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  Barbara was speaking rhetorically and didn’t expect an answer, but Dave spoke up.

  “What if it isn’t the killer’s? Maybe he got hold of a batch from somewhere and squirted it on after he’d killed them. Maybe he can’t get it up and uses some other poor sod’s semen instead of doing it himself.”

  Barbara despised Dave’s crudity, but had to concede that he might have a point.

  “It’s a possibility, but there are others. The semen could belong to an earlier sexual partner. When the DNA sample gets back from profiling we’ll at least know if we have a match for the two killings, although I don’t know how far that’s going to take us. The semen is the only forensic evidence available. He’s been very careful not to leave us anything else.”

  Paolo frowned and the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek showed vividly as his face muscles tightened. He’d told Barbara he’d got it as the result of a thug smashing a full beer can in his face. She thought it added character, but he’d laughed when she said so. Trying not to think about how nice his laugh was, she turned back to the body.

  “It seems the best chance we have to identify her is through her fingerprints,” Paolo said. “Let’s hope they’re on record. Last month’s was an Albanian prostitute who’d been booked a few times. If he’s targeting prostitutes there’s a possibility we might at least be able to put a name to her. Okay, come on, Dave, we’ve got work to do. We’ll leave you to it, Dr Royston.”

  Barbara’s eyes lingered on Paolo’s back as he and Dave left. They’d only spent one night together, and most of that he’d spent talking about his ex-wife. Silently cursing herself for her stupidity in wanting someone who didn’t want her, she turned back to the autopsy table.

  “Okay, let’s get her stitched up, Chris,” she said. “It seems she has nothing more to tell us.”

  ***

  Paolo couldn’t stop thinking about the girl’s battered face as he and Dave walked back. She was little more than a child, only three or four years older than Katy. How the hell had she fallen into the hands of this madman? She hadn’t been wearing a scrap of clothing when she’d been dumped in the car park.

  “We’ve got to get this bastard, before he does it again.”

  Paolo realised it was possible he’d been sitting at home feeling sorry for himself, wondering where Lydia was, while the young woman was being beaten to death by a sicko who either couldn’t get it up, or... ? At this point his reasoning broke down. It must be as Dave suggested, or why leave the semen there, but clean every other trace? At his office door he turned back to Dave.

  "Get on to the fingerprint match straight away, will you? Also find out who Lisa Boxer’s working friends are. Some of the girls on the street must know where she’s hiding. That is, if she is hiding and Azzopardi hasn’t done anything to her. She might be in real trouble if that’s the case."

  ***

  When the phone in Barbara’s office rang an hour later her thoughts were still on Paolo, so it spooked her to hear his voice asking about the autopsy report. Consequently, when she answered, her own voice carried more than a little irritation, as much at herself as at him.

  “Jesus, Paolo, you haven’t even given me time to write a report yet. What is it with you? You think the world revolves around what you want?”

  “Hey, calm down, Barbara. I was only asking when it would be ready. Not asking for it this second.”

  “Ja well, that makes a change. It’ll be ready when it’s ready. OK?”

  Paolo lowered his voice and Barbara knew it was so that his team in the outer office wouldn’t be able to hear.

  “Look, Barbara, we have to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “No, I don’t mean like this. We have to talk about what happened over Christmas.”

  “Did something happen?” she asked. “I don’t recall anything happening that needs to be discussed two months after the event, do you?”

  “Barbara, I...”

  “My report will be with you as soon as possible. That’s assuming I’m allowed to get on with it instead of dealing with your problems. Is there anything else?”

  Putting the phone down without waiting for Paolo’s reply, Barbara took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t some stupid teenager with a crush; she was thirty years old, for Chrissakes.

  She needed to get out and have some fun for a change. Leanna would help her get things into perspective. She was the only one Barbara had confided in about her infatuation with Paolo. She lifted the receiver again and dialled. Her friend’s message service kicked in.

