Page 82 of The Unforgiven

I sat in bed afterwards, showered and exhausted, knowing that I’d be going through the ordeal of packing and moving soon when I just wanted to rest and grab a few days back in Anglesey, or maybe somewhere abroad and hot. The news was on TV, covering the murders. I watched the reporting, the clips of theinterviews, and then the presenters discussing the case, the theories, what the police should’ve done to prevent a psychopath from taking the lives of four women.

There was an expert on the show, introduced as an expert on criminal profiling, and then the camera cut to Daniel, dapper and attractive in his brown suit, the studio lighting catching his cheekbones and strong jaw, making him look movie-star handsome and sophisticated.

I stared at ceiling while adrenaline coursed through my veins, wondering why and hoping what he’d choose to say would be useful rather than career building.

“Professor Daniel Fletcher, thank you for joining us tonight. What can you tell us about this killer? How much longer is it going to take before they make a mistake, because that’s surely the only way the police will be able to catch them.”

I watched the screen as Daniel explained about organised killers and possible motives, the trajectory of a serial killer as they spiralled and what might be their motivation. It was generic and interesting, pop psychology and the presenters were at least pretending to be fascinated.

They cut to the next story, the possibility of more teacher strikes, and I turned the TV off, wondering why Daniel hadn’t told me what he was doing, unsurprised that he had.

A serial killer in Manchester was going to give him an even bigger platform from which he could be adored.

He was talking about how the killer could be caught, but they both knew that wouldn’t happen. The planning for this had been much longer in the making, constructed with precision. The sites next to water had been scoped out over months, using drones so repeatedly going there didn’t provoke suspicion.

Then there had been fashioning a meeting, a blast from the past. Fancy seeing you here, what a coincidence, shall we have a coffee? I know, let’s not swap numbers and then we can’t cancel, we have to be there.

It worked.

They didn’t remember what they’d done. It didn’t matter to them that they’d blocked someone in the cellar of an abandoned house after taking all the clothes. Maybe it was because they’d gone on to do bad things and there were so many that this one wasn’t memorable, or maybe they’d just forgotten because it hadn’t been a Big Thing.

Big Things.

There had been lots of Big Things, so the psychiatrist had said. Big Things chipped away at us; Big Things shaped how we responded to small things. Big Things needed to be reflected over.

The man on TV had stopped talking about the murders now. That was good, because it was enough for today. Hearing on the radio about Dolly’s body being found had been rather stressful. Some of the other people in the building were talking about it too, sympathising with the women who’d been killed, but they didn’t know why, did they? They didn’t know what those girls had done.

This was how you dealt with Big Things.

The knife was in the dishwasher, and it wouldn’t be used for another few days now. The Big Thing was nearly dealt with.

When it was over, leaving here would be a possibility. Everything would be finished at the same time, so it might be a good idea not to hang around Manchester for much longer.

That was a plan. There was a bigger one, anyway, a new job in September, but relocating to that area at any time would look reasonable and it was good when things looked reasonable.

But before that could happen, there was more to do. These walls would learn more secrets for another week or so.

Dolly being found had taken the police a while, longer than expected. It didn’t matter, in fact, it was a stroke of genius really, but it hadn’t been the plan.

There’d be another one for them to find tomorrow, if they were awake, or someone was. Really, you’d think there’d be more vigilance on the waterways.

But that was the problem. There’d never been enough vigilance.

If only they’d been watching then. None of this would’ve happened.

Chapter Thirty-Six

For the first part of the journey I was pretty sure I drove with my eyes shut. I knew the motorway and the A55 better than I knew Manchester, the fifty speed limit restrictions, the churches and castles, but I’d never been to Aberwyn. Growing up on Anglesey meant I didn’t need to leave the island to find somewhere pretty, which sounded idyllic, but monsters don’t only hide in the cities. I turned the Satnav on, the robotic voice waking Lachy who’d been asleep since we’d got onto the M60.

The holiday park was a mile from the centre of Aberwyn, where there were a few shops and restaurants and had direct access to the beach. It was a city of caravans and lodges, a couple of children’s playgrounds and a reception where the swimming pool was.

As it was early April and the site had only just opened, it was quiet, just a couple of the lodges obviously occupied. The grey clouds merged with the choppy grey sea, florescent buoys bobbing up and down like they were at a rave.

It felt good to be near the sea again, the brine in the air and the sound of the gulls making it feel a million miles from Manchester. I wanted to be back here, even for just a few hours,so I could feel the sand between my toes and watch the cold shock of the waves as they ran up the beach.

“Did you grow up near here?” Lachy was acting like a puppy being taken for a walk in a new place.

“On Anglesey, the island, so not too far. Some days I wish I’d stayed.”