He switched off the light, locked up and headed off into the night.

Although it was just past midnight, tipping Sunday night into Monday morning, the air was still swollen with heat. It teased the sweat from his body, from under his arms and his upper lip.

The street was in darkness but the moon was as silver and flat as a coin. He tried to recall the science behind the lunar cycle, but the knowledge drifted from him, and he realized, with a shade of regret, that he had forgotten many things with the forward march of time.

He patted his pocket. Writing things down helped him to remember.

Trefor Lovell lived at number 32 The Avenue, at the bottom end of the street. His house was less than four minutes’ walk from his shop and past the public footpath that led into Blatches Woods.

A uniformed police officer stood by the entrance. Lovell’s palms were damp. He nodded at the man. The man nodded back.

“Evening, sir, you’re out and about late tonight.” Lovell noticed the man move his hand and rest it lightly on his radio.

“I’ve been working,” he said.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you might want to think twice about being on the streets at this time of night.” The police officer jerked his head toward the dark mass of trees. “We found another one today.”

Lovell, who had been painting his dolls all afternoon, lost in music and the act of birth, did not know this.

“I’ll be fine. I only live over there,” he said, pointing down the road to his house. “Not far.”

“Then I’m sure someone will be round to see you in the next day or so.” The police officer laughed at Lovell’s expression. “Don’t look so worried, sir. It’s routine.”

Lovell cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Good-nights were exchanged. Lovell raised a hand in farewell. Jasmine, or the musk of another bloom, was heavy in the nighttime air.

The police officer watched Lovell as he strolled down The Avenue, past silent houses clad in pebble-dash, and trash bins and the hulk of parked cars, and through his own gate. Although Lovell could no longer see him, he sensed the weight of the man’s stare, the frisson of his interest.

His hand was trembling so much his key scratched the metal cover of the lock as he tried to insert it. It took every ounce of Lovell’s strength not to run back to the officer, fall upon his knees and confess everything.

13

Monday 30th July 2018, 8:59 A.M.

Southside Hospital, Essex

Monday morning. 98.3°F.

Detective Sergeant Wildeve Stanton had not warned any of her Essex Police colleagues that she was coming in to work. They would have tried everything to stop her.

Simon Quick, a police-dog handler and Adam’s best friend, was insisting on dropping by with breakfast, but she had ignored his call. She had known what his offer meant. But she wasn’t ready to face that yet and was gone before he arrived.