  “Leanna, it’s Barbara. If you’re free tonight, do you fancy going to the Nag for a drink? I need to talk.” She paused. “Actually, I need to get drunk. It’s a pity I never touch alcohol. Call me, hey?”

  The Horse and Panniers was one of Bradchester’s best-kept secrets. It was a secret too well-kept according to Larry Harper, who wanted to update the place. But the regulars loved the pub and hated the idea that the ‘Nag and Bag’ might get dragged into the modern age of fruit machines and electronic quiz technology. Even the subject of introducing a pool table had met with fierce opposition and that was hardly cutting edge. The only concession to the present century was the small flat-screen television fixed on the wall over the bar permanently on either a news channel or one of the more serious talk shows.

  Barbara walked across the main square, past the Law Courts and turned right into a narrow walkway. The Horse and Panniers was tucked away at the end. Light spilling from the pub’s tiny lead-lined windows gave the alley a Dickensian feel. About three-hundred years old, low ceilings and dark beams in the two tiny bars created an intimacy lacking in the larger pubs that littered Bradchester.

  Larry’s wife, Sharon, also South African and long-time friend of Barbara’s, served great food, which was another good reason for going there.

  Leanna, a solicitor, had come straight from court and was already seated at one of the side tables, gin and tonic in front of her, when Barbara arrived. Larry brought over a diet Coke for Barbara.

  “Sharon’s done a lamb curry as the special tonight,” he said, smiling at the two women.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Leanna. Barbara nodded her agreement and Larry went off to shout the order to his wife.

  “I always feel that creep’s imagining what I look like naked,” Barbara whispered. “If he was anyone other than Sharon’s husband I’d have thrown a drink over him by now.”

  “I know,” Leanna said with a mock shudder. “He does it to every female who comes in. Why can’t Sharon see what an arsehole he is?”

  Barbara smiled. “He reminds me of Paolo’s sidekick. He can’t see a woman without mentally undressing her either.” She took a sip of her diet Coke. “Leanna, what the hell am I going to do about Paolo? I know I’m being stupid, but I’m obsessed with him and it’s driving me nuts.”

  “He’s still in love with his wife, so you’re going to have to let it go, sweetie. There’s no point waiting around for someone who’s pining for someone else. Now, is there?” Leanna softened her bracing words by squeezing Barbara’s arm.

  “Ja, I know. You’re right.” She grinned at Leanna. “You’re always bloody right. Don’t the other solicitors hate you for it?”

  Leanna deepened her voice. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  Larry interrupted their laughter by bringing over two steaming platefuls of his wife’s curry. “Here you are, girls, always a pleasure to serve you two.”

  “Wow, this smells good. It reminds me of the Malay curry I used to get back home. This is the only place I know where the food is like a taste of South African heaven.”

  Barbara waited for her friend’s response, but Leanna’s attention was fixed on the television screen. Matthew Roberts was the guest on one of the political talk shows. Leanna looked shaken and close to tears.

  “What is it?” Barbara asked.

  “Nothing,” Leanna replied, shifting her gaze to her food. �
�Let’s eat.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “Damn it, I said there was nothing wrong. Just leave it, will you.”

  Her outburst was so out of character that Barbara was more concerned than ever. Leanna took a sip of her gin, her hands were shaking and she was clearly distressed. After a few deep breaths she seemed to get herself back under control.

  “Sorry. We knew each other at uni, the great Matthew Roberts and I. The ending wasn’t good and I’d prefer not to talk about it. OK?”

  “Sure, as long as you’re all right now. What shall we talk about instead? How I can get Paolo’s Lydia on my autopsy table?”

  Leanna laughed. “What do you see in him?”

  “Hmm, would you like a detailed list, or just the potted version?”

  “You’ve really got it bad, haven’t you? Maybe if you give him time to get over his marriage breaking up...”

