His first victim, Catherine Otis, was killed in November 1997 in exactly the same way. He disappeared for almost sixteen years exactly. Where has he been? Lorraine Butterworth said she couldn’t see his face to garner what age he is, but I imagine he must be between forty and sixty. I imagine his minimum age back in 1997 would have been early twenties, so his minimum age now would be somewhere in his forties. But equally he could have been in his thirties or forties then, which would make him fiftyish or even sixty now.
What do we know about him? I look back through the notes I’ve made, thinking aloud. He stalks his victims first, watching them, sussing out where they live, who they live with and when they are alone. Then he accesses their properties mostly by their skylights, sometimes by breaking in through the window. He’s fit, agile, intelligent. And he knows the loopholes, has worked out how to evade capture, leaves no evidence behind. The insect carving is a way to toy with us – and a sign he thinks little of women, that he perhaps blames them for the way his life has turned out.
If he has been in prison for the last sixteen years it would be for something else, not murder. No, he’s too clever, too devious, too much of a psychopath to get caught for murder. He likes menthol cigarettes – God knows why: I tried them once years ago and they taste like piss – and he’s tall …
I’m interrupted by a knock. ‘Come in,’ I shout, with a hint of annoyance in my voice. Saunders pushes open the door and stands there, touching the tips of his spiky hair, which he does a lot, I’ve noticed. ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I wanted to talk to you about the door-to-door calls Doyle and I did last night.’
I indicate the ugly brown chair in front of my desk and he sits down, clutching a takeaway cup. He has a pen behind his ear. I notice a mark on his neck. It looks like a love-bite, and I wonder, idly, who could have given it to him. He places the cup on my desk and pushes up his shirt sleeves.
‘Go on,’ I say.
‘Right. Yes. So, a few neighbours told us they’d seen a man hanging around outside Trisha Banks’s flat, wearing dark clothing and a dark hat. He always stood in the shadows, smoking and watching the house. Tall, well-built.’
‘Nothing new, then.’
‘Most said they didn’t think much of it. Hanham Street is a bit … well, in a less salubrious part of town. Someone said they thought Trisha Banks was a prostitute.’
I frown. ‘Why would they think that?’
‘Because they’d seen a few men go up to her place.’
‘Lorraine never mentioned that.’
‘It doesn’t sound like Lorraine was there much of the time, according to neighbours. Her sister’s been ill and she’s been staying with her a lot.’
‘Okay.’
‘But a neighbour said Lorraine has a brother who she’s certain she’s seen in the area the last week or so.’
I think back to my conversation with Lorraine. Did she mention a brother?
Saunders inches closer, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘And I did some digging and Lorraine’s brother – Martin Butterworth – has just come out of prison. He was banged up for armed robbery.’
‘How long was he in for?’
‘Well, this is the thing, ma’am. He was in for sixteen years. Banged up back in April 2005. Not long after the murder of Belinda Aberdale.’
I feel a burst of adrenaline. Sixteen years. And then I remember. Lorraine did tell me she had a brother, when we were talking about the menthol cigarettes. She told me her dad and brother used to smoke them.
‘We need to interview him,’ I say, jumping to my feet. ‘Right now.’
22
Last night Emilia hardly slept. Every time she heard the slightest noise she’d wake up in a cold sweat. Elliot, in contrast, was out for the count, gently snoring. In the end she’d snuck into Wilfie’s bedroom and got under the dinosaur quilt in his lower bunk while he slept peacefully above. Yet still she couldn’t drop off. The house had never felt bigger, or lonelier, and when daylight started to creep in around the slats of the New England-style shutters in Wilfie’s room, she’d never been more relieved for a night to end.
‘You’re going to drive yourself mad if you keep this up,’ Elliot says, over breakfast when she tells him about it. Wilfie has already disappeared to the den to play Minecraft online with his friends. It had rained last night but now the sun is out, casting light across the parquet and warming the side of Emilia’s face through the glass of the bifolds. It feels like a fresh spring day, the kind she loves. Usually she’d be planning a day trip or a walk through Bushy Park but instead she’s sitting here, feeling sick with worry. ‘You’re completely safe,’ continues Elliot, opening the paper next to him as he spoons muesli into his mouth. ‘We have an alarm now, cameras. The police know what’s going on.’ He reaches across the table to take her hand. ‘I don’t like seeing you this way.’
She knows he feels powerless, that Elliot is at his best when he’s fixing things, helping in some way, however small. She gets how frustrating this must be for him because he can’t do anything to stop it or to make her feel better, despite all the cameras and the security. If anything it’s making her feel worse. If they didn’t have that app on their phones she would have been blissfully unaware that someone was roaming around their garden last night. But, no, she can’t think like that. Better to be prepared. Goosebumps pop up on her arms at the thought of someone outside last night. How long had they been there? Had they been watching them through the shadows in the garden as they snuggled on the sofa, her in her flimsy nightie, her legs draped over her husband? They need to get blinds for those doors. She’ll contact some places. She needs to keep busy too.
She pushes aside her toast. Since all this began her once healthy appetite has diminished. She’s already lost four pounds – she’d usually be elated at this, but she hates the constant sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. ‘It’s the thought of someone lurking around outside,’ she murmurs.
Elliot pulls his hand away and continues eating. He swallows. ‘I know. I think you should tell this detective, whatshisname …’
‘Haddock.’
‘Yes, let him know. Maybe we could give him the footage. I know it’s not very clear, but they might have some special system that will pick up what we’ve missed.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s worth a try.’
‘Good idea.’ She wonders whether or not to voice her worst fears.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m worried they’ll break in. Hurt me or, worse, the kids.’
His eyes soften. ‘I don’t think that will happen. They had the opportunity when I was away. And I know they messed around with the skylights but they didn’t get in. And now we have the alarms. If someone tries to break in the alarms will alert the security team, who will alert the police.’ He gathers up his empty bowl and her plate and takes them to the sink. She watches the muscles in his shoulders that show through his tight jumper as he tips her uneaten toast into the food recycling. He’s fit, strong. He’ll go to the ends of the earth to protect her. She knows that. This knowledge gives her strength. He stands at the island facing her. ‘Whoever’s doing this is just enjoying taunting you and messing with your head. Don’t let them.’