Major and Mrs. Howard were holding hands, staring straight ahead, unable to look at George Marlow, to turn their heads just a fraction to see him. He had taken their beloved daughter, he had raped her and mutilated her, and waiting for them to catch him had been the longest time they had ever lived through, a lifetime, Karen’s lifetime. There would always be pain, that would never go away, and the confusion. Marlow had destroyed not just their daughter’s life, but theirs.

“ . . . That on the third of December, nineteen eighty-nine you unlawfully took the life of Deirdre Margaret Mornay . . .”

Two prostitutes, friends of Della, leaned forward for a glimpse of her murderer. One of them sat back, afraid of her own feelings. Looking at him, with his handsome face, his fresh, immaculate white shirt, if he was to pick her up she wouldn’t be likely to refuse him. They nudged each other and stared at DCI Tennison, who was sitting with the prosecution counsel. Her face was impassive. She gave them an almost imperceptible nod.

“You are also charged that on the fifteenth of March, nineteen eighty-four, you murdered Jeannie Avril Sharpe, that in January nineteen eighty-five you murdered Ellen Harding . . .”

Carol and Linda had traveled down from Oldham. They were sitting in the gallery. Linda leaned forward on her elbows but could only just see the crown of his curly head. Jeannie had wanted to emigrate to Australia, she had wanted . . . But she had never got anything, anyone to help her, love her. Now, maybe, she could rest in peace. Maybe.

Carol twisted a paper hankie in her hands. She could hear him as clear as anything, calling to Jeannie, calling her to come to his car.

In her wheelchair at the end of a row of spectators, Mrs. Marlow sat, as well-groomed as ever. She held her head high, making no effort to wipe away the tears that trickled down her face. Her pale blue eye shadow, her carefully outlined lips and powdery cheeks framed in false chestnut curls, seemed to crumble before George Marlow’s eyes. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear it; she was dying in front of him.

A young man sitting near her was leaning forward in his seat, staring intently at Marlow.

“ . . . That in July nineteen eighty-six you murdered Angela Simpson . . .”

The young man’s face crumpled when he heard Angela’s name, and he cried. He tried hard to control himself, but the years between Angela’s murder and the arrest of George Marlow had been a nightmare. Five years, five long years of his life under suspicion, always wondering if somehow he could have saved her. Five years of nightmares, but above all the loss of his childhood sweetheart, the only girl he had ever loved.