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who had never had a boyfriend and who had only had four, virtual, loves in her unformed and now unfinished life – the members of OnTarget. The girl had apparently slept, eaten, breathed OnTarget. Her whole life revolved around them – trying to get their attention online, buying CDs and downloads, concert tickets and merchandise with whatever birthday or babysitting money she happened to have. Her only friends were other OnTarget fans – Patrick had taken the names of all the ones that Sally Sharp knew of, and obviously he or Carmella would be talking to them as soon as they could – but he wondered if Wendy was right, and this was a simple case of an online predator. So far, the investigations of her online history and phone records had shown nothing interesting, just endless meaningless chit-chat with other fans.
    There had been one interesting thing – apparently she had used a good chunk of data in the hours before her death, showing that she had been online on her phone. But there was no way for the phone company to track what she’d been doing.
    ‘ Pat! ’ Gill’s voice from the living room had taken on a familiar edge of exasperation, one that he hadn’t heard since before . . . well, since they all lived together. Patrick didn’t like to refer to the incident, even in his thoughts, if he could possibly avoid it.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Bonnie’s been calling you. Could you bring her some juice please?’
    ‘Dooce, Daddy!’ Bonnie echoed, in a matching tone of exasperation .
    Hm , thought Patrick, she’s perfectly willing to talk to me when she wants something. That’s probably not likely to change for the next sixteen years or so .
    ‘Coming, darling,’ he said – and then immediately felt guilty because he hoped that Gill hadn’t thought the ‘darling’ had been addressed to her.
    Solving murders was easier than this, he thought. At that moment he wished he was back in the incident room, a place where he didn’t have to make any emotional decisions further than what sort of biscuit to have with his coffee.
    As he carried the juice in to Bonnie, his mobile began to vibrate in his pocket. Groping for it, he trod on a stray piece from the shape sorter, lurched and spilled the juice down his leg.
    ‘Ow, shit, f—’
    He just managed to stop himself from saying more naughty words.
    As Bonnie made a beeline for the remains of her drink, he answered the phone. ‘Lennon.’
    It was Carmella. ‘Hey, Patrick. We just got the call from Daniel Hamlet.’ The pathologist who had been assigned to this case. ‘He says he’s ready to see you. He sounded excited.’

Chapter 7
Day 3 – Patrick
    O f all the many people Patrick came into contact with through his work, Daniel Hamlet was probably the man he most admired and respected. The forensic pathologist was deadly serious about his p rofessional responsibilities , Patrick thought, wincing at the involuntary pun. A black man in his mid-forties, with hair that was greying around the temples, Hamlet had shown rare emotion the last time they had worked together. But today he was back to his earnest, serious self, no sign of the excitement Carmella had mentioned on the phone.
    ‘I hear you have something interesting to share?’ Patrick asked as they walked towards the lab where the autopsy had been carried out.
    ‘That’s right. But first I want to show you something.’
    Rose was laid out ready on a metal table, covered with a sheet. Even though Patrick had seen her body already, it still caused him to gulp down air as he approached. She looked even paler now, but more serene, removed from the bloody scene of her death.
    ‘So,’ Hamlet began. ‘The cause of death is clear – she was strangled. The murderer used a two-handed grip, suggesting that they may not be particularly strong. Of average strength, I would guess.’
    ‘He used his hands?’
    ‘Yes. Assuming it is a he.’
    Patrick nodded. He had erroneously made that assumption before.
    ‘There is