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  He woke with a start, bathed in sweat; the pitter-patter of gentle rain drumming on the bedroom window. It was still dark and Alice was no longer beside him. Having no idea how long he'd slept, he picked up his watch from the bedside table and focussed on it, angling the face to pick up what little reflected light came from outside. It was barely three o'clock. He rubbed at his cheeks trying hard to shift the image from his mind's eye of Alex Hart vanishing from view, along with the shrill scream of Julia Rose – isolated in his memory from the roar of the howling gale – as she despaired, watching Alex die. Only, in his dream, it hadn't been Julia screaming but Alice … and it was himself who he saw falling to his death.

  A figure appeared in the doorway and as his eyes adjusted, he recognised Alice. She came to the bed, lifting the sheets and sliding in alongside him. He put his arm across her and held her tightly as she backed into his embrace.

  "Whatever it is, Tom, you're safe now."

  He lay there with his eyes open, knowing sleep would not come.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Julia Rose hovered on the doorstep underneath the shelter of the canopy. The rain was falling steadily today but nothing like the previous night. She felt numb to the world. Had it not been for the after-effects of a dreadful night's sleep, she probably wouldn't feel anything at all. A dog barked from the other side of the door and she hurriedly stepped forward and pressed the bell, hearing a muted chime indoors. A figure appeared, visible through the obscured glass, unlocking and opening the door. Tim Hendry glanced up at her from a hunched position, one hand gripping the dog's collar, the other holding open the door.

  "Julia. How are you?" The dog, satisfied to have seen who was waiting outside, turned and Hendry ushered it back indoors and out of sight.

  "Hi, Tim," she said wearily. "I'm sorry to call round unannounced—"

  "No, no, don't be silly. Come in, come in."

  Hendry held the door wider allowing her room to pass. Tim was always so polite and willing to help, but a nagging concern told her she’d put upon him too much already. However, she also had no one else to turn to locally and sitting in her room at her guest house any longer would drive her mad. She entered, wiping her feet on the mat and smiled appreciatively. Before he was able to close the door she was already apologising.

  "You're probably sick of the sight of me by now," she said. He waved away the comment. "We don't see each other for a decade and … now we have all of this to contend with."

  Hendry led them through to the kitchen in the rear of the house. The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air. He picked up the jug and offered it to her, reaching for a cup from a nearby shelf. She nodded and he poured it out as she wandered into the breakfast area with her hands in her pockets. A newspaper lay upon the table, Tim's glasses set down alongside it, no guesses as to what the lead story was. A photograph of Alex Hart was on the front page beneath the headline Death of a Monster. She felt her eyes glass over and she blinked away tears. Hendry appeared next to her, passing her a cup of coffee.

  "Still take it black?" he asked.

  She smiled weakly, nodding and accepting the offered cup. He glanced at the newspaper, frowning apologetically and reaching for it.

  "I'm sorry. I'll move—"

  "No, don't," she said placing a restraining hand gently on his forearm. "It's important to know what people are saying, to prepare ourselves."

  She wasn't sure he agreed but he tilted his head off to one side and reluctantly acquiesced.

  "I just can't believe it, Tim … none of it. How c–could he be all of these things … and still be my Alex? I can't get my head around it."

  Hendry sighed, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "I don't get it either. How could none of us know?" He walked back to the coffee machine and poured himself another cup.

  "So, you believe it?" Julia said, pointing to the paper as he turned to face her. "All of this, about Alex being," she shook her head, struggling for the words, "a monster?"

  Hendry took a deep breath, lifting himself upright. He met her eye, straight-faced. "I'm sorry, Jules … but at some point we may have to face facts."

  "What facts?" She was irritated, and knew she was coming across defensive.

  "That – maybe – Alex wasn't who we all thought him to be?" She scoffed at him and he shrugged. "Let's be honest, we know he was messed up—"

  "Yes, but—"

  He held up his hand and she let her protest drop.

  "Alex is – was – very troubled and trust me because I've been around him a lot more than you these past few years, he was getting worse." He shook his head despairingly. "I used to push as much work as I could his way and he was grateful, but he was … somewhat erratic with his behaviour. You didn't see him like this, not like I did. I don't think you knew him as well as you think you did. Do we ever really know people?"

  She shook her head, feeling the burning of rising anger in her tightening chest.

  "I knew Alex," she emphasised herself by jabbing a thumb into her chest, "and I still believe in him."

  He must have sensed it because he adopted a more conciliatory tone.

  "Look, Jules, people can hide their real selves from the world – and just maybe – those closest to them are the last to see who they really are." He shook his head. "Maybe I am wrong? Maybe the police are wrong? They'll investigate properly and figure all of this out. We should be patient and not jump to conclusions—"

  "Like this lot?" she said, pointing at the newspaper. "They're not waiting."

