III

He lies and stares at the ceiling above his bed, eyes following that crack that's always irked him but he's never found the time to repair. His nose is cold. He rarely puts the heating on because he isn't here enough to need it. His bedcovers are black. His carpet is cream. Many women have been surprised to find that he hangs his suits neatly on the back of the bedroom door so he remembers which ones need dry-cleaning, and doesn't just dump them in a corner. His boots go at the end of the bed and one of them has fallen over.

There is a wardrobe.

And a chest of drawers.

And a chair.

Which Sam Tyler is sitting on.

'You shouldn't be angry at them. If you fall asleep at the wheel, what do you expect?'

'There's a serial killer out there doing unspeakable things to a twelve year old girl. Doing them right now. You expect me to be happy about this?'

'No. But seeing as you are here, maybe you should do the sensible thing and get some sleep?' He's not looking at Sam but he knows he's holding his hands up in a sarcastic gesture of surrender. He's seen it a thousand times. 'Just a suggestion.'

'I'm in bed, aren't I?'

'So you are. In bed. Talking to me.'

'Shut up and go away and I wouldn't have to.'

'Fine, fine. I just came to tell you that you know more than you think you do.'

'What's that supposed to mean? Sam?'

Sam has obviously got better at following orders these days. He always seems to disappear when he's told to. The chair is empty, accusing, and he glares at it, glassy-eyed, until the phone by his bed jumps to life, saws across his nerves like razor-wire through taut flesh.

'DCI Hunt. I'm sorry if I woke you.'

'You didn't, sir.'

'Well I should have done.'

He says nothing. The Chief Super should really have more pressing matters on his mind, he thinks, than how many hours his DCI fails to get.

'We're trying to locate D.I Drake. I don't suppose she's with you?'

Bastard.

'...I'm at home, sir. In bed. Why the hell, sir, would she be with me?'

'Quite so, quite so. Still, if you do happen to hear from her, please tell her to come back to the station. The troops are rather at a loss.'

He stares at the receiver in his hand for a good minute after his boss has rung off. The dial tone beeps at him, fills the room, his head, until it falls off into a continuous line of sound that hypnotises him until he can't take anymore, snaps himself out of it and slams the thing down. His shoulders have the weight of a car as he stands, muscle still twitching in his thigh, eyes unable to stop the room from blurring until he puts his hand to the wall to steady himself. A fixed point, holding him down.

Alex.

This time, he doesn't know where she'll be. But lying around here isn't helping anything and there's only four hours until another young girl dies; he was told this afternoon he was a danger to himself and others but really, he thinks, as he tucks the keys to the Quattro into the palm of his hand, there are worse things than him out there in the night. Why isn't it obvious that he needs to be catching them?


She'd watched him swing at Chris when the DC tried to take the keys off him. On a normal day, normal case...well, he wouldn't have fallen asleep and scraped the side of the Quattro down that wall. But if he had, and swung for Chris because of it, she'd have intervened and told him to stop being such a Neanderthal, that it was his own fault for driving like a pissed up crackhead, for having to be the big man, for being him. That's always the problem, isn't it? That he's him.

This time, she just watches with empty eyes and says nothing, not even glad when his misfiring depth perception means he misses his target by a good six inches. She watches when Ray pulls him away and uniform step in, radio for another car to come take him home. Chief Super's orders Guv, I'm sorry and just for a few hours and we'll ring if anything happens and see you later. She says nothing, just hugs her arms tight around her middle and looks back at him when he glances in her direction, imploring her to come over and make them see reason, that they need him here, that he needs to be here and the inevitable disappointment turned anger when she looks away.

She can't help it. She looks at him and feels him in her and it hurts. That she let him, that she made him, that she didn't try to hold on to him. That for a few brief moments, she thought of him and not this.

Pssst. Alex.

She watches the dying afternoon light reflect off his hair as the car drives past, him staring resolutely forward and ignoring the unfortunate plod who has to be behind the wheel next to him.

Alex.

It's so damn cold.

Alex.

'What?'

She turns, tight and annoyed, letting a wisp of winter air creep under her collar, chilling all the way down her spine, pulling her skin tight, suddenly all goose bumps and sickness in the pit of her stomach.

He still has blood on his hands. It stands out on the white flesh; she notes without meaning to that there's a smudge of it on his forearm and he doesn't seem to be cold even though he's only wearing a T-shirt, no coat.

Come with me.

'Where?'

Just come.

'I can't. DCI Hunt has had to go home a...'

Yeah, yeah. Come now.

He walks away and she follows, eyes fixed on the black material he's wearing. She tries to keep up but he always seems to be moving faster; for a small man, he has a long stride. Or maybe it's just the way he walks, a distinctive swing of the hips that is all about self-contained confidence and not at all about bravado. Not like some people he could mention.

The river again. The river and the bloody O2 stadium over there, gleaming at her, tantalisingly out of reach. For a split second she has to stop herself running and throwing herself into the water; her mind screams at her to swim for it, get home, just move and who cares if she drowns on the way?

It's funny. She had thought they were miles away. It should have taken more than a few minutes to get here.

