Anna had had too much to drink. If Reynolds had, it didn't show; far from it. He was gentle and caring and very affectionate. Afterwards, she slept in the crook of his arm: a deep, dreamless sleep. He, however, was wide awake. What he had learned had appalled and disgusted him, and made him angry. Anna didn't stir when he gently eased her out of his arms and went into the bathroom. He washed his face and was fully intending to go back to bed, until he saw her notebook in her open briefcase on the lounge table.
Showered and wrapped in a robe, Anna had made some breakfast while Reynolds took a shower. His hair still wet, he nuzzled her neck as she ate her toast. She offered him more coffee but he needed to get going, as he wanted to go home to get a clean shirt.
'Nope, I'm on my way.' He put his cup and plate neatly into the sink, kissed her, and was heading into the hall as the intercom went.
'It might be the postman!' she called out as he lifted the intercom handset. It was seven-thirty.
Reynolds stood at the front door as Langton headed up the stairs. 'Morning.'
Langton stared at him, then nodded his head. 'Morning. Is she up?'
'Yes, she's in the kitchen.'
'Thanks.'
Langton watched Reynolds head down the stairs before shutting the door behind him.
'Boyfriend's gone,' he said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, looking smart and clean-shaven in a pinstriped suit.
Anna blushed. 'Is something up?' she asked.
'I put pressure on the lab; they said they would talk to me first thing, so here I am. You can drive us in.'
'Do you want a coffee?'
'You go get dressed. I know where everything is.'
'Give me a few minutes,' she said, as she squeezed past him.
By the time Anna came back, he had made himself some toast and was sitting on a high stool at her small breakfast bar, mug in hand, reading his newspaper: very much at home.
'Ready when you are,' she said, trying to sound light. She ran a glass of water and took two aspirin; she had drunk far too much last night.
'Headache?' Langton asked, folding his paper.
'Yes, bit of one.' Actually, her head felt terrible.
'Reynolds a regular visitor, is he?'
'Yes, you could say that.'
'Pumping you for information, I'll bet.'
'We do have other things on our minds,' she said tetchily. He grinned, slapped his thigh with his rolled-up newspaper, and then they were on their way, their dirty crockery abandoned on the breakfast bar.
They drove over to the mortuary. Langton fiddled with the radio then leaned back against the headrest. Anna's headache had got worse; she drove carefully. He had put the news channel on, but there was nothing about Sharon's murder.
'No press release on Sharon yet?'
'Nope. You still feel guilty about not going round there sooner?'
'Yes, but then I don't know if it would have done any good: we have no time of death as yet.'
She swerved to avoid a cyclist.
'I hate those bastards; that dewdrop hat makes him look like sort of some demented insect!' He turned to see the cyclist giving them a V-sign and laughed.
'You seem to be in a good mood this morning.'
'Yeah, well, I crashed out last night early and had a good eight hours' sleep. You look as if you could do with a bit more.'
'Thank you,' she said, flatly.
'So, this thing with the journalist is serious, is it?'
She hesitated, not wanting to discuss her private life with him.
'Sorry, don't mean to pry,' he said, smiling.
She could feel him watching her and it made her nervous: she shot a set of traffic lights, but he said nothing. In fact, they did not speak until they arrived at the mortuary.
They were gowned up and ready to view the corpse. Anna's head was throbbing; the small vein at the side of her temple felt ready to explode. Seeing Sharon with the hideous slashes to her lips, the bruises to her torso, and the red lipstick scrawled across her belly didn't help. The pair stood in silence as Smart told them that he had not had time to perform a full autopsy, but could confirm that Sharon had been dead for approximately forty-eight hours before she was discovered. Anna's guilt was somewhat eased; it meant that when she was trying to contact Sharon, she was already dead.
Two hours later, they were in the Incident Room. Langton told the team that it was almost a hundred per cent certain that Sharon Bilkin had been killed by the same man as Louise Pennel. Even the lipstick lettering matched the handwriting on the numerous cards and notes sent to Langton. The mutilations were not as horrific, but nevertheless Sharon had been subjected to torture and pain before she died.
The fact that she had been dead for forty-eight hours meant that, like Louise, Sharon had to have been killed somewhere else before being dumped in the field where she was found. The team were waiting for an update from forensics on whether they had managed to get anything from the maroon coat or the crime scene. Langton gave orders that, in the meantime, Sharon's flat should be re-examined and her phone calls double-checked: it was imperative to find out where Sharon had been before she was abducted. She might have accompanied her killer of her own free will, so they also needed to trace anyone who had seen her before she disappeared.
Langton broke up the briefing, as he had a meeting with the Commander. He was hoping to retain control of both murder enquiries. So that's what the suit was all about, Anna thought.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and neither Anna nor Barolli wanted to be at Sharon Bilkin's flat; nor did the forensic team that arrived to dust for prints: they had already done a sweep of the flat for the Louise Pennel case and now they had to do everything again. Barolli was in a particularly bad mood as his local football team were playing. He and Anna were forced out of one small room and into the next to make way for the paper-suited scientists. In the kitchen, Anna found Sharon's diary, her childish writing giving details of her auditions and, far more frequently, her appointments for hair extensions, manicures and massages. She had had an appointment at a hair salon earlier that week to check over her hair extensions and replace those that had fallen out. The salon's receptionist told Anna that Sharon had not turned up. Next, Anna called an advertising company that Sharon was meant to be auditioning for; she had not turned up there either, so they had given the commercial to someone else.
Barolli was looking through Sharon's chequebooks and paying-in slips, which he'd found in the cutlery drawer.
'This is interesting: a week ago, she paid two thousand pounds in cash into her account.'
Anna looked up, frowning. The headache that had persisted throughout the day was still lurking.
'Is it rent?'
'I dunno; she has regular payments of two hundred going in that looks like rent.'
'Her tenants paid her, then she paid the landlady. What's the outgoing?'
'Shit!' He crossed to Anna. 'She's got twelve grand in her bank account!'
Anna flicked through the statements. As she had thought, at the end of each month, there was a regular payment out to the landlady. Two five-thousand-pound lump sums had also been paid in.
'We need to talk to her bank manager, and the landlady.'
Barolli nodded, slipping the chequebook and bank statements into plastic containers. He went back to
