She offered the book to Bailey.

‘Thanks. But I’m not that into poetry, to be honest with you. I was actually looking for a book in your true crime section.’

Jacqui sighed, a little disappointed. ‘Well, that is the most popular bit of the library. Unsurprisingly. What book are you looking for?’

‘Any book that might have something about the Hairdresser.’

Jacqui nodded. She seemed to know what Bailey was talking about.

‘Follow me.’

Bailey followed her along the aisles to the true crime section.

Jacqui peered over the tops of her half-moon spectacles and scanned the spines of the titles on the shelves.

‘I’ve read almost every book in this library and…’ she reached past Bailey to pull out a small paperback, ‘…I think this should cover what you’re looking for.’ She handed it to Bailey.

It was a dog-eared paperback printed on cheap paper, its black cover embossed with a large silver title that read Cold Cases Vol. 3.

Bailey wasn’t a big reader, but even she could see that this was from the trashier and more salacious end of the true crime spectrum. She flicked through it, pausing briefly at the photo sections – black and white images of blood-spattered crime scenes, discarded murder weapons, body dump sites, smiling graduation photos of unsuspecting victims and the inevitable police mugshots of killers who seemed to carry a universal expression of mild indifference.

She leafed through to the section on the Hairdresser. She began to read to herself. This was exactly what she was looking for.

She glanced up to see that the librarian had disappeared as silently as she had appeared.

Chapter 73

Bailey glanced around the visit hall, leaned forward across the table and lowered her voice.

‘How’s it going with the drugs squad?’

‘They want to know what your new angle is,’ said Frank. ‘They’re really breathing down my neck on it.’

‘You said you’d give me two weeks, right?’

He sighed and rolled his eyes.

She forced an optimistic smile onto her face.

‘I think I might be onto something interesting,’ she said. ‘The Hairdresser. Heard of him?’

Frank creased his brow as he tried to recall the significance of the name. ‘Vaguely. A serial killer who murdered prostitutes up in the Midlands. That was quite a few years back. He was never caught. I think he got his name because he used to—’ He stopped and stared at her in disbelief. ‘Wait a minute, you don’t really think…?’

‘He used to cut their hair off, didn’t he?’

‘And you think he’s now graduated to scalping?’

‘It’s well-documented that serial killers often start out on small animals before eventually moving onto humans. What I’m saying is that as they grow older their tastes evolve. And their methods change accordingly.’

Frank stroked his chin thoughtfully as he mulled over the idea. ‘I see your point. But it’s a little tenuous though. What put you onto this?’

‘There’s this inmate, Mel. She’s what they call a fraggle…’