‘What would you say if I told you this person’ – she nodded at the laptop screen – ‘is Andrea Petersen?’

DS Alexander shook her head. ‘I’d say, no, it isn’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I know who it is. It’s Alice.’ She paused. ‘That’s Alice Sark.’

Nadia

Wynne nodded slowly. ‘It is Alice Sark. It’s also Andrea Petersen.’

It took a few moments for the name to sink in.

‘Andrea Petersen? Who disappeared from Perth?’

‘The same.’

‘No. That’s a young Alice.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Wynne said. ‘This is the photo they issued when she disappeared. It took me longer than you to see it, but it’s plain enough. That’s Alice Sark. It’s also Andrea Petersen.’

‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘I don’t know everything,’ Wynne said. ‘But here’s what I’m starting to piece together. Andrea Petersen killed those people in Perth. For some reason – maybe they discovered what she was up to – she then killed her parents and skipped town. One way or another, she pitched up here and somehow created an identity for herself.’

‘Or stole one,’ Nadia said.

‘Or stole one. And I think she started doing what she’d been doing in Perth.’

‘She’s the Crucifix Killer?’

Wynne nodded. ‘She is.’

Nadia’s legs weakened. She pulled a chair out and sat down heavily. Maybe Andrea Petersen was the killer, maybe she’d come from Perth, but the idea she was Alice? It was impossible. Alice was her friend. She’d been working on the case with her.

‘We’ve been feeding her information all along,’ Wynne said.

‘Oh God,’ Nadia said. ‘This is a lot to take in. I mean, she’s my friend. Are you sure?’

Wynne held up the laptop. ‘You tell me.’

Nadia looked again. There was no doubt. If that was Andrea Petersen, then Andrea Petersen and Alice Sark were the same person.

‘We need to get to her,’ Nadia said. ‘Now.’

‘They went away, right?’

‘Somewhere in the Lake District. We can track the phone.’

Wynne shook her head. ‘Takes too long. We need the address. Did they give it to anyone?’

Nadia paused. ‘Not to my knowledge. I advised Alice not to tell anyone where they were going.’

‘But maybe Tom told a family member? In case something happened?’

‘It’s possible. Tom’s dad is very ill, so probably not him. His mum, perhaps, or Roland.’

‘Call them.’

‘I don’t have their number.’

Wynne shrugged. ‘Get it.’

Stockton Heath, September 2013

Brenda

Brenda sat in the back yard of the small, terraced house she had bought with Alice’s inheritance. She had moved in a few weeks after returning from her trip around Europe. She had found it quite boring, if she was honest – a load of ancient cities and pompous resorts – but it had been useful. Europe – in particular the south – would be an easy place to disappear into, if she ever needed to.