‘The subjects all have a common denominator. Billy Perrin, Stan Buxton and Noel Tipping were all homeless. They were rejects from society. He called them “The Forsaken”. Maybe he saw his victims first and decided what part of his collection they would become. Elaine Kelly was an abused wife, shunned by her parents and pushed around by shits like Jason Armitage. Her friends described her as sweet, innocent, yet her life was tragic. She was like Billy, Stan and Noel. She was forsaken. Chau had been a Vietnamese refugee and Megan was alone in the world, single and lonely.’

‘That’s quite a theory. I think you might be on to something there.’

‘It’s all conjecture at the moment. Like I said, it’s a hunch.’

‘OK. All plausible theories.’ Quinn yawns. ‘I’m knackered.’

‘Me too.’

‘Where to next?’

‘Let’s go back to the station.’

Archer’s phone rings. It’s Klara. Archer answers on the speaker.

‘Hi, Klara.’

‘I found the Prius that took Elaine and Jordan.’

‘Give us some good news, Klara,’ says Quinn.

I tracked it down on Jamaica Road the same night that Elaine and Jordan disappeared. I’m looking at the pictures now and can see Elaine and Jordan. I can’t make out the driver much. I think he’s wearing a disguise.’

‘Can you see the reg?’

‘Yes. I’ve done a search on it. The car is registered to an Oliver Merrick.’

‘I know that name,’ says Quinn. ‘I interviewed Merrick in relation to a suspected child abduction two years back. We had nothing on him and had to let him go. On paper he seemed innocent but I never believed him.’

‘Were you able to track where the car ended up?’

‘I’m afraid not. It looks like he knows which roads he can use to avoid ANPR cameras.’

‘That’s not difficult,’ says Quinn.

‘We need to get Merrick in,’ says Archer.

‘Phillips and Tozer are at his home now. There was no answer. They’re going to watch the place and wait for the search warrant.’

Quinn starts up the engine.

‘Thanks, Klara. We’re on our way back to Charing Cross. See you soon.’

Chapter 43

43

ARCHER GLANCES AT THE DIGITAL clock on the dashboard. It’s 5.47 a.m. On the streets outside, stragglers trickle from clubs and walk in pairs or groups, some making the journey home, others to another all-night drinking hole. In shopfronts, the homeless, wrapped in coats, the lucky ones in sleeping bags, lie on makeshift beds fashioned from layers of thin cardboard.

Hamilton’s murder and his recent attempts to contact her turn over in her mind. She unbuttons her coat and reaches across to turn the heat to a more comfortable temperature. She notices Quinn has been quiet for the past twenty minutes; the only sound he makes is the disconcerting rumble of his stomach.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asks him.