Time's a funny thing, Alex. And space. And all sorts of things.

'What do you want?'

To help you.

'Why? Why would you want to do that? Aren't you the one killing them?'

A smile; infuriating, smug.

'How are you doing this? You're dead.'

A laugh this time and she can't help but note, he has blood on his teeth too. It stands out in that split-wide grin, a toothpaste-ad smile, a manic, dangerous leer that roots her to the spot because it's wrong, he's wrong, this couldn't, can't, shouldn't be happening.

Maybe I am. Maybe you are.

'No.'

She's shaking her head too fast, too hard. Her eyes can't keep up and they hurt, bouncing around her empty skull, her mind too confused and worn to hold thoughts of what isn't in front of her.

'No, I'm not dead. Molly told me I'm not. She's waiting for me to get home. I hear them telling me they've found me, they're taking the bullet out, I'm going to be well, they said so.'

The look on his face tells her he thinks she's being an idiot but is she really going to care about the opinion of a murderer?

You're slow on the uptake, Alex. Or maybe just not as well read as you think you are. So be on the lookout, yeah? Maybe you'll make the connection this time.

'What?'

Nothing. Just him looking at her.

'What? What does that mean? For God's sake, you can't just...'

He can though. She made the mistake of blinking (stupid stupid stupid) and he's gone again; 2008 is gone again and she's miles away from the others, here by this fucking river that swirls past with a thousand currents sucking at the trash and flotsam floating along the surface, trying its best to drag it down and mire it in the sticky, black mud at the bottom, drown it and devour it, flesh from bone until there's nothing left for anyone to find.


'ID?'

'Amanda Parker, Guv. Reported missing last night after a row with her parents. She wanted to go out, they wouldn't let her because of...'

This. Because of this.

He doesn't look at Ray, looks at the ground in front of his boots, frozen solid and grey from a month's worth of sub-zero nights. Stones and dead grass and broken glass; it swims before his vision and for the briefest of seconds, he thinks he's going to lose his 2am liquid lunch.

'Amanda Parker?'

Her voice raises his head, drags him upright; the sight of her makes him want to sink down and shove his face in his hands and not have to deal with it. Not the relief that she's here and not the weariness that comes with the knowledge that he, once again, is going to have to throw himself at the impenetrable barrier of where have you been? and what the hell is the matter with you anyway, you unbearable pain in my arse?

And then he says neither of those things and doesn't sit down and tries to hope that that tone in her voice means something useful and is not just another of her baffling meanderings.

'You know her?'

'No. But the name is familiar.'

Ray's looking at her too but there doesn't seem to be any more forthcoming. He looks at the ground again, balls his hands to fists in his coat pockets.

'Where have you been? The Chief Super called me.'

'Following a lead.'

'We have a lead?'

'Dead end.'

'Of course.'

She walks away towards the body and he lifts his eyes to watch. And then they narrow, his brow creasing as she crouches, his eyes taking in her eyes looking into the glass-wide stare of the latest twelve year old corpse.

She's different.

'Bolly, what is it?'

'There's no building here. Every other girl, waste ground and a dilapidated building. Why not this one?'

'Because we were watching all the abandoned buildings on waste ground in the city?'

Ray's contribution and, he thinks, a valid enough one.

'I don't think that would have stopped him. It hasn't for the last few and this is an organised crime, planned, methodical. He's not going to deviate from it. He's doing this for a reason.'

'Yeah, you told us that after the second. And that was six little girls ago Drake and we're still no closer to catching the bastard.'

A month ago, that would have had more venom. But he can't summon it, there's just nothing left. He turns away, aching at the thought of facing another set of parents. It's 5am and they'll have been up all night – would it be kinder to let them hope for another hour or two, at least until the sun comes up, yes, surely?

He gets into the car. He'll never put it off, kinder or no. Because this sort of news needs to be delivered in the dark, in the pre-dawn dregs of night; it's not the sort of thing you want to hear after breakfast on a clear, sunny winter's day. When you look back you want to remember the darkness, how you hated it, the fear in your gut and the wet handkerchief wringing in your palm; you want to rail against how the sun managed to rise on the first day of the rest of your life without your daughter existing in it. Yesterday we were parents, you'll say. And today, we are not.

It keeps the dark for crying and the light for mending. And then maybe, on another night, you'll suffer as you let go and then the sun can rise on a day where the pain has become bearable enough to let you move on.

He knows this. He's been doing this job a long fucking time. He's seen it a hundred times, more. He can do this.

But he's never been so damn glad to have her open the door and slide into the passenger seat, in that way she has that brooks no argument. So damn glad that he doesn't have to do more than look at her to say thanks and have her nod in return. I know.


'Amanda was...everything. Our miracle. Our little miracle.'

He fights to keep his eyes up, his face set in sympathy and resolve, his voice even and low. The same words, always the same words.

'I'm very sorry, Mrs. Parker. Very sorry.'

More sorry than you'll ever know.

'Will you catch him, Mr. Hunt? Before there are...any more.'

'We're doing everything in our power. We won't ever give up.'

