‘You can get off home for now if you want,’ Tucker said. ‘Take a few hours R&R. Briefing in here at nine p.m., operation goes live at ten-thirty. Alternatively …’ He tapped a stack of bulging buff folders on top of the filing cabinet next to him. ‘Since we’ve copied West Mids in on what we’re doing, they’ve sent quite a bit more paperwork through. So, if you’re bored, or you fancy a quick shuftie, it might be of some interest.’

As it wasn’t inconceivable that her life could be in danger during this operation, Lucy agreed that the new material would probably, at the very least, be worth a skim-read.

She found a spare desk, and laid the folders in front of her.

‘Oh, ma’am … Kathy!’ she said, as Blake and Tucker wandered away.

The DI glanced back.

‘You say we’re on this for two weeks. But DI Beardmore says he can only spare me for one.’

Blake gave another of those bland but warm half-smiles. ‘Like I say, Lucy … me and Stan go back. Let’s see how it plays out.’

As Lucy expected, the new stuff from West Mids mainly comprised copies of crime-scene observations, forensic and medical reports, witness statements and plenty of additional photographic material. There was also an updated e-fit.

Lucy found herself staring at this long and hard. The face looking back at her almost seemed inhuman; its eyes little more than slits and yet possessed of an eerie glint, its mouth curved upward in OTT fashion, creating the most extravagant image of pantomime villainy she’d ever seen. As far as she knew, this picture, or others like it, had been screened regularly on the news bulletins, and had been appearing in all the papers and online ever since the most recent attack. Surely, if there was anyone walking the streets whose face even vaguely resembled this bizarre image, he’d be in custody by now?

Definitely a mask. It had to be.

‘No wonder they call him the Creep, eh?’ a voice said.

Lucy glanced up and, fleetingly, her enthusiasm for working with the Robbery Squad flagged.

Detective Constable Lee Gaskin had just come in, and now stood alongside the desk. He hadn’t changed much since she’d last worked with him, standing about five-ten with a stocky frame, a thick neck, broad, sloping shoulders and big arms with heavy-knuckled hands. What remained of his hair was thin and mouse-brown, while his face was notched and pitted all over as though he’d had chickenpox as a child and had vigorously scratched – Lucy had never thought any face could exist that was so well suited for the scowl Lee Gaskin habitually wore. On this occasion, ironically, he wasn’t scowling, but smiling. It was cold, though, and it offered more than a glimpse of the nicotine-yellow teeth clamped together underneath it.

‘DC Gaskin,’ she said. ‘What a delight.’