‘Leo Turner’s the main suspect, as of now. You been working on something better? That’s what I heard,’ he said, looking over at the data clerks.

Joe ignored it.

‘What if there are two killers?’ he said.

Merchant cocked his head, waited for Joe to continue.

‘Second one might be a different killer. Sees his chance, takes advantage. Same MO.’

‘Nah, the pencil thing wasn’t made public ’til after Beverage was dead.’

Joe shrugged.

A moment.

‘Bloody hell, Joe! You’re getting into some friggin’ choppy waters there, mate.’

‘Not many people knew about the pencil, not on Saturday.’

‘Like I said. Choppy waters. Your point?’

‘No point.’

‘Sounds like a point to me. Sounds like you reckon it might be police.’

‘Someone knew.’

‘You’re gonna need more than that to take it to the DPS.’

The operations room was now silent.

‘Who mentioned Professional Standards?’

Merchant held his gaze. Then he got up, grabbed his phone and leant in close.

‘I’ll tell you what, sarge,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘the shit you pulled last night, it should be you talking to Professional Standards. I’m off for a coffee.’

As Merchant disappeared, the room remained silent. Joe didn’t care. He’d got the response he wanted.

He returned to his monitor, scanned the story on the BBC website. A ninety-second video of Rita, plus a few paragraphs outlining the crimes. Below this was a summary of public opinion, citing various posts linked directly from Twitter. Modern journalism at its very best. He clicked over to the Yorkshire Post. At least they were actually reporting events in detail, he noted, as he began reading a long description of the background to the case.

Then his phone rang.

33

DCI Andy Mills looked up, saw Joe, waved at a chair in front of his desk.

‘Now then!’ he said, heaving in his seat.

‘Andy.’

‘Prepare for a bollocking, mes amis.’

‘Mon ami.’

‘Fuck off.’

It wasn’t said in anger. He looked tired and disappointed, like a parent who was about to reprimand a teenager but couldn’t really be bothered.

‘Right. We have a double murder on our hands. Serial killer if another body turns up. Did that slip your mind, y’know, while you were out wining and dining a witness?’

‘How did…’

Andy held up a hand, palm outwards.

‘Then you’re back home, off yer tits, middle of the night, asking Her Majesty’s Constabulary to use its considerable powers to dig up information on her.’

‘That…’

‘Shut it, you knobhead!’ He stared at his friend, eyes glazed. A pause. ‘Jesus Christ, you don’t know, do you?’

‘The database stuff? Yes, I do. It’s not what it looks like.’

Andy shook his head until his flabby cheeks threatened to work themselves clean off his face. He grabbed a mobile phone from the desk and held it up.

‘Know what this is?’

Joe said nothing.