  "The papers! Honestly, does anyone really care? By tomorrow they'll be on to the next story and Alex will …"

  "Be forgotten?" she asked accusingly. Hendry held up both hands in apology. Julia turned over the front page following the story into the double page spread on pages two and three. They already had images of Alex working on dig locations. She wondered how they'd got to them so soon, the university websites or social media, presumably. The chosen images annoyed her too. Not one of them depicted Alex smiling, in every shot he was sullen and removed from anyone else around him. It was almost as if they wanted to find a way to portray him as a loner, a serial attacker who struggled around people. That wasn't Alex. It wasn't her Alex, who was always quick with a joke and a smile, setting people at ease. The article covered his background, where he grew up and went to school. They'd already quoted anonymous school friends who painted him as aloof. That wasn't true. She was certain they were making it up. His body hadn't yet been recovered and here they were destroying him without trial. There wouldn't be a trial. Not now.

  The story continued on the next page as well, charting his career and pointing out the locations of missing girls and whether it was suspected Alex was present or not. Each location had a shot of some waste ground along with a smiling picture of the victim, young women, pretty. Besides Tina Farrow, one was in The Netherlands, another in Kristiansand. Her eyes lingered on that one. The date must be wrong. Tim Hendry must have seen her expression change because he spoke to her but she didn't register his question. He came alongside and gently touched the back of her hand as he placed his cup down on the table.

  "Jules? What is it?"

  She looked at him, her eyes narrowing as she tried to remember. "They must be wrong."

  "Who? The police?"

  She shook her head, pointing at the paper. "There. It says the girl who died in Kristiansand … it says she was abducted on a Friday night and a witness saw her getting into Alex's car …"

  "Yes, so?" Hendry's eyebrows met, puzzled.

  "Well … Alex was ill on that visit. That's why I couldn't understand why the detective constable was asking about it … it couldn't have been Alex. You remember, he had appendicitis and it very nearly ruptured. He was recovering in my apartment following the surgery. There's no way he could have been driving that hire car …"

  Tim was staring at her intently. She looked into his eyes. "It can't have been, Alex … bu
t—"

  The doorbell rang and the dog barked. Tim Hendry held his gaze on her. She felt the speed of her breathing rapidly increasing, as if she'd just completed her morning jog. Tim's expression clouded and she thought she saw his upper lip twitch.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  There was something very odd about trawling through the belongings of the deceased. Tom always thought so. Returning to his mother's house in the days after her death, the place seemed to have lost its soul, even though in that instance he'd only been there that very morning. He'd been staying at her place while she'd been in hospital those last few weeks. Leaving her house with a change of reading matter and some toiletries, he'd found it very peculiar returning later that day knowing she'd passed on. The house felt cold and even more empty. He'd never been able to shake that peculiar feeling, and he felt it now.

  They were notified that the lifeboat crew out of Wells had recovered Alex Hart's body from the sea. Official confirmation would follow but the account transmitted from the crew described Hart as in a bad way, most likely smashed against the cliff face by the punishing power of the North Sea. Tom could still picture him falling from view. Did he fall or did he jump? He didn't have an answer, no matter how many times he was asked the question.

  The ticking of the clock broke the silence, followed by two officers entering the sitting room having just searched through the dining room. Tom allowed them to pass and then stepped out into the tight hallway and climbed the stairs. Officers were rummaging through clothes drawers, searching for anything that could make sense of all of this. Because it didn’t, none of it.

  Tom entered the bathroom, glancing around. The towels on the heated rail were grubby, dirt showing against the pastel colours. He opened the cabinet above the basin and found the bottles of tablets Tamara had spied on their earlier visit. All those present were less than half full and Tom examined the dates printed on the labels. They were fairly recent. He read the dosing requirements along with the contents listed and did a quick mental calculation; Alex Hart didn't appear to be skipping his medication. He would need to ensure a proper analysis was done to confirm his theory but, for now at least, Hart seemed to not be ignoring his doctor's instructions.

  "Thoughts?" Tamara asked, appearing behind him having emerged from one of the bedrooms.

  Tom took a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and shook it open before putting the medications inside.

  "I don't think he was skipping his meds."

  Tamara looked surprised. "But you thought he was hallucinating last night—?"

  "Yes, I did. He wasn't all there, that's a given," Tom said. "Maybe he'd slipped recently?"

  "Or perhaps his dose needed increasing? The impact of medication can deteriorate following prolonged usage, can't it?"

  Tom shrugged, sealing the bag and making a note on the tag. "I guess so. We'll have to check."

  "What is it, Tom? You've been quiet all morning."

  "Ah, it's probably nothing."

  "Which means it's something."

  Tom smiled. She knew him well. He folded his arms across his chest, still holding the bag in his right hand and biting his lower lip. He couldn't articulate his unease, but he'd had it since he'd awoken during the night and had been unable to shake it.

  "I don't know," he said, frowning. "It's just—"

  "Tom!"

  Both of them stepped out onto the landing and looked over the bannister to the bottom of the stairs where Cassie was looking up at them. She beckoned them down.

  "You guys need to see this."

  They made their way down and Cassie led them through to the rear yard and out into the garden. They were greeted by another constable standing at the gate offering access to the lane at the back of the house. Journalists and camera crews were crawling around the area trying to get shots of the inside of the house and the police at work for their next editions. Their presence and scrutiny was more of an irritation than actually hampering the operation though. Squeezing between the old moss-covered car and the exterior wall of the brick garage, Cassie led them inside.

