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  'Didn't see his coat but the trainers sound about right and he was wearing jeans with a button-up fly.'

  'How do you know they were buttons?' Susan asked.

  'Because, I could feel them digging into my cheeks when he made me suck his cock.'

  Susan gasped and Karen threw her a savage look. 'You tend not to forget something like that.'

  Lasser threaded his fingers together, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked the seconds into oblivion. 'Anything else you can remember, Karen?'

  She looked from one to the other and shrugged. 'Only the fact that at first he couldn't get a hard-on.'

  This time Susan looked away in disgust.

  'But he did rape you?' Lasser asked.

  'Oh aye, eventually, but he had to get angry before he started to get hard and he kept talking as if there was some other bugger there with him.'

  'But he was definitely alone?'

  'Yeah, but you wouldn't have thought it with the way he was going on. One minute he was whispering and then he started giggling. I tell you it made my skin crawl just listening to him.'

  Lasser didn't like the sound of that, violence linked to sexual abuse was never a good sign, throw in delusion and it was a recipe for disaster.

  'Right, well thanks, Karen; you've been more than helpful.'

  'Got any smokes on you, I've nearly run out and I can't go out that front door, not yet, not till you catch the cunt.'

  'Sorry, love, I'm trying to pack 'em in.'

  Her face fell in disappointment. 'What, not even a couple?'

  Lasser yanked out his wallet before sliding out a tenner. 'Do me a favour, Susan, nip to the corner shop and get twenty cigs for Karen.'

  Susan looked at him in dismay. 'What now?'

  'Yeah, off you toddle and you can keep the change, but no sweeties – they're bad for your teeth.'

  Karen grinned, showing a black maw that resembled a derelict graveyard.

  Back in the car, Lasser yawned and clicked on the wipers. 'So, what did you think of our friend?'

  Susan pulled a sour face. 'She looks as if she's been around the block a few times.'

  'And then some, but what about the things she had to say?'

  'Well, from her description it sounds as if it could be the same man.'

  Lasser grunted. 'You know the first time I met Karen Miller she looked a million dollars.'

  Coyle glanced at him unconvinced.

  'So, go on put an age on her?'

  Susan thought for a moment. 'I don't know thirty-five, forty maybe.'

  'And how old are you?'

  'Twenty-four.'

  'Well, Karen Miller is twenty-six.'

  'No way!'

  'Believe it or not she's a fully-trained beautician, though to look at her now you wouldn't think so.'

  'My God.'

  'All I'm saying is, anyone can end up like Karen, all it takes is one wrong decision, and suddenly you find yourself fucked in more ways than one.'

  'What was her mistake?'

  'The usual – getting in with the wrong crowd, taking that first snort of coke, having a scumbag for a boyfriend – take your pick.'

  'I'm thinking that maybe you're trying to tell me something?'

  Lasser looked at her in surprise. 'Not at all but when I find out who her caseworker is then let's just say they're in for a roasting.'

  'But she said she didn't want to see her social worker.'

  Lasser started the car, before flicking on the heater. 'That's not the point, whoever attacked her spent over an hour making sure she'd never forget the experience. Have you read the report from the rape team?'

  'No, but…'

  'The oral sex you already know about but in addition she was raped, buggered and beaten black and blue.'

  Susan looked away through the side window. 'I didn't realise it was that bad.'

  'The very least she can expect is to be treated with some kind of respect. She didn't set out in life to become a prozzie. I bet that was never on her wish list to Santa when she was growing up.'

  Susan looked at him and nodded. 'I get you.'

  Lasser looked at her keenly and then smiled. 'Right, what do you fancy, McDonald's or Burger King, my treat?'

  10

  Gemma peered through the kitchen window, her face etched with concern. Instinctively her hand went to the swell of her stomach, the baby kicked, and she gasped at the strange sensation. Shaun was still in the garden, lodged into the plastic chair, drenched. Perhaps she should call his mother; Catherine would talk him around, cajole him back to the here and now. She lifted the phone from the pocket of her maternity dress, passing it from one hand to the other in indecision.

