Ray called. She squashed the memories back.

‘All right, kiddo? Saw the news. Terrible business. Close to finding the killer?’ She loved his Valleys accent and she never tired of it.

‘No. He’s vanished. And it’s going to be a long, crap day.’

‘Cheer up. At least it’s not tomorrow. That’ll be even worse.’

He was right too, she thought as the car made its sluggish way to CTOC. Tomorrow would be worse.

#

Bexleyheath, South East London

Time had passed, but how much time? The woods had darkened hours ago, and it must have been thirty minutes since Fletcher had seen the girl picking her way through the trees, her yappy little terrier scampering around, scratching at the fallen litter of leaves and getting too close. He had no wristwatch and hadn’t dared turn on his phone, so could only guess the time from the sky.

His hands were numb, his thighs ached and the jagged peaks of the tree bark pressed hard into his back. And with only a thin cotton top on, he was bitterly cold. The stench of stale piss filled his nostrils as he shifted his weight. He hadn’t remembered pissing himself, but the evidence was there in the dampness around his crotch. He guessed he was hungry, probably thirsty too, but he felt nothing but the desperate urge to get shelter from the cold and the rain.

There was no sound now. Peter’s house couldn’t be far. Propping his hand against the tree behind him, Fletcher pushed himself onto creaking joints and raised himself up fully. Jesus, that hurt.

His only thought as he sprinted through the theme park had been to get to these woods. He knew Pete would be away this week, working in Bradford, or Bolton, or somewhere northern. He couldn’t think of the name, but he knew it was one of those shit cities where white people were being driven out. He didn’t dare take public transport, so he cycled along back roads, head down, avoiding CCTV cameras and using the Thames and the railways as a guide. He barely saw where he was cycling, his eyes just saw his hand stretch out again and again, blade slashing, red spurting. Where was the knife? He must have dropped it. It would have his fingerprints on. But so fucking what? They knew who he was. It made no difference.

It had taken a couple of hours before he found the edge of Abbey Wood, where he hid his bike in the dense overgrowth and waited in the cold and damp.

He let his mind drift back to his childhood, when he had played in these woods with Peter and the gang. They’d made dens in the undergrowth, smoked fags and got pissed on cider they’d nicked from the corner shop. They’d lit fires and talked rubbish and made plans. Pete had sliced his arm here, just for a dare, with his dad’s Stanley knife. It had bled for ages and taken a lot of bottle. Pete’s house backed on to the southern boundary of the woods. Fletcher had last been here a month ago for their Friday beer and takeaway. It had been a curry last time. Next time it was going to be a kebab. But there wouldn’t be a next time.