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Sheldon stared out of his windscreen at the brick wall of the police station. The skin underneath his eyes felt sore. He looked into the mirror and saw dark rings. It was late, almost nine o’clock, and he was angry with himself. He had wanted to be the first one in, but images of Alice Kenyon had taunted him as he tried to sleep, of the swirl of her hair in the water, and the post mortem photographs he had copied, kept securely in a metal box that he hid under the bed, fastened shut with a combination lock. He had looked through them again, once more hoping to find that elusive answer. He had turned in his bed for hours and then drifted off as the first licks of daylight painted his room soft blue.

He remembered reaching out to the empty side of the bed when he finally stirred, as he did most mornings. His wife had left him six months earlier, because she hadn’t understood about Alice. Neither had Hannah, his daughter. Like Alice had been, she was at university, but they didn’t speak anymore. His family didn’t understand that it wasn’t just Alice. It was all of them. The victims. The forgotten ones.

He climbed out of his car, feet crunching on loose stones on the tarmac. There was a police officer standing by a patrol car. He seemed to be looking over but pretending not to be. Sheldon tugged on his cuffs and headed for the entrance.

The corridor was quiet as he got inside, although he heard low rumbles of conversation as he got closer to the Incident Room. The talking stopped when he walked in and everyone looked round. It was the detective sergeant, Tracey Peters, surrounded by a small group of detectives.

Sheldon smiled, but it felt strained. ‘Good morning. Nice to see you keen.’

There were some mumbled greetings but nothing more than that.

There was a newspaper on one of the desks. It was open at the Billy Privett story, a picture of Alice Kenyon prominent, Jim Kelly’s by-line at the top. Sheldon turned away. He didn’t want to know what the press were saying.

‘Anything come in overnight?’ he said.

It was Tracey who spoke. ‘We did the calls to the neighbours last night, like you said, and guess what; someone went out in Ted Kenyon’s car the night Billy was killed. He remembered because it was late, past eleven o’clock.’

‘So Ted lied about staying in?’

Tracey nodded. ‘Is it enough to bring him in on?’

Sheldon thought about that for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘We need more than that, and if news gets out that we’ve arrested him, people will think the case is closed and stop calling with information. But I want to know why he didn’t tell us the truth.’

He turned towards the board at the front and looked at Billy’s body, the face missing, so that he looked anonymous, and the very essence of him taken away at the point he died. It wasn’t how Sheldon remembered him. The Billy Privett he knew was bullish, had a swagger, the knowledge that Sheldon couldn’t touch him. The Billy in the pictures was different to that. He was a victim. Helpless.

Sheldon started to feel some pity, but he shook that away when he thought of Alice Kenyon. He remembered how limp her body had been as he’d pulled her out of the water, so that she flopped onto the wet tiles like a caught fish. Sheldon had seen the bruises straight away. Blue marks around her neck where strong hands had held her under the water, and there were bruises around her wrist, as if she had been held down before she was drowned. And there were marks on her thighs, and between her thighs. There were some cuts on her stomach, small slashes.

It was the face that he remembered though. Alice had been a beautiful young woman. Young, with high cheekbones and smooth bright skin, and red hair that seemed to swirl over her face in the pictures he saw. When she was dragged out of the water, it was lank and wet, draped across her cheeks.

Then there had been Billy’s behaviour after she had been found. He’d refused to answer questions, and so was brought in to get his side of the story, but he had stayed silent. He’d seemed frightened at first, but once he was in the station, familiar territory, he acquired an arrogant smirk as he sat across from Sheldon, his arms folded. He looked to his lawyer, Amelia Diaz, every time a question was asked. She gave the same response each time; a small shake of the head, and then he would repeat, ‘No comment.’

Sheldon had tried to speak to Amelia after the second interview, when he knew that he would have to watch Billy walk out, but she hadn’t been interested. ‘Just doing my job,’ was all she’d said.

So he’d kept watch, waiting for Billy to slip up, to meet up with the others who’d been there. But what had he found out? Only that there had been a party. Just another raucous night, except that by the time Sheldon and the young cadet arrived, the house was deserted. Even Billy was gone.

The blood had been a mystery. A pool of it had been congealing in one of the party rooms, with spray on the walls. They never did find out whose blood it was. It wasn’t Alice’s. It wasn’t Billy’s. It wasn’t on the DNA database. But it had been spilled that night and so was part of the story. Had someone else died?

He heard someone behind him. It was Duncan Lowther.

