He’d been aware that the mother of his second victim was dangerously ill in hospital, because he’d read about it in the Daily Mirror. Mrs Rita Hollingsworth’s dying wish was to be able to bury her son, Gordon. For three weeks last winter, nothing happened. Then the Home Office finally relented, approved the parole application and confirmed Rollason’s release date. Tuesday 2 July. The week after, Rollason had indicated he was willing to keep his side of the bargain. He was taken back to the North York Moors and led police to a patch of bracken by a tree stump, in the shadow of a large rock. That was where he had buried Gordon Hollingsworth. The later recovery of bones made national headlines. He was miffed not to be given a shred of recognition in the media for his part of the bargain. Still, at least he would be released.

He picked up his notebook and wrote the precious date down: Tuesday 2 July. Just ten days away! He fantasised about what he was going to do. The first pint of beer, the first meal out, Thai red curry with saffron rice with an ice-cold lager. His first bout of sex, with anyone other than his own left hand. Perhaps most prominent of all was his list of acts of revenge, planned over many years, a campaign to be conducted with the utmost care. Those who had put him inside would suffer retribution, and those who had written him hate mail while he was in prison would get their comeuppance. He had a few addresses, mostly of those who were friends or relatives of the victims’ families. Then there was one police officer, Gillard, now a detective chief inspector in Surrey. That was definitely a case for vengeance. There wasn’t going to be anything too high-profile to start with, just some subtle psychology. Vandalised cars, graffiti, short messages by letter and by phone. The easiest approach was to adopt the tabloid description of him from 1987, when his crimes first came to national prominence. The Bogeyman. That’s what they’d called him. He’d already written his first letter and popped it into the letter box in the village in Grendon Underwood, yesterday. It was in his new handwriting, written with forensic caution in a gloved right hand, on a sheet torn from a new notebook. It was addressed to one of his most persistent and irritating correspondents. It just said: Are you afraid of the Bogeyman?

Chapter Six

Following up the list of party guests, Constables Cottesloe and Wickens drew their patrol car up to the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Holdersham Estate. Straight ahead was a half-mile tree-lined avenue leading to Holdersham Hall, where party attendee Gus van Steenis was manager. Cottesloe leaned out of the window to press the intercom button set into a metal column, and the gates slowly parted.