I brought the drinks over, and then spread the files out on the table, out of spill range. DI Johns had allowed me to bring the copies home, but I had to admit to feeling suspicious about his sudden change of heart, and the cynical part of me wondered when it would come back to bite me. Prejudice aside, I was determined to make the most of the situation. Under normal circumstances, my practice was that work life stayed at work, home life at home, all things in their rightful place, but I was way too involved here, and it felt personal. This case had intruded into my life on too many levels.

‘First victim, Christchurch, first of March, Erica Jane Moorhouse, twenty-four years old.’ I handed Paul a photo of a fresh-faced, ponytailed brunette wearing waders and holding a sizeable trout. My heart gave a lurch, water again, although this young woman hadn’t died in it.

‘Pretty girl, nice fish.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘She died as a result of an overdose.’

‘Not self-inflicted, I take it?’

‘No. Damned scary, actually. She was out at a bar-cum-nightclubby place with a group of girlfriends for their usual Saturday night out. They believe her drink was spiked while they were up dancing.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember that one now. Police were putting out extra warnings to people to never leave their drinks unattended. What do they say? Victims make mistakes that put them in danger, make them targets. We’d been running a safety-education campaign anyway with pub patrons because of concerns over drinks being spiked with date-rape drugs, but this was something else – spiked to kill.’

‘Yeah, massive dose of GHB. They never caught the killer. By the time she died in hospital, and people realised the most likely source, the nightclub had closed for the night, patrons gone home to bed and the glassware had been cleaned. Nothing in the way of evidence other than some grainy security video which wasn’t of much use.’

‘Sad. Bring on victim number two.’

‘This one was thought to be an unfortunate hunting accident that no one ever owned up to. William James Brody, aged fifty-one, was angling on the Ashburton river when he was shot, in the back with a .303.’ I handed Paul a photograph of a solid, slightly balding and jovial-looking man. He reminded me a bit of Dad with his standard farming uniform of checked shirt, shorts and floppy hat. He didn’t have a fish. ‘A nearby angler saw him drop and ran over thinking he’d had a heart attack or something. He pulled him out of the river, but Mr Brody died before medical help could arrive. No weapon was found, and there was no obvious motive for foul play, so it was thought perhaps to be a stray shot from a hunter who never owned up, or never made the connection between the death and their activities.’

‘Didn’t the other guy hear the shot?’