The scene cuts to a few hours later, and the target is kneeling on the bed, naked except for a blue shirt. He’s helpless, his eyes big and pleading, mouth swollen slightly, blood dripping from one corner. The handcuffs the target owns fit the wrists perfectly; they were made to measure. The soundproofing the target has had built into the fabric of the flat is excellent. No matter how much the target screams, no one outside the room or downstairs will hear it at all. The man turns and picks up an old green embroidered tie that he has found in a wardrobe. The target sees what the man has in mind, and as anticipated, begins to fight. As the tourniquet is tightened around the throat, the end of the tie becomes frayed where the target is scrabbling at it. Together they struggle, and together they fall, twisting slightly so that the target’s head catches the corner of the bedframe badly on the way down, the sound of it a wet crack, and by the time they hit the floor, those sparkling eyes have glazed over. He stands up and brushes himself down, watching with fascination as the pool of blood spreads blackly outward like a pupil dilating in the darkness. It occurs to him that the rug on which the target lies will need to be replaced. Also, he’s not sure about the wallpaper.

Now for the old lady, he thinks, wrapping the tie around his hands, noticing with irritation that he has pulled a muscle in his shoulder during the fight with the target. It’s unlikely to affect his finishing the old lady, but there’s a great deal of salt to be brought up, eight sacks of it, ready to deal with the bodies. He supposes it can wait a day or two, until he’s at full strength again—there’s all the boxing in and plastering to be done, too, after all, once they’re finished. No particular hurry. He knows from experience that bodies don’t ripen for at least a week if you keep the heating off.

He cracks open the bedroom door and peers into the living space. The old woman, seated facing away from him, jerks as if she’s just woken up. She tries to look round but doesn’t quite have the flexibility in her neck.

“Gregor?” she says. “Is that you?”

CHAPTER

30

NOW

Joanna

Sunday, December 23

JO TOOK A few steps inside Ruby’s flat and held up a hand for Atkinson to stop. They waited, listened. All was still; the place was empty. She flipped the lights on. The bare bulb dangling from the ceiling illuminated the bed-sitting room in a stark yellow light.