?’

‘It’s a mass phishing trip to get the killer to give himself away.’

‘So, what’s Karl Stone called?’

‘Wendy Bruce.’

‘What’s Wendy like?’

‘Wendy’s a cliché-riddled drip, she’s blonde and mid twenties and that’s exactly the way The Ghoul likes his women.’

The dream played out beneath the surface.

It was in her hands, the thing she had rescued from the mud in which she had been dumped.

‘How will you know it’s The Ghoul?’

‘We’re looking at the language he used in his online communication with the Warrington victim, Sandra O’Day. When we pulled up Annie Boyd’s online conversations with him, it was a case of comparing and contrasting the two.’

‘That’s a great idea. But come back to bed soon, Eve. Try and get some sleep.’

She felt Thomas fade away as he left the room and headed back upstairs.

It hung from her hands like a length of slack rubber.

She lifted it above her head and pulled it down over her scalp, face and neck.

The hair was matted with oil and mud and hung from her head like a hex.