  Barbara forced herself to smile and hoped Leanna wouldn’t realise how much it cost her to do so. “It might be too late by then. I’ve never been good at coming off second-best.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The smack of his fist connecting with her skull reverberated around the cottage. When he’d found the place the previous year, he’d had little idea of how useful it was going to be. The old shepherd’s hut had been added to and modernised over the decades, but, for him, its best feature was a complete absence of neighbours. Only half an hour’s drive from Bradchester, yet surrounded by fields, its isolation was perfect.

  The woman sobbed, huddled on the bed, trying to protect her face. He stopped punching, grabbed her arms, dragged her up.

  “Come to me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he crooned. She pulled away and he slapped her face.

  “I want you to dance with me.”

  The first one he’d killed had enticed him with her dance. He’d almost enjoyed how his body felt, swaying in time to the music in her arms. This whore should have done as she was told. He sang along to Bad Moon Rising, knowing the words off by heart. Murmuring against her ear, he held her close.

  “You want to dance now?”

  When she shook her head, he threw her back onto the bed and straddled her, using one hand to slap her face in time with the beat. The other strayed towards his erection.

  Anger erupted. The filthy whore was trying to tempt him. Trying to make him defile his body. He climbed off and dragged her arm until she fell to the floor.

  “Beg. Kneel before me and beg.”

  Her lips moved, but her words were muffled by sobs.

  “What? What did you say? I can’t hear you.” He leaned down to catch the whispered words.

  “Please,” she said again, louder this time. “Please no hurt. No more hit.”

  Tears and blood obscured her features, but he could still see the soul in her eyes.

  “Say it again,” he said.

  “Please, no more hit. Dance, I dance.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.” He reached forward and caressed her battered face. “Now,” he breathed. “Now I’m going to save you. God chose you, did you know that? He chose you to be one of his lambs and you repaid him by allowing filth inside the temple of your body. But don’t worry, I’m here now. I’m here for you.”

  Drawing back his fist, he punched her full in the face, then reached down and lifted her tenderly onto the bed.

  ***

  Paolo sat at his desk, stunned. The identity of the latest victim had taken his breath away. He’d not recognised his missing witness from the bloody mess on Barbara’s autopsy table, so when Dave said the prints were a match for Lisa Boxer, Paolo felt as though he’d failed her all over again. Damn Frank Azzopardi, what was his connection?

  He looked out of his office into the open plan area and stared across at the Perspex board on which the photographs of the two victims were displayed, disgust gagging in his throat.

  His team were waiting for him. Apart from Dave Johnson, he’d known most of them for years. He finished the last of his coffee and went out.

  “Right, everyone, listen up. As Dave has no doubt told you, the victim was Lisë Bojaxhiu, an Albanian working the streets as Lisa Boxer. None other than the missing witness from the Azzopardi fiasco two weeks back.”

  “Still, at least that explains why she didn’t turn up to give evidence,” Dave said before adding something Paolo couldn’t quite catch.

  “Judging by the grin, you must have told yourself one hell of a joke, DS Johnson. You want to share it with the rest of us?”

  Dave flushed. “I don’t think so, sir,” he said, looking around, glancing over at the only female team member. “It wouldn’t be appreciated by everyone here.”

  Detective Sergeant Cathy Connor, Irish temper flaring as usual whenever Dave made one of his comments, glared at him, but before she could speak Paolo stepped in.

  “CC, whatever it is you were going to say, don’t.”

  Cathy’s eyes flashed, but she nodded.

  He turned to Dave. “I have no idea what you said, but you seem to find this girl’s death amusing and that’s something I won’t allow in my office. Any more inappropriate humour and you’ll find yourself walking a beat. Understood?”

  He turned back to his team.

  “CC, I want a second questioning of all those with a view of the car park from their windows. I know uniform has already asked, but her body didn’t arrive there by magic. Maybe one or two of the residents will have remembered seeing something. Even if we can’t find out what type of vehicle we’re looking for, one of them might have spotted what they thought was rubbish being dumped. George, you go too.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Cathy said, waiting while Detective George Stone gathered his belongings.

