Ronald Butler was grey and a thin film of sweat shone all over his face and neck. His lips were blue. Kate knelt over his body and felt his neck for a pulse. It was barely noticeable. Entwining the fingers of both hands she pushed down hard on his chest, just to the left of his heart.

Oh, please God, let them hurry!

As if her prayers had been answered, she heard the clanging of the Crash trolley bursting through the plastic doors.

Kate carried on the heart massage until the Crash team took over and a few minutes later was gratified to hear Ronald Butler breathing relatively normally. She waited until he had been put on a trolley to be taken to the CCU. As he was being taken out of the mortuary to Cardiac Care Unit, he grasped Kate’s hand.

‘Would you tell my wife . . . please, tell her not to worry . . .’

‘Of course I will.’ Kate felt the burning inside her own chest. It was not physical pain but hatred and had been building up inside her all day.

‘Louise was our life, you see. We hoped . . . we hoped she would walk back in the house. You know.’ He squeezed his eyes shut to stem the tears. ‘That she was still alive somewhere. Anywhere.’

Kate felt the man’s agony as if it were a tangible thing. As the trolley was pushed away, she knelt down and retrieved the handbag that she had thrown to the floor as he collapsed. Standing, she went once more to Louise Butler’s body and pulled the sheet away from her face.

Fifteen. Loved and wanted. Her whole life ahead of her. And now she had been reduced to a bloody pulp.

Swallowing hard, Kate left the mortuary. She had decided to be in on the post mortem and now she would go to the Pathologist’s office and wait for the remains of Louise Butler to be laid on the mortuary blocks and then systematically cut to pieces.

Ronald Butler had made Kate feel the futility of all their investigations. His daughter was dead, Mandy Kelly was dead, and Geraldine O’Leary was dead. Three women raped and murdered in less than seven weeks.

They had to find him before he struck again, and they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. Every avenue they pursued hit a dead end. Every lead went nowhere. This man was either very clever or very lucky. Or else had a mixture of the two.

She was still dwelling on it when the post mortem started. Kate had been given a small white mask to wear and when the pathologist cut Louise Butler from the breastbone to the navel she was glad of it. The stench of the gasses was appalling.

Kate watched everything through heavily lidded eyes. The burning was back in her breast. Stronger this time.