‘I’m full time here, five till eleven, seven days a week. There is no night off.’

‘Is there only one Black Cat in San Diego?’

‘Yeah.’ The bar man nodded. ‘Just the one, but there is another place up in San Fran. You could try there, but to be honest man, if I were you…’

‘Yeah?’

‘I reckon I’d call the cops. It could be serious, you know what I mean?’

‘Yeah.’ Mark nodded solemnly. ‘I do.’

At that point, a group of perfumed young women clattered through the door of the Black Cat and absorbed the barman’s attention. Mark picked up his beer, and relocated to a bright red leather chair by a table in a dark corner of the bar. After taking another drink from the bottle, he pulled the photograph out of his pocket again, and held it in both hands.

For a few moments, he stared at the image as if trying to open a window to the past he could somehow tumble through.

Eventually, he sighed, and reached into his back pocket. Taking out his phone, he slid his finger across the screen, and tapped in the internet search. When the number came up, he pressed it, and raised the phone to his ear. There were a couple of rings, then a voice answered.

‘Good afternoon, Laughlin Police Department, how may I help?’

‘I’d like to report a missing person,’ Mark said, weakly hoping he was being stupid, but knowing he wasn’t.

24

Leighton had only taken two steps inside the cool vault of the station when he was met by the Chief Gretsch, who had been supervising the installation of a new framed display of decorated officers on the wall behind the main reception. His own grinning photograph was at the top of the display. He hurried cross the foyer to intercept Leighton, before he reached the reception desk. He smiled a broad and emotionless smile.

‘Mr. Jones, I was wondering when you might show up.’ He took Leighton’s arm, and led him purposefully across the marble floor, away from the reception desk.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, it seems you were in last week, too. You do know you are currently retired, right?’ Gretsch chuckled without warmth.

‘I just popped in.’ Leighton shrugged. ‘Didn’t think there was any harm.’

‘No?’ A bitter smile split Gretsch’s face. ‘Well, that’s as may be, Mr. Jones, but the way I see it is, you have attempted to misappropriate police resources, and trespassed on private property.’

‘I was looking into a missing person for a young woman, who asked for my help.’

‘This wouldn’t be the same young woman whose mother called the station this morning to accuse you of stalking and harassment? And are you aware the young woman has a history of mental health issues?’

Leighton shook his head in disbelief.

‘Now, you listen to me, Jones. I know a few cops who struggle with retirement, and start to convince themselves they see 211s taking place on every other street corner. It’s an occupational hazard. My advice is you drop whatever Columbo case you’re on right now, before you end up in front of a judge yourself. You’re sixty years old, man. Go buy yourself a toy dog or a chess set.’

With his speech finished, Gretsch straightened his shirt, and walked away from Leighton, who decided to give the chief the benefit of the doubt.

‘Sir,’ he called loudly across the foyer. ‘I believe we may have a number of highly organised killers working together.’

Gretsch turned around, as if he’d just been punched on the shoulder, and hurried back across the tiled floor to Leighton.

‘A group?’ As he spoke, the complexion of Gretsch’s moisturised face darkened visibly.

‘Well, more than two, anyway - there would probably have to be a driver and two others …’

‘Are you shitting me, Jones?’

‘No, sir, I simply think that …’

‘No, you’re clearly not thinking, are you, eh? Do you know what the collective noun for serial killers is?’

‘No, sir, I don’t believe I do,’ Jones said, as he looked at his feet.

‘Of course you don’t, because there isn’t one! They are loners by definition.’

‘What about Bianchi and Buono, or Lake and Ng down in San Francisco? I bet their twenty-five victims might disagree with you, had they not been all been raped, tortured, and murdered.’

‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, Jones.’ Gretsch said in an angry whisper. ‘That was a pair, not a group. Anything more than that can’t happen.’

‘Or it hasn’t, until now. Maybe before Lake and Ng, unimaginative cops blissfully believed serial killers working in pairs couldn’t happen either.’

Gretsch stared directly at Leighton. ‘Okay, let’s cut the shit - to date, you have misappropriated police resources, trespassed on private property, and have been accused of harassment.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Leighton. ‘Given your monumental fuckup with that business at Black Mountain Ranch, I reckon you should keep your head down. So, if you show up here, or engage in communication with any of my officers, I’m throwing your ass in jail, Jones. Now, get the fuck out of here.’

This time, when Gretsch thundered off in a cloud of self-importance, Leighton let his previous superior go. The comment about the Ranch was a pretty low blow - even for Gretsch. However, it wasn’t enough to deter Leighton; he was becoming used to rejection.

25

The gears of the bike clicked solidly into place, as Cherylyn Sanderson pedalled steadily along the smooth black top outside the dusty, desert city of Twenty-Nine Palms. After six weeks of early morning journeys, covering a grand total of ninety miles, her tanned legs were finally becoming more defined. Hitting the road at 6:30 a.m. each day wasn’t easy, but it was a lot easier than it would be during the day, when the scorching sun was high in the sky and the thundering trucks began to dominate the hot roads.

At the age of thirty-seven, Cherylyn had decided it was time to fight nature’s insistence on attaching extra inches to her body, and cycling was the easiest and least conspicuous way to do it. When anyone from work passed by in a car, she could pretend she was taking it easy - enjoying the view; however, once they had passed and she was alone again, she would push her body to a fat burning level. Cherylyn could have used the fitness facilities at work but that way, everyone would have known what she was up to.

Although she still found it difficult to believe, Cherylyn had worked on the reception of the busy Country Inn in the city of Twenty-Nine Palms for two decades. For most of that time, she had worked alongside Louisa - a small, round woman, fifteen years her senior. This meant for the majority of her adult life, Cherylyn had been defined by a favourable contrast to her co-worker. Whenever guests asked for her, they would refer to the young slim girl from reception. In the blissful bubble of youth, this was not something Cherylyn considered complimentary; it was simply factual. Nor did she give any consideration to how such comments must have made Louisa feel … until recently.

Six months earlier, Louisa had announced her retirement to spend more time helping her daughter with the grandchildren over in Reno. Within a few days of this announcement, Danny McGhee - the general manager of the Inn - had spoken discretely to Cherylyn, and asked if she would be interested in becoming the senior receptionist, which she was. She had been sad to see her co-worker go, but was also a little excited by the prospect of a new colleague - naively assuming Louisa’s post would be filled by someone of similar age.

One week after Louisa had retired, Danny McGhee had walked into reception accompanied by a petite, smiley girl, who would, Danny informed her, be the other new receptionist. The younger woman’s name was Lisa-Marie; she had the physique of a swimwear model, and looked like she spent a couple of hours perfecting her appearance each day.