Wozza led the way out of the court, and I waited until we were clear of the building before I vented my frustration. ‘Arsehole! Would he like it better if I had a black eye and a split lip?’

‘Probably,’ said Wozza. ‘You worried?’

‘About Jack? Nah.’ But that was only half true. I wasn’t worried about him coming after me. I could handle myself. The real concern was: what if he went after other women?

Our eyes met.

Wozza got it. ‘We’ll concentrate night patrols at pubs. Do our best to keep women safe.’

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Pete Mars, the detective from Bellanook, pulled up as we walked down the steps of the courthouse. We watched as he climbed out of his car, tucked a folder under his arm, and came around to us.

‘G’day, mate,’ Pete said to Wozza.

‘G’day, mate,’ Wozza said to Pete.

Preliminaries out of the way, Pete apologised for missing the hearing. He’d been caught up with another job. ‘Did your bloke get bail?’

‘Yep.’ Wozza’s voice was gruff.

Pete nodded towards a cafe across the street. ‘Let’s get a coffee and compare notes.’

In the cafe, seated in the back corner, Pete laid his folder on the table, then rested his hands on it protectively. He looked up and scanned the room. Whatever he had in the folder, he wasn’t going to risk anyone else seeing it. I understood and lay my police diary on the table. The polaroids were tucked inside.

Pete looked grave. ‘With photos of victims,’ he said, ‘I always treat them like they were my own mother or sister.’

Wozza nodded. Lips pressed together.

A woman wearing an apron with the name of the cafe on it delivered our coffees, then we were alone. I slipped out the evidence bag with the polaroid photos and slid them face down across the table to Pete. He looked around again, before looking down at them through the plastic. Only the first one was visible. He frowned.

‘Same general build as our first victim …’ His voice trailed off as he leaned closer. ‘Is that a tattoo?’ He pointed to her forearm.

‘It’s of Ruth Bader Ginsburg,’ I said. I’d enlarged it on the computer.

‘That’s one of ours,’ said Pete, opening his folder to check his notes. ‘Julie Chen, law student. Woke up on a park bench after a night out at the pub.’ He slid out a photo showing a close-up of a bruise on an upper arm. Beneath it was the same Ruth Bader Ginsburg tattoo.

For the second time that day, Wozza said, ‘Gotcha!’

CHAPTER 6: THE MURDERER’S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 6

THE MURDERER’S DAUGHTER