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in duplicate red outfits that displayed a lot of chest and lot of thigh. Each wore white boots.
    Clubbers, Owen guessed. The only difference between them was their hair. Both wore it long, but one was black, the other was the colour of bleached silver. If they pulled (and why the hell wouldn’t they?) it was the only way their guys would tell them apart. And they were probably wigs that the girls switched in the toilets to have fun with their unsuspecting dates. They looked like a couple of girls who liked to have fun.
    Boy, he thought later, didn’t he get that right.
    But dressed like that at this time in this part of town was asking for trouble. There were five other guys in the coffee shop apart from Owen and the student barista. Owen wouldn’t have trusted any of them with his dog, never mind his daughter. All of them watched the girls as they waited for the coffees, and the girls spent the time leaning their slender backs against the counter watching the men. Occasionally one would whisper to the other, and the other would snigger, flashing a glance at one of the men who would know beyond doubt that they were discussing him. Owen knew how that would feel and these girls were playing with fire. Either they had just escaped from a convent school, or they knew exactly what they were doing.
    Owen’s worries for the safety of the girls began to subside. He started to worry about the men.
    The student behind the bar put the girls’ coffees on the stained and scarred stainless-steel counter and Owen watched as they turned and reached for drinks in perfect unison.
    Unnatural unison.
    And together, without discussion, they took a table next to a man in his middle thirties. His hair was long, tied back in a ponytail. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days but his clothes were clean and no shabbier than your regular Cardiff student. Like the rest of the men in there, he hadn’t failed to notice the twins, but he’d shared his interest in them with the book he was reading. Or, more likely, had the discretion to hide it behind the book. Owen couldn’t see what the book was, but it looked like some sort of paperback academia. The guy was probably a mature student, or maybe a lecturer. As the girls sat down, they both flashed the ponytailed guy those white smiles, and in them Owen recognised just the right proportions of shyness, interest and promise. Like they had used a formula to work it out.
    Only the guy with the ponytail and the highbrow paperback would never see that.
    Didn’t matter how bright a man was, when a sexy woman smiled at you – that was all you saw. When you were looking at twin smiles that glowed like that, it was like being hit by closing car headlights and suddenly you were no better than a dumb rabbit.
    When the man smiled back, Owen knew the guy was dead. Whatever the twins really were inside the flesh that they wore so well as they worked the men in the coffee shop, they were predators. And Owen watched, fascinated, as they stalked their prey across the half-dried puddles of cold coffee on the old scratched table. All it really needed was David Attenborough whispering a commentary in his ear.
    He wasn’t close enough to hear what the women said to the ponytailed student/lecturer, all he could do was read the body language, but it wasn’t a long dialogue. Just a few minutes later all three were pushing back their chairs and moving towards the coffee-shop door and the darkness that waited outside. Owen watched them in the window, and started to work out what he was going to do. Fascination with these hunting creatures was one thing, they had provided a distraction from his nocturnal boredom, but he couldn’t let this go the whole way …
    As they passed him and opened the door onto the street Owen could feel the heat of excitement coming off the ponytailed guy. If he’d looked, Owen was sure he’d have seen it building up in the guy’s crotch. Owen let them slip through the door, and the girls