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They have all the IDs for the first five bodies now. Number sixteen, Patricia Sullivan. Forty-six years old, worked for Children’s Services. Number fifteen—Luke Heller—couldn’t have been more different. A local shitbag. Multiple arrests for intent to supply and possession, but always class Bs and never enough to put him away for long.
They have information—time of death, cause of death—and the profiles of the victims are starting to take shape. But none of it connects. As a group, the victims are disparate: common criminals mixed with diligent public servants. Adam frowns and puts both hands on top of his head, staring at the black capitals.
Ross has completed the postmortem on Wayne Oxford, nothing differs from his initial assessment. And he was right about the blood thinner: massive quantities of heparin were found in his system. Nothing back yet from the fingerprint on the bottle, despite Adam’s chasing.
Pippa is up there, her photo smiling out from the board. But there’s no number assigned to her, and for that he’s glad. She’s not dead. She’s not a victim.
Yet.
The word rotates in Adam’s head.
The details have been written up alongside her. VW Transporter, black (dark?); light blue trousers—baggy.
Adam remembers how the stoner described them and writes it up alongside. Pajamas?
Perhaps they were? It had been late at night, after all. But who would wear pajamas out of the house? Escaped hospital patients? He sighs. This conjecture is ridiculous.
He turns his attention to the other whiteboard, the one the analysts have been using to brainstorm the significance of the number twenty.
The sum of the first six Fibonacci numbers; a pronic number; a tetrahedral number. A variety of mathematical terms Adam has never heard of. The atomic number of calcium, the third magic number in physics, whatever that means. Twenty–twenty vision, sectors on a dartboard. An app—a silly game. An album by Pearl Jam. Books, shops, films.
Random scrawls, thoughts, and associations. Written up, in case something connects. But nothing makes sense. Nothing helps.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
He’s knackered, eyes half closing. He feels himself sway slightly. He goes into his office and closes the door. He’ll allow himself to rest his head for a moment. Just a moment. Then he’ll go and get some coffee.
* * *
He wakes to the sound of voices. A woman calling his name. The door to his office opening.
He wrenches himself from the glue of sleep and looks up, eyes unfocused. Romilly stands in front of him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she shouts. “You left me to find out on the fucking news?” She stops, waiting for him to catch up to her fury. “Why didn’t you tell me Pippa is missing?”
He rubs his hands down his face, feeling ashamed. Shit. He should have.
“I’ve been kind of busy, Milly,” he replies, hastily pulling himself together and sitting up straight.
“Well … well …” The air goes out of Romilly’s lungs, and she slumps in the seat opposite him, resting her head in her hands. After a moment, she looks up; he can see she’s fighting back tears. “What happened? Is it the same guy?” she says, her voice thick.
“We think so, yes. We have a few leads.” He pauses. “I’m sorry. I should have called you. But I was too focused on the investigation. On getting her home.”
She’s silent for a moment, looking down at the floor. There’s something else going on with her, he can tell. It’s not just anger or worry for Pippa. Another emotion, one he’s seen on her in the past too many times. It’s fear.
“What’s going on, Milly?” he asks.
He waits. And then slowly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out an envelope. Her hands are shaking as she puts it on the table in front of him.
“I got this yesterday,” she says.
Adam has a bad feeling. He pulls out the newspaper clipping, then opens the note. He reads it. You need to talk to me.
He looks up at Romilly. Her face is deathly pale.
“Have you?” he asks. “Spoken to him?”
She shakes her head. “But should I, Adam?” Her voice is soft, her eyes tilted to the floor. He knows how hard this must be, for her to even consider this.
