It’s cold inside. Elaine’s breath forms a cloud of mist before her eyes and she shivers.

Something is wrong.

She’s been a fool.

She turns to Jordan, but her heart sinks at his little face contorted in terror. He points behind her and screams, ‘Mum!’

She senses someone and turns to look but something rough like a thick cord slips over her face, pulling down her lip, scraping her chin and looping quickly around her neck, tightening against her soft white skin.

Confusion clouds her mind.

She can’t breathe.

She tries to scream for help but cannot find her voice. Terror washes through her like a tsunami. Pulling her hands from her jacket she tries to tug at the cord but her fingers can’t get purchase. She hears heavy breathing, close to her ear. She screams, but her cry is silent. She feels warmth between her legs and tries to claw at the man behind her, but he is too strong. He turns her around and pushes her forward, her face inches from the camera. Tears flood her eyes. Reflected in the lens is the silhouette of Jordan, standing at the front door. Grief swamps through her and she wants to tell him she is sorry, so, so sorry, but the cord cuts deeper into her neck and then everything goes dark.

Chapter 13

13

ARCHER WAKES THE FOLLOWING MORNING and reaches across for Dom, but the other side of the bed is cool and empty and she soon realises she’s in Waterloo, not Little Venice.

She sighs and feels the sting of guilt that she hasn’t been a better partner to Dom, or to any one of her previous relationships for that matter. She is a closed book and always has been ever since Morrice entered her life and fucked it over. A part of her regrets not telling him, but Dom always appears skittish when the subject is broached.

During their first year she sensed that he was itching to ask her something and she waited patiently, giving him the time he needed to bring it up. It was the evening before she was leaving for a two-week NCA assignment in Wales. They made dinner together, and after downing several glasses of red wine, he came out with it.

‘Morrice . . .’ he asked.

Archer noticed he wasn’t looking her in the eye. ‘What about him?’

‘Did he . . . did he . . . rape you?’

The question surprised her and she wasn’t sure why. After a moment she replied, ‘Not physically.’

Dom puffed out a sigh, slumped in his chair and smiled.

Archer felt her heart icing over. ‘He’s practically been written into British serial killer folklore, Dom. You know what Morrice did to his victims. Everyone does. Rape wasn’t his thing.’

‘Sure . . . I know . . . but sometimes . . .’

‘Sometimes what?’

Dom searched for the words and after a moment he shrugged.