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nearby moor all that afternoon and well into the evening until the light faded from the sky sometime after ten p.m. They found nothing.
    Police forced their way into her cottage in Horrabridge and in the kitchen they found the cake. Nineteen candles. Missing slice. Crumbs. There was no sign of Heidi Luckmann and despite an exhaustive search over the following weeks she, like Sue Kendle, was never found.
    The story broke then, someone leaking details about the cakes which previously had been kept from the press. The media lapped it up and trust the good old Sun to come up with the name which would stick: The Candle Cake Killer . Not good English but fantastic copy nevertheless.
    For a while hell descended on Devon in the form of various TV companies from around the world and dozens of reporters, but with no more bodies, no leads, and never a word from whoever was responsible, the interest dried up.
    The next year the police were ready. Early June and they put out measured warnings, trying not to alarm the public but appealing for vigilance on and around the twenty-first of June. The media became fired up again, hoping for another misper, praying the cycle would continue.
    It didn’t. Nobody went missing. Nobody was murdered. There was a brawl outside a pub, a boy racer killed himself and his girlfriend when their car overturned on the A38, a house fire claimed the life of a much-loved family pet in Plymstock. All good stuff, but hardly justifying the presence of television crews from across the globe. The TV vans packed up, the reporters paid their hotel bills and the police scratched their heads. Had the warnings worked? Or had the killer got scared and decided to give this year a miss?
    A year later and again nothing happened. The media had lost all interest now, no TV crews and only an occasional feature appearing in the national press. There was nothing much more to say and for the police, nothing much more to go on. The case remained open, but in the absence of fresh leads it lay dormant. Waiting. Like Heidi Luckmann’s dog.
     
    Crownhill police station was on the north side of the city, situated in a tangle of arterial roads. The twin grey-brown concrete buildings at first sight resembled two upturned cardboard boxes. Rows of narrow slits had been cut in the side of the boxes to serve as windows, but Savage thought the place looked more like some sort of bunker than anywhere people might work. She slotted her car into one of only a few free spaces in the car park and went inside.
    Up in the crime suite excitement was writ large. A huge sheet of paper on one wall was adorned with a giant ‘5’, below, in smaller writing, ‘days left’. Savage thought about the caller to the radio show. Tension, amongst the general public as well as within the investigation team, could only rise as the days ticked by.
    A dozen officers and indexers sat at desks in the open plan room. Each person had a keyboard with two screens and a phone headset to hand. Steam rose from several cups of coffee, one officer passed around a bag of M&Ms, while another bit down on a bacon roll. Most focused on the screens in front of them, where a cascade of documents threatened to overwhelm the casual observer. Savage stood by the entrance for a moment. She felt a frisson of emotion. She knew most of these people well, they were her second family. Each had their good points as well as a whole host of foibles, but each understood that they would only succeed in their task if they worked together as a team. Savage respected all of them and liked most; for one or two she even had an affection approaching love.
    She went across the room to speak to Gareth Collier, the office manager. He’d abandoned a fishing trip but was sanguine about having to come in even though he’d booked a few days’ leave.
    ‘Was supposed to be out at Eddystone today,’ he said. ‘After a few pollack. To be honest I’m not bothered. Sea’s a bit lumpy and I had a couple too