Bancho was silent as he studied her. She was hard to read–her words came out in a very matter-of-fact way, but quickly as if she had waited a long time to tell this story The bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin supported her answer. Her fingers drummed on the table. She was close to the edge. ‘Who is the most dangerous killer you can think of?’ she asked him, but she didn’t wait for a reply before continuing, ‘Harold Shipman? Peter Sutcliffe? Fred and Rosemary West?’ She took a sip of coffee and shook her head. ‘No, the killer who is murdering these men and taking their hearts as trophies is smarter and more dangerous than any of them, because they were caught, whereas your killer has got away.’

‘And you know who he is?’

DI Sam Jones nodded. ‘As I said, I’ve been waiting for him to make a mistake for twenty years.’ The excited bellowing of the officers as they watched Scotland score didn’t disturb them. They stared at each other. DI Jones was waiting for Bancho to speak but he’d decided against it. ‘I knew he wouldn’t be stopped. He’s started again and I can arrest him–but I need your cooperation.’ She looked at Duncan Bancho expectantly.

‘Slow down…I need to get up to speed with you,’ he told her.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Her tone was exaggerated but sincere. ‘I have lived day and night with this case for years. Decades. I forget other people don’t know the truth and you need to know the truth if you’re going to arrest him.’ She drained the dregs from her cup. ‘Do you have time? I don’t think we can afford to lose a second–not while he’s roaming the streets of Edinburgh.’

‘Are you sure you’re not too exhausted?’ he asked, looking at her pale face etched with nerves.

‘Duncan, I’m always exhausted. For years I’ve needed pills to sleep. I’m better now but the flashbacks still haunt me. I won’t rest until he’s behind bars again.’ Sam Jones took a thick brown file from her briefcase and handed it to him.

‘I know who he is. So do you. Read this. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

PART TWO
London November 1988

Chapter Eighteen

The high-rise flat in Andover House, Edmonton, North London, was paid for almost entirely by housing benefit. Andover House was twenty storeys high, the lifts were out of order, and the officer was forced to climb the stairs, which smelled of piss–and she couldn’t blame it all on cats. The offensive odour was the least of her problems. The house she was seeking was on the nineteenth floor and she was exhausted from the night’s sleep she’d already missed.