‘Look, I know it’s hard, Sonia, but it’s just the way things are done.’

There had not been a great deal to say after that. Once again, she had asked if it was possible to talk to the detective who had been there when it had happened. Kitson had told her that Tom Thorne wasn’t in today and that, for obvious reasons, he was not directly involved in the investigation.

Sonia had seen him on the news.

It had been a big story, after all. Front page and first up on the TV news for almost a week. An escaped serial killer, two murdered prison officers, an attack on a pair of local fishermen – father and son – leaving one of them dead. Jeff’s death not worthy of its own headline; a sidebar at best.

It had not been the detective’s fault, that had been made very clear from the word go. Doctors, police officers, prison governors queuing up to say that the man responsible was one of the most dangerous and manipulative psychopaths they had ever encountered.

Right, and now he was running around somewhere.

After fifteen minutes trying to find a parking place, she was ready to scream. She wanted to jump from the car and punch somebody. Instead, she sat, watching the kids come out, scanning each group of girls for her daughter’s face, fingers tight around the steering wheel. In truth of course, it wasn’t Kitson she was angry with, or Tom Thorne or the stupid way things were done.

It was Jeff himself.

He left a message…

‘Sonia, love, it’s me. There isn’t a lot of time and there’s not much of a signal where I am, so I’d best be quick. Doesn’t take too long to say sorry, so I should probably be all right. There’s nothing else to say that you don’t both know already… you and Rachel. So, I’m sorry. That’s it, darling. I’m so sorry…’

She spotted Rachel walking out of the gate on her own, seeing the car and raising a hand. Sonia pressed a button on the dash to open the car’s boot, then turned her face away and reached into her bag for tissues.

Rachel tossed her bag into the boot and climbed into the car. She automatically leaned forward to retune the radio.

‘You OK?’ Sonia asked.

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘Did anybody say anything?’

‘A couple of stupid comments, that’s all.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bother me, Mum, I swear.’

Rachel was refusing to look at her, but Sonia could see the smallest tightening of skin, the tremor in her daughter’s chin. She started the car and accelerated out into traffic, forcing a 4x4 to brake hard, ignoring the blare of a horn and refusing to raise a hand in apology.

Thinking: Coward, coward, coward…

Annie Nicklin had spent the evening playing gin rummy with a couple of the residents who were still awake by nine o’clock. They had all laughed a fair bit and shared a packet of custard creams, and she had won, which was gratifying, though it didn’t much matter of course.

When the game had finished and the staff began ushering residents towards their beds, Annie collected a large glass of water from the kitchen and walked slowly back to her room. She said goodnight to her favourite care-worker. The young woman she shared a fag with sometimes, who popped out to get her a bottle of something every now and again. The one who talked to her without letting her eyes drift towards those of a nearby colleague she was hoping might come across and rescue her.

They stood and watched the lights flashing on the artificial Christmas tree in the corner.

‘You been fleecing Betty and Frank again?’ the woman asked.

‘It was only rummy,’ Annie said. ‘And I had to keep telling them the rules.’

The woman laughed and said, ‘Sleep well, Annie.’

‘You too,’ Annie said.

As soon as she’d closed the door to her room, she switched on the radio, the volume nice and low. Just a voice to keep her company, same as always. She liked the phone-in programmes best, especially when there were arguments. She wanted to know what was happening in the outside world. In here, it was all about soap operas and quiz shows on the television, and how long it was until the next meal.

Nothing that mattered.

She got undressed, pulled on her nightdress then dug out the postcard from the back of her underwear drawer. It had arrived nearly three weeks before. A sea view, a Pwllheli postmark. She had guessed there was no point handing it over to the police, knew very well that he would be long gone by now. A couple of coppers had called at the home, right after that business on the island, neither of them as friendly as that woman who’d been to see her just before it happened. They obviously thought there was a chance he might turn up to pay his old mum a visit. She’d set them straight, told them there was no chance, that they were wasting their time.

Not such a stupid idea, as it turned out.

She sat on the edge of the bed, turned the card over and read it again.

see you soon

s X

She put the card back and took out the ball of cling-film in which she’d hidden the tablets. It had been easy enough to get them: wandering into some of the other rooms at mealtimes or when there were visitors; opening bottles or slipping a blister pack into the pocket of her dressing gown. Taking the odd few here and there until she had more than enough.

She plumped up her pillows and climbed into bed.

She unwrapped the cling-film and laid out the contents on the duvet.

All sorts of shapes and colours.

On the radio, someone was saying something about the government. She didn’t really care, but his voice was nice enough and that was the main thing.

She listened for another minute or two, then said, ‘Not if I see you first,’ and reached for the glass of water.

FIFTY-NINE

While Thorne had made wholly reasonable assumptions about his means of escape, Nicklin had actually still been on Bardsey Island many hours after the last police officer and paramedic had left.

He met up with the ‘birdwatcher’ when the man came down the mountain to the pre-arranged rendezvous point. Only then did Nicklin reveal that he himself would not be going with them. That the boat was to come back for him much later on and that the birdwatcher would be the one to make the all-important phone call once they had reached the mainland.

Nicklin knew that Thorne would do as he was told, but he was less certain about Holland, or that other one they had left in the chapel. He could not afford to take the risk that the boat might be intercepted. Besides which, he would enjoy being right under their noses the whole time they were running around the island like headless chickens.

He watched the boat disappear into the darkness, then clambered back up to the plain and walked towards the abbey ruins, heading for the huge Celtic cross that marked the tomb of Lord Newborough. He climbed over the low, walled enclosure and lifted the small grating all but obscured by the long grass. The entrance to a hiding place he had discovered twenty-five years before. Over preceding decades, local children had loosened the grating and though the family had sealed off the vault itself, there was still space enough at the bottom of the steps where someone unconcerned about comfort could stay hidden.

He had spent long hours back then, sitting in the cold, stone box. Snug and quiet, eight or ten feet below the gravestones, the space not quite big enough to stand upright in.

There had been several occasions, all those years ago, when Ruth and her cohorts had convinced themselves that he had somehow managed to get off the island. They had alerted the police, only for Nicklin to stroll casually back in the following day. He could not be certain, but he liked to imagine that when he did finally escape – the same night he had killed Simon Milner and the old woman – they had thought he was just playing silly buggers again and had not bothered telling the police until it was far too late.