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Chapters (62)
  1. Title
  2. Copyright
  3. Contents
  4. About the Author
  5. About the Book
  6. Dedication
  7. Your Worst Nightmare
  8. ONE
  9. TWO
  10. THREE
  11. FOUR
  12. FIVE
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. EIGHT
  16. NINE
  17. The Answer to All Your Prayers
  18. TEN
  19. ELEVEN
  20. TWELVE
  21. THIRTEEN
  22. FOURTEEN
  23. FIFTEEN
  24. SIXTEEN
  25. SEVENTEEN
  26. EIGHTEEN
  27. NINETEEN
  28. TWENTY
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. TWENTY-FIVE
  34. TWENTY-SIX
  35. TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. TWENTY-NINE
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. Somebody Else’s Child
  41. THIRTY-TWO
  42. THIRTY-THREE
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. THIRTY-FIVE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. FORTY
  50. FORTY-ONE
  51. FORTY-TWO
  52. FORTY-THREE
  53. FORTY-FOUR
  54. FORTY-FIVE
  55. FORTY-SIX
  56. FORTY-SEVEN
  57. FORTY-EIGHT
  58. FORTY-NINE
  59. Sunlight on Water
  60. July
  61. September
  62. Acknowledgements

‘We only need one break though, don’t we, people?’ says Campbell cheerfully. He helps himself to another biscuit. ‘One for the road, if no one minds. My meeting with the Chief Constable over-ran and I never got any lunch. Anyway, keep me up to date.’

The incident room door closes behind Campbell’s back.

‘A little pep-talk like that always makes me feel better,’ says Hagen with heavy sarcasm.

‘Makes it all worthwhile,’ says Naylor. ‘Which do you fancy, the mugshots or the car? If you’ve no preference, I’ll take the car. I got halfway through the forensics last night before I was interrupted by a large glass of wine and an urgent need to sleep. But I’ve started, so I think I ought to finish.’

‘Happy reading, then. I suppose that leaves me with the known offenders. Any idea who they are?’

‘Not local, that’s all I know. Looks like you might be clocking up some expenses.’

‘Every little helps.’

‘Has it struck you how none of this seems to be local, Brad?’

‘In what way?’

‘Everything seems to be geographically randomised, like there’s a deliberate effort to keep elements apart.’

They both glance at the map of the British Isles on one of the incident room whiteboards, where the number of coloured pins denoting significant events seems to be growing.

‘If I were abducting children, I’d be doing my best to make it look randomised too,’ says Hagen. ‘But if we keep sticking pins in the map, maybe a pattern will emerge. Remember what Uncle Ron used to say. Nothing in these cases is ever unconnected. Find enough pointers, and we’ll be able to join the dots.’

SEVENTEEN

SEVENTEEN

30 June

Hagen finds the address he’s looking for in the suburbs of Wolverhampton, a few hundred metres off the A449. The district he’s in is called Merridale, a name which seems particularly inapt given the size of the cemetery featuring on the satnav as he makes his way through the streets of solid brick houses.

The place he’s looking for is a well-kept bungalow, lace curtains at the windows and a sunroom at the front, cast-iron gates with the finials of its struts painted gold. At the edges of the block-paved drive the snapdragons and lobelia in the flowerbeds seem to be receiving reasonable care. A wooden fence separates the garden from a public footpath, where tatters of old litter have gathered at the foot of a No Cycling sign.

This street doesn’t look like cycling territory to Hagen. The kerbsides are close-parked with vehicles, mostly cheap family motors and runabouts with the odd drug dealer’s favourite amongst them, pimped Beamers and a slammed Golf.