He inspected the bedhead. The cuffs had been discarded in the corner, the key next to them. Fox had managed to work out where the key was and had moved the cuffs through the rails as far as she could but not far enough. However, where Priest might have expected Fox to have given up, he found one of the middle railings, presumably the one she could reach closest to the drawer, bent inwards with the top having separated from the main frame so the rail jutted out at an angle.

‘Wow,’ said Georgie. ‘She broke your bed.’

Priest took hold of the broken rail and tried to move it. It warped a little further but not much. Surely Fox couldn’t have done this?

He had a sinking feeling that he had caught a killer, then let her go again.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Georgie, ‘but I’d say she didn’t appreciate you locking her to your bed.’

‘No. It appears I may have misjudged the situation somewhat. I thought we were dealing with an obsessive fantasist. In fact, we’re dealing with a madwoman.’

He left the spare room and Georgie followed. He found it hard to imagine that, after flying into such a rage, Fox had just wandered out of the front door but everything else appeared to be untouched. Georgie helped him search the flat but it all seemed in place.

‘Where would she have gone?’ Priest thought out loud.

‘We should call Rowlinson,’ Georgie suggested. ‘The Met can find her.’

‘Not yet. Not until we know more. Once the Met start buggering around with this we’ll lose our advantage; they’re experts at fucking things up, even under Rowlinson.’

‘But she might have been responsible for a double murder!’

‘She’s a sociopath, probably, and she has very sharp nails but, as any brother of a serial killer will tell you, that doesn’t necessarily make her a murderer.’

‘I didn’t say it d . . . ’ Georgie’s protest tailed off as she looked down. ‘Wait. Why is the floor wet?’

He stopped and followed her gaze. They were standing in the kitchen and, although he hadn’t noticed it before, Georgie was right: a distinctive trail of water followed a path from the lounge to the front door.

He looked again. There were splash patterns, as if someone had carried a full glass of water across the floor. What the hell . . . wait.

Priest bolted through to the lounge. After a moment he let out a cry of anguish and returned to the kitchen to find Georgie looking at him, baffled.

‘She took Hemingway,’ Priest raged. ‘The bitch took one of my fish.’

Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Georgie brought over the cup of tea and placed it in front of Charlie. He seemed to have taken the loss of his fish badly, or the fact that he had possibly let a potential double murderer slip through his fingers. Or both. Either way, he seemed upset.