‘Changes things a bit, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh yes,’ Harland got to his feet, ‘this changes everything.’

11

Thursday, 7 June

Harland was humming to himself as he turned off the roundabout and drove out of Portishead. He accelerated down the long straight road that led towards the motorway, enjoying the feel of the car. Over the trees, the towering red cranes at Portbury loomed up against a steel grey sky, dwarfing the thin stains of smoke that rose from the buildings at their feet.

The investigation would take on a different shape now. Someone from the Major Crime team would be over to see him tomorrow, and there’d be a whole new set of protocols and time-wasting. But he was still looking forward to it.

He allowed the car to coast up onto the flyover, overtaking a slow-moving lorry before turning onto the Bristol road and powering up the hill.

Blake’s face had been ashen when he’d told him. Finding a definite connection to another unsolved murder raised the stakes uncomfortably high. Neither of them had mentioned the words – serial killer – but the thought had been there, unspoken between them. Nobody wanted that sort of thing creeping onto his patch. But Harland felt the cold eagerness in his stomach, the guilt-laden thrill that he disliked so much. He needed this.

There was very little traffic this evening. He was making good time, and had to remind himself to slow down for the speed camera in Leigh Woods, changing down a gear and letting the car leap forward as soon as the wretched thing was behind him.

He would have to speak with Thames Valley CID, maybe go to Oxford, compare notes with the officers who’d worked the Erskine case . . . and then what? How far might this trail lead?

He flung the car through the steep bends on the hill down into Bristol, making the most of the road being so quiet.

Two bodies, almost a hundred miles apart. Two bodies that they knew of so far. No wonder Blake looked worried – this wasn’t petty politics any more, this was something serious.

His mood lasted until he hit the outskirts, but he began to feel the familiar gloom descending as he drew closer to home. The traffic slowed as he emerged from the underpass, gently imprisoning him again in the unhappy rhythm of the city. Driving up Coronation Road, he considered letting it carry him straight on along the river – he could go into town, maybe get something to eat – but it would only be postponing the inevitable. He had to go home sometime.

Sighing, he turned right into the warren of quiet residential streets and wound his way between the parked cars to Stackpool Road.

He pushed the front door shut and chained it behind him. Keys dropped in the bowl on the hall stand, jacket draped over the banister, then immediately through to the lounge to switch on the TV, driving the lurking silence away. He paused, willing his shoulders to relax, before wandering through to the kitchen.

It had been fish yesterday evening so tonight would be pasta – eating the same meal on consecutive nights made him feel uncomfortable about himself. He turned the oven on and slid in a piece of French bread to warm, then placed a pan of water on the stove. Even when his appetite deserted him, he made himself go through the ritual – cooking passed valuable time.

When it was ready, he sat at the kitchen table with his food, a book and a single glass of wine – he knew better than to risk more when he was in this sort of mood – reading until the light from the windows began to fail.

After the washing-up was done, he took what was left in his glass and stood in the back garden to smoke: Alice had never liked the smell of smoke in the house. It was dark now, and over the distant rumble of the city he could hear a girl laughing in the next street. Frowning, he went inside.

By eleven, it was becoming difficult to stay awake. Wearily he climbed the stairs and went to the bathroom, then walked along the landing, past the closed bedroom door and on into the spare room. He hung his jacket in the single wardrobe and dropped his clothes in the wicker basket, then gathered up the duvet and pillows and went downstairs.

The sofa bed opened out with a metallic creak and he arranged his bedding in the usual way before turning off the main lights. Settling down, he made himself comfortable, put the TV on timer and concentrated on the programme even though his eyelids were heavy. There was nothing on, just a documentary about architecture, but it didn’t matter. Anything, so long as his mind didn’t wander. This was how he survived, forcing himself to watch until, eventually, sleep claimed him and granted him peace.

part 2

SOUTH DOWNS

12

Wednesday, 13 June

It was difficult to see over the dashboard so he lay back into the seat, gazing up and out of the windscreen, watching sunlight flicker down through the trees. The motion of the car was comforting, with the steady rumble of the road beneath them as tall buildings slid gently by. And then they were slowing down, the tick tick of the indicator sounding as they pulled in to the side of the road.

They had stopped again. He looked up at his father sitting beside him, staring straight ahead with a blank expression. For a long moment they sat in dreadful silence, until a motorbike roared by, breaking the spell. With a deep breath, his father got out of the car and came round to open the passenger door.

It was a warm day and the pavement looked pale and dusty as they walked along. A cat was sitting in the sun, just a few steps into someone’s driveway, but his father hurried him on down the street – there was no time for stroking cats today. No time for anything.

They came to another telegraph pole – the same splintered grey wood as all the others. His father pulled out a piece of white paper, carefully covered in polythene, and began fixing it to the pole with drawing pins, his face an unfamiliar mask of fear as he smoothed down the clear film and pressed home the last pin.

Another one done. Large, uneven capital letters at the top of the sheet, telephone number along the bottom . . . and the dark, photocopied face in the middle.

He stared up at the face smiling out through the polythene in clean school uniform and smartly combed hair. It was the same photo that usually sat on the shelf above the fireplace at home. It was a photo of his big brother.

‘Come on.’

A large hand reached down to take his and led him back towards the car. The door was held open for him and he climbed in, settling back in the seat once more. A moment later, his father got in and wearily reached across him, grasping the seat belt and pulling it over. It felt tight, pinning him down into his seat. There was a click as the belt clip snapped into the slot, and he looked up. His father was staring at him, the expression slowly changing from worry to puzzlement . . .

‘Sir?’

Naysmith opened his eyes. Everything was suddenly very bright and very loud, and he became aware of a low rumble all around him. He blinked a couple of times and found himself looking up at a pretty blonde flight attendant in a smart red uniform.

‘We’ll be landing at Southampton in just a few minutes. I need you to put your seat back up for me, please.’

She had nice eyes.

‘Thanks for waking me,’ he smiled as he pressed the button to raise his seat. ‘I hate it when I sleep through my stop.’

She laughed and turned to walk back up the aisle. Naysmith watched her go, then rubbed his eyes and yawned. He checked his watch – 7.20 p.m. – before turning his attention to the window. A green patchwork of fields drifted up into view as the aircraft banked, occasional wisps of cloud whipping past the wing. Everything looked different from up here, bathed in the golden light of early evening. He leaned over, trying to identify the landscape that slid below them, searching for the coastline, motorways, rivers – anything he might recognise – straining at his seat belt to see better. It felt tight, pinning him down into his seat . . .