  Paolo held his temper in check until he and Dave were alone. “You really shouldn’t rile CC, you know. She’d make mincemeat of you.”

  “She’s a dyke, that doesn’t make her superwoman,” Dave said with a shrug.

  “Jesus, Dave, are you stupid, or just pushing me to see how far you can go? Don’t ever use that word in front of me again or I’ll make sure you end up in front of a disciplinary panel. Cathy’s preferences are nothing to do with you or anyone else. She’s a bloody good copper and you’d do well to remember that. As for her not being superwoman, she comes damn close. She’s a judo black belt. The last time I saw her in action, the idiot who tried to molest her ended up with a broken wrist.”

  He wondered if Dave would have a comeback on that, but it seemed he’d given the younger man something to think about.

  “Right, you and I are going to pay a visit to my old friend Frank Azzopardi. It’s too convenient for him that Lisa disappeared when she did. Let’s find out what he was up to the night she died, shall we?”

  ***

  As Dave started the car and pulled away Paolo opened the window and lit a Camel. Everything pointed to Azzopardi. Could it be that simple? And if it were, would he be able to prove it?

  “You still pissed off with me, sir?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re quiet. I wondered if you were still mad at me, that’s all.”

  Paolo shrugged. “No, just thinking about this case. I can see Frank going after Lisa, but what reason would he have for killing the first girl?”

  “Enjoyment? From what you’ve said, he seems to like slapping women. Maybe it’s the way he spends his leisure hours.”

  Paolo thought he could hear a note of approval in Dave’s voice. He hoped he was wrong, but now seemed as good a time as any to try to find out what was going on in his head.

  “So, what is it with you, Dave? What have you got against women?”

  “Me? Nothing. I love them.”

  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Paolo said. “The way you’ve been talking about our vics, it sounds like you despise them.”

  “They’re prostitutes, not women. Well, yeah, they’re women, but... oh shit. I can’t explain it.”

 
“Try.”

  Dave flicked the indicator and turned into Connaught Way. “They’ve decided to sell their bodies. You know? Put a price on it.”

  “You think they’re doing it from choice? Most of them have been forced into it one way or another. I don’t suppose there are many women who go on the game because they want to.” Feeling he’d said enough for now, Paolo changed the subject. “Anyway, how did it go with Rebecca?”

  “Rebecca? Who’s Rebecca?”

  “The WPC you made a date with on Gallows Heath. Remember?”

  Dave laughed. “I’m not likely to forget her, she was quite something.”

  “But you couldn’t remember her name?”

  Dave didn’t answer and Paolo gave up. He had enough on his mind without trying to solve Dave’s problems.

  The car pulled to a halt outside the gates of Azzopardi’s mansion. Dave let down his window and pressed the intercom.

  Through the ornamental ironwork, a wide tarmac drive curved away from the gates and disappeared into trees and shrubs. Nothing could be seen of the house.

  A scratchy static voice sounded from the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Police.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re here to chat to Mr Azzopardi. Open up,” Dave said.

  “You got a warrant?”

  Paolo leant across and called out through Dave’s open window. “Now why would we need one? You just run off and tell Frank we only want to have a nice friendly chat. Ask him if we need to come back with a warrant.”

  “Wait,” the voice ordered.

  The intercom fell silent. Just as Paolo was about to tell Dave to press the buzzer again, the gates slowly opened. They moved through and followed the drive as it zigzagged upwards through a tunnel of greenery.

  “This is like driving through Bradchester Park,” Dave said, clearly impressed.

  As they rounded the final bend, Azzopardi’s house came into view.

  “Bloody hell! I thought crime didn’t pay?” Dave breathed.

  Paolo had been to the mansion before, but even so, he could see why Dave was knocked out by it. The house had all the class Azzopardi lacked. A Georgian three-storey building covered in ivy stood in isolated splendour at the top of the driveway. Two men, who Paolo knew carried their brains in their muscles, came towards the car as it stopped.