He turned left onto a road that ran alongside a patch of waste ground. There was a sign up declaring it to be the property of some development company and warning people to keep out. That was how to make money. Property. Not advising your bloody uncle.

As he walked he saw a car, no lights on, parked by the road. It was a strange place to leave a car and he looked around for an owner. Maybe someone pissing in the bushes. There was nobody, and he carried on walking.

He passed the car. Up ahead was a railway bridge, then a left turn, and a few hundred yards to his road. He walked under the bridge, the darkness sudden after the moonlit street.

Behind him, he heard a footstep and he spun around. His eyes were not adjusted to the light but he was able to make out a silhouette. It was hooded, and, as he decided it was time to run, it raised a hand.

A hand that held something he recognized.

A hand that held a hammer.

Once the boy was dead the hooded figure worked quickly. The body was rolled onto its back, the arms were folded over the chest.

The figure knelt by the body, as though in prayer, then raised a finger, encased in a blue surgical glove, and dipped it into the gaping wound on Stan Davidson’s temple.

It contemplated the blood, then slowly – almost reverently – it opened its mouth and sucked the finger clean.

It gave a low moan, and then took something from the pocket of its jeans and placed it delicately in the hand of its victim.

PART ONE

Friday, 16 July 2021

Tom

He’d been back at work for two weeks, and he wasn’t sure he could survive much longer. His employer, a Scandinavian engineering company, had an enlightened parental leave policy, so he had stayed at home with his daughter Joanna – or Jo – for the first four months of her life. Alice was a self-employed journalist and, if she was to have any income at all, had to work, so initially the role of primary carer had fallen to him.

It had been hard. Jo wasn’t much of a sleeper and he and Alice were in a state of constant exhaustion, but his dad had said something to him that had stuck with him.

I never had this chance, he said. When you and your brother were born I had two days off work, then I was back in. I wish I had – so make sure you enjoy it. You might never get the opportunity again.

So he had tried. It was hard at 2 a.m., eyes heavy, Jo’s cries cutting through him, but he had forced himself to pause and try to enjoy the moment.