‘Well, in that case, perhaps you could move on to recommend where we go from here. I’ve had more than enough of your dramatics for one morning.’

She rose from her seat, glaring down at him, oozing disdain. ‘Right, you’ve asked, so I’m going to tell you. I want an officer at the Wellers’ house seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day for however long it takes. That’s three officers in any twenty-four hour period, and I don’t care what it costs. I don’t want you whinging about budgets. I just want you to agree so that I can get on and arrange it as I should have in the first place.’

He removed the pen’s top for no apparent reason. ‘I’ll need the full costings.’

‘Oh, come on, man, for fuck’s sake, grow a pair. I want an officer at that house within twenty minutes. It’s time for action not more written reports. Either that or let’s knock on the chief constable’s door right now. Let’s see what he thinks. I’m ready if you are.’

Halliday’s face took on a purple hue. ‘Very well, Laura, have it your way. But if you ever speak to me like that again, you’ll be on a disciplinary charge. I’m the head of this department and don’t you ever forget it. Have I made myself clear?’

Kesey looked back on approaching his office door. ‘Duly noted, sir, and thank you for your support. Perhaps now we’ll get somewhere. Better late than never.’

40

Fleeing persecution and terror wasn’t an easy option for Jamal.

The journey across the Mediterranean from Syria to Greece in a dangerously small, inflatable boat packed with almost fifty, desperate and bedraggled men, women and children, had been long and arduous. As had his trek across Europe to the French port of Calais, where he camped under thin plastic sheeting for several weeks, before crossing the English Channel, hidden in the back of a delivery lorry bound for Dover. It had taken him another three days and nights to reach Caerystwyth, his destination of choice, where he met up with a family friend who owned a barbershop.

Jamal had been in the pleasant west Wales market town for a little over two weeks when he first saw Martin Heath.

Jamal sat in the large picture window of a corner café popular with locals and stared out incredulously as a man he recognised only too well-strolled past in the summer sunshine as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Jamal looked, looked away, and then looked again, a flashback taking him back in time, forcing him to relive events he’d much prefer to forget.

Jamal saw in his mind’s eye Heath kneeling down and strangling a young, black-haired boy of six or seven years, and felt his muscles and veins straining against his skin, as blood rushed to his trembling extremities.

For a moment Jamal thought it probably best to forget who he’d seen, to avoid the unwelcome attention contact with the legal authorities would inevitably bring. But as he lost sight of Heath, he had a sudden change of heart, conceding that the killer should pay for his crime in one way or another. Maybe seeing him was an opportunity of sorts, as well as a burden. If not the police, then he himself could inflict some form of retributive justice. A child murderer deserved nothing less.