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the car park in the cold and thinks about silver hair. After five minutes Valerie joins him.
    ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ she asks. He shakes his head. ‘I haven’t smoked for seventeen years. I thought I might like one.’ She releases a sad little laugh.’
    ‘Would you like me to find a colleague who—’
    ‘No. Just a passing fancy. Not necessary.’
    She reaches out and takes his hand once more. She even smiles. Together they walk into the building. They begin in the entrance hall. Tom feels her tense next to him and slide behind him as a shield. There is a drone of noise and from all sides people sweep around them – there are people using crutches everywhere. Tom is reminded of the bazaars of Istanbul, or the markets of Calcutta. All human life is here. He raises an arm to protect her and they push forward, to journey to the underworld. They move slowly, from one half-litNHS corridor to another, together; in unison with their footfalls perfectly synchronised. Finally they arrive at a lift which takes them down, down into the Victorian belly of the hospital. Strip lighting makes them look green. There are a final two winding corridors, and then they reach the morgue. Inside, steel gleams and hearts are in mouths. Valerie Brindley-Black holds tighter and tighter to his hand as a viewing room is made ready. Tom knows what is in her mind: ‘Please, please let it be anyone but her.’ A sheet is all there is to cover the dead face and that is slowly pulled aside. Tom feels the hand soften, he holds on tight but the woman next to him is gone.

Six
    Friday 15 October 1999
    The alarm sounds at 5.30 a.m. After a minute or two there is a banging on the wall and a muffled cry.
    ‘Turn it off.’
    The alarm sounds for ten minutes before the internal program kicks in and it is silent. Tom is already at the office, has been there since 3.45 a.m. He had four officers collating all potential cases with similarities – there are dozens of them – and he is going through the files one by one. Most of them are a waste of time – the computer has flagged up silver-blond hair and knots but Tom can see in an instant there is no connection.
    ‘Frustrated?’ Dani-in-his-head asks him after a third triple espresso ordered in from the all-night Italian.
    ‘The problem is that police officers have no poetry in their souls.’
    ‘Come again?’ she laughs.
    ‘This was crafted, performance art. It was for show but it also served a purpose. It repeated something or brought clarity to something in the killer’s past.’
    ‘Oh, get you, Sigmund!’
    ‘But it’s true. This is something that is meaningful for the killer and we have to sift through all the static to find what that is. He chose a shape – it isn’t coincidence that it’s a lark’s head.’
    ‘AKA a cow’s hitch.’
    ‘Fine. And the hair.’
    ‘She may have just chosen to go wild.’
    ‘Possibly, but was that why he chose her? Or did he persuade her to dye her hair?’
    ‘Well, you know what you need to do?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Talk to her stylist.’
    ‘Ahead of you. I have an appointment at 9 a.m.’
    ‘Good – nice and short and get highlights.’
    He is so glad of his metal toecaps. As he tells Andi of Charlie’s death, her scissors fall and ding off the metal toe. If he had been wearing normal shoes they would have sliced through.
    ‘I only saw her a few days ago.’ She sits down in the chair.
    ‘Can you remember exactly when?’
    ‘Monday. Late morning I think, I’d need to check the book.’
    ‘How often did you see her?’
    ‘Every six weeks, maybe. She has – had – gorgeous hair, so full of life and bounce – most people were really jealous. She would come for a trim – one time she had a lot cut off but I think she really regretted it and she let it grow back. That was three years back though.’
    ‘Did she have a long-standing appointment for Monday?’
    ‘No, no it was weird. She’d only just been in, week before last. I