‘Sir, about Christina.’

Sheldon nodded. He remembered her. Billy’s housekeeper. ‘What about her?’

‘She’s gone.’

Sheldon turned from Billy’s death pictures, confused. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘Just that. I went up to the house last night, after you’d gone, just for a welfare check, and to see whether she remembered anything else. She was gone, no trace of her. Her clothes. Toiletries. No sign she had ever been there.’

‘She might have gone home, wherever that is. She’d just been made jobless. There was no point in hanging around.’

‘I checked that,’ Duncan said. ‘The address she gave us doesn’t exist. There’s a street, but not that number. We checked with the DVLA. No one of that name holds a driving licence around here.’

Sheldon closed his eyes. He felt the tension build again.

‘So we need to find her,’ Sheldon said quietly.

‘We’re trying,’ Lowther said. ‘We could release her picture. She’ll be on the CCTV in the station.’

Sheldon thought about that, and then he shook his head. ‘Keep it internal for now. Don’t let the press know. It might be a misunderstanding. Get a picture from the cameras in here and circulate it across the county, see if any other cop knows her. If we get nothing, then we go to the press.’

When Lowther nodded, Sheldon said, ‘Do it now though, no delays,’ and then jumped out of his chair. He was too warm, needed some air. He went quickly towards the door.

He turned back to Lowther to see him exchange raised eyebrows with Tracey.

Sheldon banged through the door and made for the exit at the end of the corridor. When he got onto the street, he settled back against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt the morning breeze just cool the sweat on his brow and his shirt collar felt tight. He opened his eyes and looked down at his fingers. They were trembling.

Don’t let this one go wrong, he said to himself. Please, not this one.

Charlie tore off his clothes when he got into his apartment and put them in the washing machine – he bought washable suits because he had spilled beer down them too many times. The towel from the office went in too. He didn’t know where the blood had come from, but he didn’t want any trace of it left. The knife went in the dishwasher, and once that was turned on he relaxed slightly, although the uncertainty about what had happened made his stomach perform loops every time he tried to work it out.

He went for a shower, unsure of what other traces he might be carrying, and once he was under the hot water he examined his body for more injuries. There were none. No scratches or cuts or bruises, apart from the grazes along his hand and his cheek. His knuckles looked normal. If he had been in a fight, he’d come off best by a long way.

He put his hands against the cold tiles and let the shower pummel him for a while. He winced as the grazes got used to the water and tried to recall more of the night before, but he couldn’t. It would come back in flashes, he knew that, it was always the same after a late night, but he wanted the answer to the bloody knife sooner than that.

Then he thought of Julie and straightened up, his hands rubbing his face awake. Since she’d left, he had called her sometimes when he got drunk. Had he gone further this time, perhaps argued more violently if she had threatened to arrest him, like she had hinted at?

Charlie put his back against the tiles and slid slowly downwards, until he was sitting in the shower tray and his head was against the wall. That couldn’t be right. He wouldn’t hurt Julie, he knew that. It wasn’t in him to hurt anyone.

Or was it?

He knew he had to call her, to confront it, but it was a call he didn’t want to make, just in case his worst fears came true. The water drummed against his legs as he sat there, until the urge to call became too strong.

He dried himself quickly and threw on a dressing gown. He picked up his phone and paused with his finger over the keypad. Yes, it was a call he didn’t want to make, but he knew he was just stalling.

He dialled quickly and paced up and down, waiting for her to answer. Then he heard the click.

‘Hello?’ It was Julie’s voice, although her drawl told him that he had woken her up. Then he remembered that she had missed her rest day because of Billy Privett’s murder. She must have got it back. There was a man’s voice in the background.

‘Julie, it’s me,’ Charlie said.

‘Charlie? For Christ’s sake,’ she said, her annoyance snapping in.

‘No, I’m not ringing for that. I just wanted to know if you are okay.’

There was a pause, and then, ‘You’re not making any sense.’

He put the phone against his chest as he thought what he could say, and then, ‘I heard a police officer was hurt last night. I was worried it might have been you.’

‘I’m fine, and so is Andrew.’ Then her voice softened. ‘Thanks for the concern, Charlie. Now if you don’t mind, I want to get back to sleep.’

Charlie was relieved, although he heard the male voice whisper something and Julie giggled. He closed his eyes.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and clicked off the phone.

So what now? He wasn’t hurt. Julie was fine. So how could he explain the knife, and how could he explain the blood?