‘Let me be clear,’ Thistle says. ‘We’re hoping this woman will contact you again. When she does, you’re not going to alert her that you’ve spoken with us. You’re going to do everything she says, and pretend you don’t know about the surveillance. If you fail to comply, the protection will be withdrawn and you may be treated as an accessory. Understood?’

Gomez nods vigorously.

‘Your car’s at the impound,’ Thistle says. ‘We’ll get it fixed. In the meantime, here’s some money for a cab.’

After he’s gone, Thistle turns to me. ‘I still can’t figure out the connection to those dates.’

‘Yeah.’ I rub my eyes. ‘We’re missing something.’

Just saying those words, missing something, makes me pause. It’s a feeling rather than a thought. That strange tingling as my subconscious starts making connections. Connections it should have made much earlier.

The size of the rooms at Luxford’s house. The half-finished renovations. The air-conditioner still running. The extra remote on the coffee table.

‘We need to go back to Luxford’s house,’ I say.

‘What?’ Thistle looks incredulous. ‘We have independent witnesses confirming the existence of this blonde woman. Now you want to focus on Luxford?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know where he is.’

•

When we get back to Luxford’s house, I walk right in the front door. I want to see Luxford before anyone else does. I want to watch the moment he realises he’s been caught. Because that will tell me if he’s a serial killer, or just a rapist. Different animals, with different defensive behaviours. A rapist will put his hands up and deny everything. Start trashing his accusers. But a serial killer will confess, because he wants the publicity. Or because he’s relieved to be caught, and he’s afraid they’ll let him go if he doesn’t.

As frightened as I am of getting arrested, sometimes I’m more frightened that I won’t be. That the eating and lying will go on forever.

Thistle is close behind me. The other two cops, Albrecht and Terracini, are behind her.

‘He’s not here,’ Terracini says, but he keeps his voice low. ‘We searched the place thoroughly last time. No one’s been in or out since then.’

I’m already walking into the living area. ‘You know our soldiers didn’t find Saddam Hussein in that hole until they’d already searched the area, given up and called the helicopters to extract them?’

Albrecht looks down. ‘You want to rip up the floor?’

‘No.’ I listen. Again, I’m struck by how the room seems smaller than it should be. No sound except the rumbling of the air-conditioner. I can’t even hear the traffic outside. This is a well-insulated house.

But why would the owner of a well-insulated house leave the air-con running when he went out?