‘He thinks he’s untouchable.’
That was how it felt. Down there in the parking garage, with people walking by on the path just beyond the low wall. They would have been close enough to hear a scream but how many would stop and investigate? Who would actually do something? No one, she knew, thinking of the night Josh Ainsworth was murdered, the neighbours only a thin wall away, hearing violence and deciding to stay put, finish their drinks, maybe turn the sound on the television up and pretend to themselves that it was nothing.
She thought of Walton dragging his victims off the footpaths he’d snatched them from. But never very far. Within earshot of anyone passing. As if he enjoyed the possibility of being caught or, more disturbingly, watching the passers-by pretending they didn’t know what was going on a few metres away from them.
‘It’ll be somewhere more private for you.’
A shudder wracked her body at the memory of his words and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick, felt the swell of fear once again, cold and tumbling at her centre.
‘I just need to be more careful,’ she said, the words sounding inadequate.
He shook his head at her. ‘That isn’t a solution, Mel. You’re not coming home alone again. Sorry, but that’s non-negotiable.’
‘Alright,’ she said. ‘We’ll leave work together from now on, okay?’
‘Maybe you should come to mine for the duration.’
She wanted to protest, tell him she wouldn’t be forced out of her home by a piece of shit like Walton, that she could handle herself. But she heard the fear in his voice and felt it still churning within her, bodily terror at the thought of running into Walton again. Or worse, not seeing him until it was too late.
‘I’m not asking you to move in permanently, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ he said, smiling like it was a shared joke, rather than a reproach buried in humour.
They’d had the conversation before, often enough that she knew he was beginning to see her repeated refusals to give up her flat as a lack of commitment to him rather than a need for her own space. Now wasn’t the time to repeat that discussion and it wasn’t what she was thinking.
She didn’t want to be the kind of woman who ran away.
But she knew that was the kind of thinking that would get her hurt – or worse.
Ferreira hauled herself up from the sofa. ‘I’ll go and pack a bag.’
DAY THREE
THURSDAY AUGUST 9TH
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When she saw the number pop up on her screen, Ferreira immediately left her desk, excusing herself from the conversation she was having with Colleen Murray about a blind date Colleen had been on the night before; a set-up by a mutual friend that had somehow resulted in her attending a lecture at Peterborough museum by a visiting professor of early modern English jewellery design.
‘Couldn’t work myself into the mood for it after that,’ she said.
By the time Ferreira was in the stairwell, she realised she wasn’t ready to answer the call, didn’t know what to say to Evelyn Goddard, whether it was her place to apologise or not. Even though she was sure that’s what Goddard was ringing her for.
As the leader of a local trans rights group, Goddard had been instrumental in bringing Walton to justice, had provided them with the forensic evidence that had helped secure his conviction and that had ultimately led to the same conviction being quashed. She’d also been responsible for convincing one of Walton’s victims to talk to Ferreira about her attack; a conversation that had proved so traumatic that Goddard blamed Ferreira for the victim’s suicide a few days later.
Ferreira felt that she owed Goddard something, but wasn’t sure what she could offer her that could possibly help.
Instead she let the call ring out and rolled a cigarette.
Within two breaths Billy was taking her lighter out of her hand to spark his own fag up.
‘Is this my life now?’ she asked. ‘You freaking out every time you don’t have eyes on me?’
‘The fucking ego on you. I just needed a fag, alright?’
She told herself to let it go. But last night had taken so much winding down from that neither of them slept more than a couple of fitful hours, kept awake by circular conversations that kept slamming up against the hopelessness of the situation and urgent, unsatisfying sex that only made them both more frustrated.
It was as if Walton had forced his way between them disturbing their usual rhythm, making it impossible to fully concentrate on one another.
‘Did Colleen tell you about her date?’ Ferreira asked.
‘Yeah, I’m thinking of getting her a metal detector for Christmas.’
She smiled.
‘Makes you glad you’re not on the market any more, doesn’t it?’ He sounded nostalgic rather than regretful.
She gave him a dead-eyed look. ‘That wasn’t how my dates went.’
‘And I thought you came to me spotless,’ he said, faking outrage.
‘About as innocent as you were.’
He flicked ash off his cigarette. ‘Any movement with your murder?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she admitted. ‘We’ve got suspects but nothing concrete tying anyone to the scene and they all seem to have pretty decent alibis.’
‘I hate it when suspects do that,’ he said, with a flicker of a grin. ‘This is what I love about all the pubs closing and TV getting so good, everyone stays at home and nobody has an alibi any more. You could fit up anyone you wanted.’
‘What about your boy Batty?’ she asked.
‘Idiot just used his credit card in Marseilles. I’m waiting on a call from the local gendarmerie. Hopefully, they’ll get their arses into gear and pick him up before he hops a ferry to Morocco or something.’
‘What’s he going to do in Morocco?’ Ferreira asked. ‘Bloody Peterborough boy.’
‘Hey, I’m surprised he made it as far as Marseilles. His mum
