James read through the first couple and found no suspicious entries or any mention of the hit-and-run accident that Lorna had been involved in.

By now he was struggling to stay awake and his eyes were sore. He decided to look through the rest of the diaries tomorrow.

He left the study and before going up to bed he turned off all the downstairs lights. And that was when he realised what was happening outside. Through the window he could see snow falling like confetti, smothering everything in the back garden.

He realised it was finally the start of the truly dire weather conditions that had been forecast and it sent a chill flushing through his body.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

I know I’ve had too much to drink, but I don’t give a toss. If the bar had stayed open, I’d still be there, throwing back triple vodkas while watching the news on the big wall-mounted television screen.

It’s been good to get out. I needed to try and forget what another shit day I’ve had. The snow that’s coming down doesn’t bother me. In fact, I find it curiously comforting because it makes it less likely that anyone else who’s out this late will spot me walking unsteadily through the village. And that includes the coppers who are wandering around trying, and failing, to make everyone feel safer.

There’s a lot of stuff swirling around inside my head, including the voice of the newsreader as she described in sombre tones what had happened in Kirkby Abbey.

Two murders. Two bodies. Hundreds of people living in fear for their lives. There were interviews with some of them, along with video clips of Lorna Manning’s house and the field where Charlie Jenkins was found lying in the snow.

It still doesn’t seem to me like it’s really happening. It’s so scary, so weird, so fucking unbelievable.

And the police are saying the killer probably lives in the village, which makes it even more shocking.

I can’t imagine it would be any of the people I know – most of them are vile, judgemental cretins – but I’m pretty sure that none of them would be capable of committing multiple murders.

There are hundreds of people living in Kirkby Abbey who I don’t know, though. And I suppose any one of them could be a raving psychopath.

This is what I’m thinking about as I pass the village square. Even through the snow I can see the lights on the giant Christmas tree, and suddenly it seems so out of place at the centre of a community living beneath a cloak of terror.

Everything else is in darkness, including The White Hart pub, the hair salon and the only clothes shop in the village.

I find it hard to imagine that life here will ever be the same again. The place will always be tainted by the blood of the killer’s innocent victims.

As I turn off the square, I start to feel dizzy. The vodka is finally hitting the spot, just as I knew it would. But that’s okay because I haven’t got far to go, and soon I’ll be crashed out on the bed. Booze always helps me to sleep, which is partly why I tend to drink more than I should.