What kind of person did such things? Unusually, what kind of woman? A psychopath? Certainly. A damaged soul? An abused child growing up into a warped adult?

He knew the considered view, the opinion the professionals would put forward. But for him, there was no excuse, no rationale, no justification. This was a child murderer hard-wired as evil, unredeemable from birth. That such individuals existed he had never doubted. Someone, somewhere, would be concocting a case against the woman’s parents, siblings, carers, minders, schoolteachers, God knew who else, all of whom would suffer the torments of guilt and self-blame for the rest of their lives. But why should they? This was no one’s doing. This was the Devil stalking the earth, seeking whom to devour. Richard Serrailler was not a religious man but he had had a childhood and upbringing steeped in the Bible. And it was at times like these, he thought, still reading about the piles of small bones as he walked up the drive of Hallam House, that the Bible stood him in good stead.

He opened the front door. The percolator would be on. They might take the coffee, with the papers, into the garden.

But to his surprise, there was no smell of coffee and the kitchen was empty.

Richard went to the window.

At first, he thought that she had tripped over the rose branch and as he hurried out he cursed himself for not dealing with it before he went to fetch the papers. But in fact she was lying a foot or so away. She had not moved the branch.

He bent down and touched her hand, then felt for the pulse in her neck. After a few seconds, he turned her over gently. Her blue eyes were open. He stroked her face with his finger. The skin was soft as chamois, and cool.

For several moments, Richard Serrailler did not leave her, only sat on the path, holding her hand. Once he said, “Oh my darling.” The garden was hot and still around them. The secateurs lay on the path beside her, next to the trug full of weeds, dry stalks, spent flowers. A wood pigeon made its monotonous cooing sound from deep inside the holly tree.

In the end, he went inside to call Ian McKay, their GP for thirty years. After that he rang Cat. She was taking a surgery. No, he said to Kathy he would not interrupt her but she must call him straight back.

Simon was not at the station. He left a message and another, into the middle of the Australian night, for Ivo. Then, methodically, he spooned coffee into the percolator, filled it with water and put it on, before collecting a thin quilt from the airing cupboard, and taking it outside, to lay carefully over his dead wife. He closed her eyes and brought the quilt up to her neck, not covering her face, so that she lay in the sun like someone peacefully sleeping.

Sixty-three

“Jesus wept.”

Natalie read the whole of the newspaper article again more slowly. She couldn’t get her head round it, couldn’t take it in at all. What else were they going to find? How many more, for Christ’s sake?

Kyra had gone to a theme park for the day with the Jugglers Holiday Club. The coach had left at seven and they wouldn’t be back until late.

Bloody good job. Bloody c

It was one of the hottest days of the year and Natalie felt cold. There were goose pimples on her arms. After a minute she went upstairs. Kyra’s room was still and silent and neat and clean. She looked out of the window, on to the house next door. Then she looked at the garden.

Fred West. They’d dug up the patio first, then the whole garden, then dug under the cellar. She couldn’t remember how many they’d found.

Ed’s flower beds were overgrown with weeds and the grass hadn’t been cut. The police in white suits had poked about a bit and then gone. No one had been near. It looked a mess. Kyra kept wanting to go next door and do stuff, get the grass mown, weed the flower beds, kept saying how Ed would mind it being untidy, Ed would be pleased if they did it, Ed wouldn’t like coming home and seeing it like it was. She couldn’t shut her up.

The heat haze shimmered over the concrete path. Over the long grass.

Right.

She ran down the stairs, found the scrap of paper she’d scribbled on and rang the journalist, Lucy Groves.

“Not at my desk. Please leave a message. I’ll get straight back to you.”

“It’s Natalie Coombs. I’ve changed my mind. I said I wouldn’t but I will. I’ll do it.”

Natalie went out. She had to go out. Staying in and thinking about the house and garden next door was more than anyone could stand.

There was a knot of people by the gate of Ed’s house. Natalie didn’t recognise any of them. Gawpers. Made her shudder. She went to open her car door and they turned to gawp at her.

“Bugger off,” she shouted. “Leave us alone, this ain’t a bloody peep show, people have to live here.”

As she headed down the road, a television van was turning in. She hoped it wouldn’t still be there when Kyra got back or there’d be more questions, more fretting.

She drove across town to Donna’s. Donna had a new baby and no car so was mostly in.

She’d been to school with Donna and in those days they’d had plans, plans for getting out of here, plans for going abroad, plans for making a lot of money, plans for doing what you wanted not what everyone told you to, plans for getting a name in the world. Then Natalie had had Kyra and Donna, stupid cow, had taken no notice of anything she saw or Natalie said, but gone ahead and done the same, had Danny first, and now Milo who Kyra called Lilo.

Natalie had wanted to shake her, still did, except that she knew it was herself she wanted to shake. How had they got like this, when you looked back and remembered everything they’d said, planned, promised, agreed? “No way.” They had gone through the list often enough. Men. Dead-end jobs. Drugs. Smoking. Being a slag. Babies. No way.

The only one they’d both stuck to was the drugs. No way. But sometimes Natalie thought they might as well have done drugs.

Donna was in. The front door was open and Danny was standing in the hall wearing only a T-shirt and peeing on to the stairs. Milo was screaming somewhere. Natalie knew better than to try and make herself heard by knocking or shouting out. She walked straight in to where Donna sat at the kitchen table, crying.

*

It took twenty minutes to change Milo, clean up Danny and the stairs and set him in front of a Rugratsvideo, make tea and listen to some of Donna’s misery.

“Right,” Natalie said, “now shut up. It’s my turn. You remember all that stuff we used to say about getting out, going somewhere else and making something of ourselves, all that.”

“Yeah, right. Stuff.”

“We’re gonna do it.”

Donna got up and went to the freezer drawer of the fridge and took out a tub of ice cream.

“No,” Natalie said, “you put that right back. What good will that do? What you just been moaning about? That you’re fat and spotty, right, well, why are you fat and spotty, Don? You never used to be fat and spotty—well, OK, we were all a bit spotty but not fat. You eat that all day, what do you expect? Put it down the sink. Now listen. I got plans for us, girl.”

“Plans,” Donna Campbell said, sitting down again heavily. “Ha.”

“We’re getting out of here. Going to somewhere by the sea c maybe North Wales, or maybe Devon, I haven’t quite made up my mind, only we’re going. We get there, Kyra’ll be at school, yours can go somewhere two or three days, a nursery or maybe a minder, and we’ll start up. In the end, we’ll do proper catering, dinners and functions, but not first off, we—”

Donna put her hand up. “Please, Miss—”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I’m psychic. Pick a card, any card. Word you was going to say is ‘Money’”

“Too right I was and that don’t take a bloody crystal ball.”