  The garage was barely two metres wide, far too small to house a modern car and even if it were large enough it was still full of junk. Old bicycles that couldn't have been ridden in years, rusting tools and boxes full of who knows what were stacked everywhere. Tom touched a stack of nearby cardboard boxes that were bowing under the pressure of the contents. The cardboard outers were soft to the touch, probably due to the moisture in the air; the smell of damp was strong despite the recent spell of hot and dry weather punctured by the previous day's storm.

  Cassie lifted a small rectangular box from a bench in front of her and set it down on a homemade wooden trellis table at the centre of the garage for them to look at. At first glance the exterior appeared to be leather-lined but was in fact brown plastic. It was aged and covered in dust. It reminded Tom of his father's old shoe-care kit, a small box where he'd stored his boot polishes and assorted brushes. Cassie nodded towards it, suggesting they look inside.

  Tom exchanged a look with Tamara and lifted the lid. The inside was lined with purple velvet but it wasn't this that caught his eye. Tom picked up a student photo-card identification; the picture had aged with time but he could understand many of the words and definitely recognised the girl from Cassie's briefing. He held it up, turning it to show Tamara.

  "Mila van der Berg. The murdered girl from Friesland."

  Tamara's mouth opened and her expression echoed his sadness. He put it back in the box and carefully lifted out a necklace on a fine silver chain – two entwined hearts. It belonged to Anette Larsen, their victim in Kristiansand. Beside this necklace lay another. He lifted it out; a silver heart-shaped pendant on a chain just as Angela Farrow described one belonging to her sister, Tina. Tom pursed his lips and Tamara sighed.

  "Trophies," she said softly, leaning over to look inside the box. "How many different—"

  "Seven objects," Cassie said flatly. Tom closed his eyes.

  "Seven?" Tamara whispered.

  "It doesn't necessarily mean there are seven victims," Cassie said, "but …"

  Tom continued his inspection of the contents. There was a small silver ring with an inset black stone. He thought it might be jet, bringing to mind jewellery he’d seen in and around Whitby over the years. He found an NUS card but water had penetrated the seal at some point in the past and where the type used to be was now a mixture of blurred print and mould, as if they'd been laminated intentionally. The university might be Warwick but he couldn't be sure. The photo was of a young woman with a broad smile and sandy-brown hair hanging to her shoulders. Her smile struck him as warm and friendly. Every victim they knew of could be similarly described.

  He looked at Cassie. "Have scenes of crime check all of this stuff, photograph and catalogue it. Then you need to feed it into the system and start trying to put names to these belongings."

  Cassie nodded solemnly. "Will do."

  "This is going to take some time. Have Eric help you with it," he said, looking around. "Where is Eric anyway?"

  "You remember all those old case files relating to Brancaster the two of you brought back from Tim Hendry's house?" Tamara asked. Tom nodded. "Well, we don't need them, so I wanted to get them back to him. Seeing as Eric has been itching for his autograph, I figured he may as well be the one to take them. He had a personal errand to run afterwards."

  "Everything okay with him?" Tom asked.

  Tamara shrugged. "As far as I know, yes. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason. He said Becca hasn't been sleeping well that's all."

  They left the garage, Tom feeling deflated. His job was to catch killers, not to piece their lives together after the event and work out just how much they'd got away with over the years. They hurried back into the house as the rain started falling again. They stopped in the kitchen where two officers were emptying the cabinets in the hunt for any more items of interest. They b
oth shook their heads to indicate they'd found nothing worthy of a mention.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Eric put the archive box on the ground at his feet and rang the bell for a third time. The dog barked again but it didn't sound close; it must be in a closed room somewhere else in the house. Eric pressed his face close to the obscured glass and tried to make out the interior. He couldn't of course but he hated the idea of a wasted trip. He'd been cutting it fine anyway, too fine as it turned out. He'd barely be able to stay for more than five minutes before he'd need to be off. It was a shame. He was looking forward to picking Tim Hendry's brain on any number of subjects that had come to mind over the past few days. He might never get this opportunity again.

  Deciding to give it one more try, he reached for the bell but a shape loomed into view and Eric released his finger without pressing the button for a fourth time, he'd been too impatient. He hoped Hendry wouldn't be irritated. Backing away from the door, he smiled as Tim Hendry opened it, eyeing Eric warily.

  "DC Collet," he said, surprised. "What brings you here?"

  "Oh, right," Eric said nervously, glancing at the box at his feet. He dropped to his haunches and hefted it up with both arms. Exhaling at the effort required, he smiled across the top of the box. "I'm returning the files you lent us."

  For a moment Hendry seemed reticent, glancing back inside but then his face split into a half-smile and he opened the door fully. "Of course, thank you. Do bring them inside," he said, beckoning Eric in.

  Eric didn't stand on ceremony, striding past him into the hall and looking around. There was nowhere suitable to put the box down and the golden retriever he recalled from their first visit was making its presence known around Eric's legs and he decided that putting the box down might be too tempting for the dog not to investigate. Spying a table in the kitchen at the end of the hall, Eric set off for it.