There was something about Levy that she trusted. Just an instinct. And one she might not usually follow. But today she was willing to go with her gut. Levy had given Sarah her word, and for Sarah that was enough.

‘I’m going to have to get inside,’ Levy finally explained. ‘This is going to be a jurisdictional bun-fight.’

‘Any chance you’ll lose?’

‘What do you think?’ Levy smiled as she spoke. Sarah returned it. ‘Can you stay for a few hours? Until I’m done here? We should talk.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ Sarah smiled again. ‘I’ll be here.’

‘Good.’

Levy turned her back without another word and strode towards the house at the centre of the cordon; towards the Suffolk Detective Inspector who waited for her at its entrance.

Even from a distance Sarah could see the friction as the two officers met. The hostility. The jurisdictional battle was brewing.

Rather you than me, pal, was her only thought.

TWENTY-THREE

‘Vodka tonic. Lots of ice.’

Sarah placed two glasses on the wooden table, stepped over the bench and settled opposite Levy.

‘Wine drinker,’ Levy observed.

‘No imagination, I guess.’ Sarah picked up her wine glass by the delicate stem and held it out ahead of her, halfway across the table. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ Levy said in return. ‘And thanks. I need this after the last few days.’

The clink of the glasses was a starter’s pistol. Both women took a mouthful of their drink. For Levy the relaxation was instant. Not from the alcohol; that would take a little longer to work its way into her bloodstream. No, it was the dopamine rush that did it. The brain’s reward for that first sip.

Sarah had waited for less than an hour in Mill Lane. She had been ready to stay longer. Levy, it turned out, had not.

Levy had known exactly what she was looking for in Adam Blunt’s home. And she had found it all. The more detailed forensic analysis was left to her crime-scene investigators.

Once outside Blunt’s house she had approached Sarah and told her to follow. A short drive out of town and they were here: the empty garden of a quiet country pub.

Levy had found a table in the shade while Sarah bought their drinks.

‘So I guess I was right?’ Sarah broke the silence. ‘It’s the same guy.’

‘It looks like it, yeah.’ Levy could not hide the resignation from her tone. Having to confirm Sarah’s instincts was an unwelcome task.

‘So that’s two within forty-eight hours,’ Sarah observed. ‘That’s a solid strike rate.’

‘I’ve seen better,’ Levy replied, ‘but not the way this guy does it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I’d expect those numbers from a spree killer. Or more, if it was a lunatic shooting at random, or someone killing a partner or family member, then driving a hundred miles and killing another. But those guys are crude. Blunt. They kill, they get caught. Or they commit suicide.’

‘This guy’s different, then?’ Sarah seemed fascinated. ‘What is it? The crucifixion? The castration? What does that tell you?’