  For God's sake get a grip; she couldn't ring for help every time her husband went into meltdown. Dragging her eyes from the window, she filled the kettle and set it to boil. It was best to act normally, keep busy and eventually he would come around. She could get the Dyson out, clean the bedrooms, or change the bedding, anything to take her mind off the figure in the garden.

  She looked at the photograph on the dresser and felt like crying. It showed her and Shaun on their wedding day, both smiling for the camera, the buttons on his dress uniform sparkling. It was hard to believe it was the same sullen man who now moved around the house like a ghost. The baby kicked again and this time she grimaced; she was due any day and part of her was thrilled at the prospect of becoming a first-time mother, though there was another part that was dreading the birth. Over the last couple of months, it was as if Shaun had forgotten she was pregnant. He'd started sleeping in the spare room, he said it was so she could get a good night's sleep but Gemma didn't believe a word of it. This morning they'd passed each other on the landing like strangers sharing a bedsit, he'd flicked her a look and she'd cringed at the emptiness in his eyes. The kettle began to boil, the lid flapping as the water rolled and spluttered. Sliding a cup from the cupboard, she paused before going to the back door. Hesitating, she opened it and looked out; the rain was hammering down, bouncing off the shed roof and forming puddles on the lawn.

  'Shaun, do you want a coffee?'

  No response, Gemma chewed at her bottom lip, it felt as if she were poking a stick at a savage dog that could very well turn and attack.

  'Why don't you come in and I'll make us something to eat?'

  When he stood up, she suddenly wished she'd kept her mouth shut. As he moved towards her through the rain, she resisted the urge to slam the door and bolt it, to run and hide.

  Closing her eyes, she swallowed down the rising panic.

  'You looked tired, Gem, why don't you put your feet up and I'll make us something?'

  Gemma cracked open her eyes, Shaun smiled at her, water dripped from his hair, his clothes were sodden; she could hear his trainers squelch as he walked across the patio.

  'I…'

  'What do you fancy, spag bol or I could make us a curry?'

  'Curry would be nice,' she whispered.

  Reaching out a hand, he slid it onto the swell of her stomach. 'Not too spicy though, not in your condition.'

  Gemma nearly took a step back in shocked surprise. It was the first time he'd touched her in weeks and it felt wonderful – and terrifying at the same time.

  Suddenly he looked like the image in the photograph, bright eyed and happy. Shaun Carver was back though for how long was anybody's guess.

  11

  The photofit looked laughable. Lasser stared at the image pinned to the corkboard and shook his head. It was as if it'd been drawn by a ten year old, a kid's version of the archetypal bad guy, narrowed eyes, beak-like nose, sinister black hair.

  PC Spenner rubbed at his chin as he studied the image, as if he were some highbrow art critic.

  'I'm sure I've seen that face before,' he said.

  'Yeah, probably in the Beano,' Lasser mumbled from the corner of his mouth.

  Bannister threw him a dark look. 'Right, I know it's not much to go on but it's a start.'

  Blank faces pe
ered back at him, the incident room was half-full, due in part to staff holidays but it was also a reflection of how the force had been streamlined or butchered depending on your point of view.

  'Lasser, I want you to contact social services see if they can put a name to the face. Check for people released from the nick in the last couple of months and don't forget the mental health units.'

  'Will do.'

  'Spenner, Rawlins, any luck with the regulars at the Crown?'

  Rawlins looked at Spenner and shrugged, neither seemed keen to provide an answer.

  'For God's sake will one of you spit it out or is it a secret?' Bannister snapped.

  Rawlins leapt to his feet like a chastised schoolchild, his face flushed with embarrassment. 'No luck, sir.'

  Bannister placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. 'What the hell do you mean ''no luck''?'

  Rawlins shrugged apologetically. 'As soon as they saw the uniforms they clammed up. I mean, it's a rough part of town…'

  'I don't need a bloody geography lesson, Rawlins!'

  The colour in Rawlins's face went up another notch. 'No, sir.'

