‘It’s spiritual symbology,’ she told him. ‘We’ve seen increasing amounts of it at the murder scenes in this case.’

‘And Joseph White’s back room just happens to be full of the stuff.’

‘So it seems.’ She moved her light slowly across the books on the desk, straining to make out the text around the various images.

Saw the common theme.

Suddenly, her last conversation with Joseph White was replaying itself in her head.

‘I know that look,’ Mike said, watching her.

She turned to face him. ‘This may be a long shot, but I just thought of somewhere else we could look.’

55

The dash readout showed minus two degrees, and thick patches of mist hung just above the road as Hawkins threaded the Alfa along the narrow, twisting tarmac, slowing only for corners strewn with wet leaves, the engine thrumming impatiently each time they rebuilt speed.

Mike sat beside her, his expression a mystery in the pitch-black cabin, but Hawkins could hear the slight shift of his limbs whenever he braced himself, and the small inhalations he made as they flew at each turn.

‘Why the rush?’ he asked casually, as she slid through another left-hander. ‘The guy might not even be here.’

Hawkins eased off slightly as the traction control light flickered. ‘Yes, but if he is, we don’t want to miss him. And being out here would explain why we can’t triangulate his mobile signal. Anyway, we’re almost there.’

She had managed to get the drive from Palmers Green down below half an hour, beating the sat nav’s prediction by almost fifteen minutes, while they had enlisted a couple of constables to watch Joseph White’s flat in their absence, in case he returned. So far, other attempts to locate him had come to nothing.

She caught sight of the turn.

‘This it?’ Mike asked when she slowed dramatically and swung left on to the uneven dirt trail. ‘Can I open my eyes now?’

Hawkins shot him a withering glance as they bumped down the narrow track, parting clouds of ethereal mist that hung in pockets just off the ground, intermittently turning the headlights’ glare back at them. In the gaps, she caught glimpses of an inky black treeline, and the ascending roll of dark, empty fields beyond.

Passing halfway, Hawkins checked the dash. Noting a reasonable signal after the intermittent reception their phones had received since leaving London, she decided to call Frank for an update on the wider search for Joseph White. It was still possible they were wasting their time here, after all.

Voicemail.