He’d already told Gwyn Merchant to go home. There wasn’t much more to do late on a Sunday. They’d regroup tomorrow morning, see where they were on Shaw.

Joe sat down at his desk and checked his phone. Sam had sent a WhatsApp message: Welcome to the modern world, Dad!

He considered a witty riposte, but couldn’t think of one.

He clicked on Twitter, searched for the Kirklees District Police feed. There she was, a one-minute video of DS Scannon on the steps of HQ, all po-faced and official. The Comms Officer had even managed to find her a nice sombre jacket.

He listened without really taking it in. Her tone was different now. The victims were young men, and the killer was ruthless and calculated. There was nothing about rapist scum, no mention of the fact that she would have snuffed Beverage herself given half a chance. He was glad Merchant had gone home; he’d have been rolling on the floor, creased up with laughter, going on about all that one-sixty-six bullshit.

His phone buzzed.

A text, unrecognized number:

I’ve got something to say.

He looked at the number. It meant nothing to him. Who’d be texting him, apart from Sam? He went through his jacket pockets until he found the beer mat. Scribbled on it in Biro was the same number, plus: Text first.

Karen Cullen.

He replied:

Where?

McDonald’s, Junction 27, off M62.

Half an hour?

OK.

Karen Cullen clearly wasn’t one for full sentences. Was it nerves? Or had she needed to be quick? He checked Google Maps. There were a couple of McDonald’s nearer to the Brown Cow in Batley. There must have been a dozen similar places as well. But there’s nowhere quite so anonymous as a Maccy D’s at a motorway junction, eh, Karen?

He gulped down one last mouthful of coffee and stood up. He wanted to be there when she arrived.

29

He’d driven this way enough times, especially over the last few days, but he’d never stopped here. It hit you as soon as you dropped down off the motorway: a commercial sprawl that dominated the landscape like an enormous mound of gaudily lit Americana. On one side a massive cinema complex, on the other an equally huge Ikea. Around both were litters of smaller places, block-built piglets sucking on the neon teat, loud and electric, Argos, Costa, PC World…

High street names, he told himself as he joined the slow-moving line of vehicles on the slip road. But these days you didn’t see the famous names on the high street. They were in shopping centres and ‘outlets’, in service stations, hotel lobbies. The towns were full of charity shops, nail salons and pound stores.