His hand is shaking, nerves out of control under his skin. She'd offered to break the news but he won't shirk the responsibility. It's the very least these parents deserve. And the woman is nodding, shredding a tissue with her fingers, staring down at her lap while her husband remains crumpled in a threadbare armchair, seemingly part of the grey and green patches, no life left in him. He wants so badly to leave but there's a cup of tea that's too hot to drink and it wouldn't be polite to leave it, not when the woman insisted, even after she knew that she'd never see her daughter again. They did stay up all night, the heating is on. He thinks he might roast alive in his overcoat and it's made worse by the way Drake doesn't seem to be suffering the same way. No sweat on her brow.

'That's a beautiful drawing, Mrs. Parker.'

She's indicating a picture on the mantel, a simple sheet of plain A4 showing a beautiful house, elegant in its detail, a work of art.

'Yes. Amanda...'

There are more tears and from the corner, a groan like a dying animal.

'...she always wanted to be an architect.'

He thought he'd feel better once they left. But no, because now they're back to where they were, waiting for the next one. The car leaves a plume of exhaust fumes behind as he hits the accelerator, desperate to get away but dreading what this new dawn will bring.


'Parker. Parker.'

You really are exceedingly dense sometimes, Alex. And after I went to the trouble to make it easy for you.

He's in her flat. Here. Here. This tiny kitchen isn't made to hold the ghosts of dead men, especially not one with that much blood on them.

What's the matter? Brain not making connections?

He's tapping his temple, jabbing his finger at it, face screwed up like he's sympathising but sarcastic, so sarcastic. And she can't stop the squeal even though she knows it's a bad idea.

Come with me.

'No. I can't. And you never tell me anything anyway.'

The fear is so strong she can taste it in her mouth. But it's like a drug, like hope she can't bear to let go of. If he knows something, anything...

'Go away.'

A shake of the head, disappointed. She's let him down. But by some miracle, a second passes and he's no longer there.

'Who're you talking to?'

Holding a mug, and passing over another one, is a good way to mask the shake in your hands. Managing a wan sort of smile is more of an effort but she tries, and hopes he's too distracted to notice the colour of her skin.

'Myself. There's something bothering me about that girl.'

Besides the fact she was twelve and mutilated almost beyond recognition?

Gene knows better than to say it. Just waits because she's got that look, like she had at the scene, when something's going on, something's different.

'Parker. Architect. There was a...'

He sees the expression die in her eyes.

'...nothing. I was misremembering.'

He looks down at the floor. For a second there, he almost remembered what hope felt like.

'I should go.'

He doesn't move and nor does she.

'You should sleep, Gene.'

How?

'You too.'

He meets her eyes and it's so quiet here, the roaring of blood in his ears fades to an echo and the light is too bright for his eyes but for a moment, it stops hurting and...yes, there. That's what it feels like. But then she's looking away and is embarrassed and then so is he so he straightens and puts the cup down and picks his coat up instead.

'See you later.'

She wishes he'd have waited around to see her nod but the door has clicked shut and a cackle of laughter is exploding her ears, making her jump hard enough to drop her tea. A breath later and he's close enough that she should be able to feel his breath on her cheek but there's nothing, just his face an inch from hers, forcing her to stare into the starry abyss of those eyes that glitter in ways that nothing on earth ever should.

By the river. The river, Alex. Amanda Parker.

'But...she's dead.'

I'm flattered that you noticed.

'No. I mean. She was alive. She built that building...' By the river. Jesus Christ, that river. Opposite where the O2 stadium now stands in 2008. Right where she was, where this thing has taken her twice now.

'She's not twelve though. She's an architect. She...she disappeared in 2006 and she wasn't twelve. She was in her thirties.'

Fear tightens your throat, makes it hard to breathe. And he doesn't back away. It's almost worse when you know you should be able to smell him, and his breath, and his clothes and you can't.

Yes. What a coincidence. I chose her for a reason, Alex.

'Tell me. I don't understand, please.'

Did you think we were the only ones?

'...yes.'

He's backing away, shaking his head, contemptuous. If it weren't for those eyes, he'd look normal. T-shirt, jeans, scuffed trainers. Slim, wiry, solid.

'I don't know what you expect me to do. What do I do?'

He sneers, wipes his hand across his face and leaves a bloody moustache like he's a kid playing dress-up, painting his face like a red Indian.

You'll figure it out, Alex. You'll have to.

Deep breath. I am in control.

'And if I can't?'

For a moment, nothing. And then his face splits once more, a grin that maybe once, in another life, was cheeky and cute and not horrifying, the way it is now. She wonders what went wrong, what happened, how he can be here and be dead in two other places at the same time but when it comes down to it, Sam Tyler has always been something of a mystery, hasn't he?

'Sam? If I can't?'

I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, Alex. But if you're anxious for spoilers I can tell you this...

His hand on her throat is cold, makes her gasp.

...you won't like it.

She has to close her eyes to stop herself screaming, to stem the boil of panic that starts to rise through her. His hand is cold and he's laughing again, hurting her ears and she can smell the blood and...

...when she opens her eyes, the sun is coming through the window and she stands in her kitchen, alone, only the echoes of laughter in her head to prove that he was ever here at all.