DS Wildeve Stanton was standing in the middle of the street, the night shading in around her. A few late crows flew overhead, their silhouettes slashes in the sky.

The houses watched her. Inside those brick boxes, the unfolding of lives. Baths and televisions, music and dinner, glasses of wine and cups of tea. So ordinary. And heartbreaking.

She turned away from DC Bernie French, feeling that tilt of grief again.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “We’d better come back in the morning. Can’t knock on doors at this time of night.”

He was right. The older inhabitants of The Avenue might find late visitors unsettling, especially in the current climate. But she didn’t want to go home.

She stared down the street toward number thirty-two, replaying Cooper Clifton’s words. “He said he was on his way to talk to Trefor Lovell.” With his doll business and easy access to the woods, Lovell had been an early suspect, but he’d had an alibi for the second murder—an old friend had vouched for him—and the police had ruled him out, taking him in for questioning and dismissing him as a harmless oddity. But she wondered how thorough her colleagues’ investigations had been. There had been talk of a wife, but no one had seen or spoken to her. She racked her brains, trying to remember what information they had on file for him. Perhaps he was worth a closer look. But it would have to wait until tomorrow now.

“How long do you think Mac’s going to last? I reckon he’ll be out within the week.” French was jangling his keys, gleeful at the prospect.

“Don’t, Bernie. He’s doing the best he can.”

“Not good enough, though, is it? Sorry to bring it up and all that, but you, of all people, must be thinking if we’d caught the killer by now, Adam would still be here.”

His words slapped her. Because even though they were crass, carelessly tossed at her without compassion, there was a truth in them. She did think it. Chest tightening, she took two or three shallow breaths and followed the progress of the birds.

“Five murders is fucking ridiculous. My mother could do a better job.”

“Well, get your mother here sharpish.” The air snapped with her anger. “And you shouldn’t slag off Mac in front of me or anyone else. It’s unprofessional.” She waited for him to apologize, but he shrugged. An urge for solitude tugged at her. “Come on, let’s go home.”

* * *

Wildeve had always hated coming back to an empty house. She loved the flicker of candles against the window, lit squares of warmth inviting her in. A vase of blooms on the table that Adam had picked up from the flower seller by the station. The smell of dinner cooking. But now there was no one to welcome her.