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early hours of the morning, but couldn’t remember the exact time and hadn’t noted the registration number. Nor did he feel the need to explain what in the hell he was doing looking up Luciana Young’s driveway in the middle of the night. Probably just being neighbourly.
    Family members are being interviewed, some in their homes, others at the police station. Homicide investigations start with the boyfriend or husband and the spiral then grows wider. Nine times out of ten they’re the ones who committed the crimes. Was Feldman intimate with either or both of the victims?
    He imagines the victim writing Feldman’s name and number before she died. Maybe she wanted to report him for something. Maybe she was humouring him into thinking she might call him for a date. Could be any number of reasons. Could be she actually liked the guy.
    He watches the body driven away. The media part as the insects did only minutes earlier, then close back up as the stationwagon moves through. Tomorrow only about a quarter of these people will show up. In the kitchen he finds a phone book and looks up Feldman’s name and address.
    Back outside he lights up a cigarette to help keep the demons at bay. As he drives through the media blockade, the camera lights blind him; by the time the journalists make way for him he’s already onto his second cigarette. His cellphone rings once on the way to Feldman’s house. It’s a return call from the Land Transport and Safety Authority confirming that Charlie Feldman owns a white Honda. He jots down the plate number. When he reaches the address he drives past before pulling over.
    Feldman lives in a single-storey townhouse, twenty years old, maybe thirty. The lawns need mowing and the garden is in disrepair but the house looks like any other in the street, well kept and tidy. Most killers have pretty average lifestyles. Steady jobs too. Sometimes they’re even living the family life – white picket fence and a four-door sedan.
    The curtains are closed and there are no lights. No car in the driveway. He finishes his cigarette, feeling his lungs relax. He thinks about the crowbar in the boot of his car. The effort to break open the back door would be minimal and, without a warrant, also illegal. That’s the problem with the law. Criminals break it all day long, but God-forbid a cop bends a rule. He’s standing outside the home of a guy who isn’t home, a guy who took the lives of two women, and there isn’t anything he can do about it.
    He stubs the cigarette butt into the ground and walks over. He waits two minutes at the door after knocking loudly but nobody answers. He considers asking the neighbours if they’ve spoken to Feldman, but doesn’t want to risk them alerting Feldman that he’s wanted for questioning. He walks around the house, peering through the windows but can’t get an angle past any curtains. Back in his car he dials Feldman’s number on his cellphone. Nobody answers. The guy doesn’t even have a machine.
    He either has to wait for Feldman to show up or go and get a warrant. At this time of the night the only judge he can find will be a severely pissed-off judge. Best to wait. The longer he waits the more evidence they can collect. He can see himself waiting here all night for nothing. Feldman is probably too nervous to return home. For now. He will come home, though, because he has a life to return to.
    If they release Feldman’s details to the media the man will go into hiding. However there’s a simple way to get around that. He calls his contact at the paper then watches the house for another thirty minutes before driving home.

8
    Tuesday morning and we wake up to rain. Warm rain. The type you get in summer and love to walk in. I turn on the radio and listen to a weather report. An old guy tells us to expect twenty-eight degrees. Tells us to expect more rain tonight. Tells us the twenty-eight degrees is going to drop to around ten. He doesn’t tell us what we should