  'So, no one said a dickey bird, not one thing, is that what you're telling me?'

  'Well, the landlord said he might have seen the woman in question but he has no idea what time she left or if she was alone.'

  'Not good enough, get back there tonight and have another crack.'

  'Right, sir,' Rawlins slumped back down and folded his arms before throwing Spenner a dark look.

  'Did I say you could sit down, Rawlins?' Bannister bellowed and the man sprang back to his feet, a look of full-blown panic in his eyes.

  'Sir?'

  'Did either of you pay a follow-up visit to Karen Miller last week?'

  Rawlins looked at his boss in confusion. ''Karen Miller'', he repeated and then immediately blanched when he saw the look of anger creep over Bannister's face.

  'Yes, the first victim, the one who was raped and beaten, remember her do you?'

  Rawlins looked like a condemned man awaiting sentence; Lasser held his breath and waited for the inevitable explosion.

  'Er, I don't think so, sir.'

  'You don't think so! You two should have followed it up, do you know what that means?'

  Rawlins swallowed, Spenner squirmed in the plastic seat.

  'So, why didn't you?'

  Rawlins cleared his throat. 'Well, sir, we did intend calling on Karen Miller but then Natalie Evans was attacked.'

  Bannister closed his eyes, the vein in his temple throbbed, his knuckles white on the desk. 'I see and because Evans works in a travel agents and comes from a nice family she took precedent over Miller, is that what you're saying?'

  'Not at all, sir,' Spenner piped up, looking shocked at the mere suggestion.

  Bannister jabbed out a finger. 'I hope you're telling me the truth, Spenner, because I would hate to think you were being discriminatory.'

  Spenner looked as if he had just learned a new word. Rawlins peered at his shoes, a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  'Right, sit down and in future you follow procedure, understood?'

  'Sir.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Bannister's eyes travelled around the room, making sure everyone absorbed the message.

  'OK, our man seems to look for victims through Friday and Saturday nights, so I want patrols doubling for the next two weekends.'

  A couple of hands shot up.

  'Yes, you two, I know you're off on holiday, but there's overtime for the rest of you,' he turned and pointed at a map of the town. 'Now, the three women were all attacked within a mile of each other, so I want you to concentrate around the Scholes and Whelley areas. That doesn't mean finding a nice secluded spot and getting some shut-eye. I want you out on the streets, you see anyone suspicious you have a word, any lone female you talk to them, explain the seriousness of the situation.'

  'They won't like that, boss.'

  'I'm not interested in what they like, Bob. I don't believe in the softly, softly approach, people need to be aware and it's our job to spread the word. Now come on, let's make sure we catch this nutter before he kills someone.'

  People began to shuffle from the room; Lasser was heading to the doors when he heard Bannister call his name.

  By the time the DCI made his way over the room was empty. 'The Red Robin, eight o'clock.'

  Lasser looked at him blankly. 'Sorry?'

  'The meal.'

  'Oh right,' shit, he'd forgotten all about the invitation, he tried desperately to think of an excuse not to go.

  Bannister watched him through narrowed eyes. 'Are you bringing anyone with you?'

  'Er, well I was going to ask Medea…'

  'She's too good for you, that woman.'

  'Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.'

  Bannister's face split into a crooked smile. 'Don't worry, Sergeant, by the time tonight's over I'll make sure she knows all about your many and varied faults. The drinking, smoking…'

  Lasser whipped out the fake cigarette and brandished it under Bannister's nose. 'Not anymore.'

  The smile slid from his face; plucking it from Lasser's fingers, he studied it as if it were some Sci-Fi ray gun. 'Does it actually work?'

  'I've not had a cig for over three weeks,' Lasser replied proudly.

  Bannister slapped a hand onto his shoulder. 'My God it must be love, if you've packed in the dreaded weed.'

  Lasser could feel his face burning. 'Costs too much.'

  Bannister winked at him, 'Whatever you say, Sergeant, whatever you say.'

  12

  Lasser stuck the piece of tissue onto the nick on his chin, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. 'I can do without this.'

