A sharp point of pain in my neck began to throb. Please. The cut beneath the scab where I had felt his knife. Please. I slowed my breathing before it was out of control.

Please. I have a daughter.

‘Our unsub sets out with the intention to kill,’ said Dr Stephen. ‘Honour. Power. Control. If I can tell you anything at all, it is that: honour, power, control. There’s your motive. These murders are an expression of affronted masculinity.’

Bob and the killer no longer sounded to me like people who were just different. They sounded like polar opposites.

Dr Stephen smiled pleasantly.

‘And I can tell you one more thing for nothing,’ he said.

We all looked at him.

‘He won’t stop.’

Chapter 21

21

THE FOX HAD the playing fields to himself.

I had driven out to Potter’s Field for Guy Philips’ memorial service, and with an hour to kill I had wandered out to the playing fields, remembering when Piggy had come running from the woods with the life draining out of him.

The rugby and football pitches were all empty now. There was just the lone fox, which I’d watched come out of the trees and mooch along the touchline of the far rugby field, heading towards the little stone cottage.

There was no sign of Len Zukov, the groundsman, but the fox moved more warily near this sign of civilisation, slowing his pace and raising his head to sniff the air. My phone began to vibrate as I saw the fox veer away from the cottage and move into the great muddy green expanse of the playing fields.

Wren was calling. She wasn’t in MIR-1. I could hear street noises, voices I didn’t know.

‘Edward Duncan,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘He doesn’t have a criminal record. He doesn’t have a driving licence. He doesn’t have a national insurance number. He doesn’t have a passport. And he doesn’t have a credit card, a bank account or a wife.’

She was pleased with herself. I could almost see her grinning with pleasure, brushing a strand of red hair from her pale face.

‘What does he have?’ I said.

‘Edward Duncan has an art dealer.’

I let it sink in. ‘Well done, Wren.’

‘Nereus Fine Art. Small place. North London, right at the top of Heath Street, Hampstead way. I drove past it.’

‘I didn’t ask you to do that, did I?’

‘Relax, detective, I didn’t go in. It was closed anyway. It’s tiny.’

‘Nereus Fine Art,’ I said.

‘It’s a Greek myth,’ Wren explained. ‘Nereus was a god of the sea. He was kind and just and he had a special power.’

‘Go on.’

‘He had the power to change his shape.’

The fox was trotting towards me, taking his time.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘See? Everyone leaves a shadow.’

I took down the details of Nereus Fine Art.