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Griffin had been vague about details on the phone. Two dead. Shot. Immediately she’d put a call in to Shenton. If this is their killer, she wants to know the details straight away. About which sick fucker he’s emulating. She hopes Shenton knows as much as he says he does.
He’s escalating. The kills are coming faster now.
“There, there,” Deakin shouts, pointing to a gap in the trees, and Cara turns quickly. The car bumps up the dirt track.
“Salterns Hill,” he says. “Local beauty spot. Known to attract hikers during the day, and people wanting a bit of alone time at night.”
Cara can see the vehicles now: two patrol cars and a white van. SOCO have made it there before them, but only just. Through the gaps in the wipers, she can see people hastily erecting a white tent, desperate to protect the crime scene from the torrential rain.
Deakin opens the door, and Cara follows him around to the trunk. They change out of their shoes into wellingtons, and Deakin gets out an umbrella, putting it up over them. Cara pulls the hood up on her head. She watches a crime scene officer run past them in the opposite direction, crying.
She sees Griffin standing, lit in the headlights. He doesn’t have any sort of waterproof on, just the collar of his black coat pulled up over his chin, his usual black boots on his feet.
“What have we got?” Cara shouts over the din of the rain.
“Two dead: one male, one female.” He points to the car on the far side. Both front doors are open, the right window smashed. “Male is halfway out of the car, shot in the head. The female”—he points down the path—“seems to have been trying to escape. Shot in the back. We have multiple sets of tire tracks at the scene, SOCO trying to get some preserved before we lose them all in this rain.”
She nods pointedly to Deakin, and he hands her the umbrella, then heads over to the car.
Cara’s phone rings and she answers it. “Shenton,” she says. “What can you tell me?”
“I haven’t had long to look at this,” he starts, hesitantly. “But from what Griffin has told me …” He stops and Cara waits impatiently. “Couple dead, shot. You’re either looking at Berkowitz or the Zodiac Killer.” He pauses. “My best guess is Zodiac, because Berkowitz never actually killed both a man and a woman in a couple.”
“Tell me more,” she says. Griffin stands next to her, taking shelter under her umbrella, and she puts the phone on speaker.
“Zodiac Killer, active in the sixties and seventies, never found,” Shenton carries on. “Estimated to have killed seven victims, but some sources say up to thirty-seven, most either shot or stabbed.”
Cara’s attention is diverted by raised voices over to her left. She looks across—Deakin is shouting, arguing with a crime scene tech. She hangs up the phone and goes over.
Deakin sees her from a distance and stops. He holds out his arms.
“Don’t go over there, Cara,” he says. The look on his face makes her freeze. He’s upset, but this isn’t the usual hard anger from seeing a dead body. The rain is running down his face, and he seems on the edge of tears. She looks past him, into the trees.
“What are you shouting about?”
“I wanted …” He pauses, looks down, gathering himself together. “I wanted to go over, make sure she’s dead. I thought we could still help her. But …”
“But Deaks, they’ve already checked, they would have made sure …” she starts, but her voice trails off. She continues to stare over Deakin’s shoulder and takes a step toward the body. He holds out his arm, stopping her from walking further. She’s seen something, something that pulls at her subconscious. But—it couldn’t be?
Her phone rings again and she answers it, still staring at the woman’s body.
“Boss, the lab called.” It’s Shenton again. “The prints on the pint glass from apartment 214 came back.”
He has her attention now.
“And?”
“Well …” He pauses. “Hit on the system to someone called Elizabeth Roberts. She works in—”
“The lab, yes, I know …”
Cara stops. She looks at Deakin, and she sees it confirmed in his eyes. She takes another step.
“Don’t go over there, Cara,” he says again, but she pushes past him, striding, almost running toward the body.
Up close, she can see for certain now. The woman lies facedown in the mud. Hands outstretched, with bright silver nail varnish. She’s wearing a long black dress, a pair of Doc Martens on her feet. And her hair is bright pink.
“Oh, Libby,” Cara says. Her hands go to her face, and she feels her legs go weak. She sinks to her knees, collapsing into the dirt. “Oh, Libby. I’m so sorry.”