  Medea lay behind him in the bath, bubbles up to her chin. 'Don't be miserable, we might have a nice time.'

  Turning, he raised an eyebrow. 'Are you having a laugh?'

  Medea lifted her foot out of the water and wriggled her toes. 'I know you hate to admit it but secretly I think you admire the man.'

  Lasser turned. 'Bollocks, he's my boss, he treats me like shite, and now he wants me to play happy families.'

  Medea smiled up at him. 'Maybe it's a bromance in the making?'

  He pointed the razor at her. 'Don't even joke about it.'

  'So come on, tell me what you did today?'

  Lasser frowned, he still couldn't get used to somebody asking how his day had gone, it felt surreal and a little unnerving. 'Well, Bannister asked me, no wait, he demanded that I go to the local mental health units to see if anyone recognised our pathetic photofit.'

  'And did they?'

  'Well, one person swore he recognised the man, said he was a dead ringer for some bloke who'd sung 'Wind Beneath My Wings' on The Voice. '

  Medea slid the bubbles from her left arm with the palm of her right hand. 'So, are you going to follow up this tenuous lead?'

  Lasser sat on the edge of the bath. 'Are you taking the piss?'

  Her eyes sprang open in a parody of innocence. 'Me?'

  He smiled down at her, he still couldn't grasp the fact that she was here. He kept waking in the night thinking it had all been a delicious dream and then he would see her lying beside him and fight down the rising panic that something would go wrong.

  Reaching down, he scooped up a handful of bubbles and flicked them towards her face. 'Look, if Bannister tries to wind you up tonight just ignore him.'

  'Why would he want to wind me up?'

  Lasser shrugged.

  'Oh I get it; you're worried he might tell me things you don't want me to know about?'

  'You mean about my colourful past, the endless string of beautiful women that have shared my bed, the night I ran around town naked with a traffic cone on my head.'

  'Hey, I did that once, see we have more in common than you realise.'

  Grinning he headed back to the sink, the tissue stained with blood dangled from his chin. Lasser watched in the mirror as
Medea climbed from the bath, her skin glistening with bubbles. Reaching for a towel, she saw him staring and raised an eyebrow. For some unfathomable reason he felt the blush flare and turned away. No, something so good would never last, no chance.

  13

  He felt alive, tuned into the night, buzzing. Half past eight and the town centre was heaving. Robert watched as a gaggle of girls staggered past, huddled beneath flimsy umbrellas. He stared at their legs as they walked away on towering heels. Flicking the roll-up into the gutter he moved up the street, his eyes continually sliding from side to side. Everywhere he looked, he could see bare flesh. A girl sauntered past, her midriff on display, glistening with false tan, her belly bar catching the streetlights glare. Her breasts encased in a micro top, crushed together until they were almost spilling free.

  It was like being inside a jeweller's picking out an expensive watch or ring, everything was on display, you could look, but you couldn't touch. Yeah well, rules were made to be broken. Glancing up he eyed the CCTV cameras warily, a sliver of hate flitted across his face and vanished.

  Somewhere in town there would be a room and in that anonymous room there would be a bank of screens recording the night's events, grabbing snapshots of time. Robert wished he could find this mythical place then he could firebomb it. A sudden image came into his mind, the smell of lighter fluid as he sprayed it through the letterbox, the flare of the match and then the screams as people fried.

  'Concentrate, Robert.'

  The smile died on his lips as Erin's face sneaked in through the back door – bitch, fucking bitch. He'd spent the day curled up in bed, the medication seeping into his system, his hand curled around his member like a baby holding its favourite rattle.

  Breathing deeply, he caught the scent of frying burgers and wondered if burning flesh would smell as good. Dipping a hand into the pocket of his jeans, Robert dragged out a crumpled ten-pound note, the money had to last him another four days, the injustice of it crackled in his brain. Then he cocked his head to one side and listened as the voice whispered in his ear, the smile spluttered back to life. He nodded in response; he could take the women's money as well as their souls. This sudden revelation filled him with a kind of warped wonderment.